He went to his small desk and booted up his computer. It was only a laptop. He kept his real computer system at the safe house.
That was the other thing that had kept him sane for three years. Daily knee rehab and weights, and daily online study of what his computer could do. Calvin had never been a computer nerd, but in the last three years he’d learned enough to do most of what the stereotypical flannel-shirted overweight geek could do. Establishing and keeping his computer system state of the art had been his only major expense since arriving in Las Vegas. He saved the rest of his earnings for use in his new life whenever it began.
He had created a psychological profile database of a wide range of people in Vegas, particularly clients, so he could break them down in his collecting work.
At the back of his mind he’d always thought his gift with computers would be his ticket to his new life. He could show most prospective employers what he’d managed to compile about people and how efficiently he’d used the information. Marketing firms, security businesses—both could use him.
Now the computer would have to substitute for friends. Although he knew a lot of people on the streets, he only had a handful of true friends who would even consider touching him right now.
Who could he call?
He hadn’t spoken to his brother in years, not since he had taken the job with Pitt. His own brother would simply tell Calvin to turn himself in—if he were innocent, he’d be okay. He was not a naïve cop, but he was straight as an arrow.
The only time Calvin had seen his father since he was little was when Calvin’s name had been mentioned in Sports Illustrated as a possible Heisman Trophy candidate and a sure top draft choice. His money-hungry father surfaced. Calvin told him to get lost again.
He had three options. One, he could turn himself into authorities. Not promising. Two, he could flee the city, never to return. That meant dumping Rachel, whom he loved. He hated his life in Vegas—but he liked the town itself. Three, he could find out who had tried to frame him and who the real murderer was.
He grabbed a black duffel bag and filled it with clothing. Except for cash for immediate expenses, he had all his savings locked and stored inside his fortified computer room. The $20,000 he’d gotten from Pitt this morning—that would come with him now.
With a fresh dip in his mouth, Dale followed the directions his partner had laid out. Jimmy wanted to get home to his family and he didn’t blame him.
He decided to surprise Pitt at his office and catch him off guard. A personal visit from a homicide detective made an impact, even on street scum like Pitt. He wasn’t even sure that Pitt would still be there. If he was, it would have nothing to do with business.
He found the office, which was off a crappy alleyway. Neither hinted at the sizeable cash flow Pitt generated.
He walked in and approached the front desk. No one around. Dale yelled, “Donald Pitt. I’m Detective Dayton, Homicide. I need to talk to you.” He heard nothing, but headed to the back.
Pitt was seat at a table with someone, eating a late dinner. A rancid odor filled the air.
The man sitting beside Pitt looked huge, even sitting down.
“Wow, a real-life detective,” the bookie said, mouth full of food. Pitt chuckled arrogantly and the goon with him joined in. Pitt started to stand.
Dale extended his hand. “Please, don’t get up. I won’t keep you long.”
Part of the detective would have liked to grab the bookie by the collar and slam him against the wall. But the steroid freak next to him kept Dale at bay.
Pitt must have seen Dale eyeing the other man in the room.
“This is my associate, Randall.”
Randall had a thick neck and wide jaw. His muscle shirt showed massive welts on his swollen deltoids. He also had a zipper of stitches down the side of his face.
Dale looked at Randall and then back at Pitt. “I was wondering if we could talk business.”
With a quick nod from his boss, the bodyguard took the hint. Randall dropped two meaty hands on the desk and lifted from the chair, his triceps looking like horseshoes when flexed. He stood and stared at Dale, his eyes shining with anger, playing the role to perfection, then turned and left.
“What do you want, Detective Dayton? As you can see, we’re very busy around here.”
Dale glanced at the empty fast-food wrappers on the desk and smirked. “Have you seen Calvin Watters today?”
Pitt picked at some food in his teeth before responding. “Maybe.”
He was the classic liar.
“Do I really look that stupid to you?”
“Save the bullshit. He ain’t here and I ain’t seen him.” His smarmy grin broadened.
Dale moistened his finger and turned to a fresh page in his notebook. “When was the last time you did?”
Pitt thought about his answer for only a few seconds. “Well, I seen him early this mornin’ when I sent him on a job, but he didn’t return. I ain’t seen or heard from him since.”
“Where was this job?”
“I sent him over to Doug Grant’s personal office. Doug owed me some money and I sent Calvin to collect. But the bastard never came back. He probably took the loot and disappeared. Never should have trusted him for a job that big.”
Dale laughed at the thought of Pitt calling Grant by his first name, like they were acquaintances.
Did Pitt make the anonymous call? If he’d set up Watters for murder, then he’d have a cover story already prepared to innocently explain his collector’s presence at the office. Now he knew that Pitt’s cover story was “just a collection.”
Dale wouldn’t mention the call just yet. He wanted to see how this played out. “Did Grant have a gambling problem?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“How much did he owe you?”
“I’m sorry, Detective, that information is confidential.”
“I can get a search warrant and go through your papers if that’s what it takes.”
“Do what you have to do.”
Dale frowned. “Do you have a recent photo of Watters?”
The bookie opened up a desk drawer and took out the picture. He handed it over.
How convenient that Pitt had a current photo of Watters to give him. Dale studied it. He recognized the man in the image, but he actually recalled Calvin in his USC days. “Handsome fella.”
“We like our collectors to be intimidating. I had Calvin start developing that new, scary look when he began working for me.”
“I’m gonna keep this.”
“Sure, help yourself.”
Dale reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his business card. “Here’s my card. If you hear from Watters, let me know.”
Pitt took the card, though he didn’t seem too eager to do so. “Don’t worry, you’ll be the first one I call, Detective Dayton, sir.” He gave Dale a toothy grin.
As Dale turned to leave, the bookie stopped him.
“Detective.” Pitt extended his hand. “Here’s my business card. If you find Calvin, get my money back.”
Dale read the inscription on Pitt’s card and laughed to himself.
“Donald Pitt and Associates,” he said. “Is that the associate I just met?”
Chapter 17
He hadn’t stayed long at the apartment. Since the cops hadn’t yet been there, they would be soon.
Calvin knew he had one major vulnerability. Even though he tried to keep his relationship with Rachel a secret, people had seen them together. If Calvin’s guess was right and Pitt had set him up, then Rachel was exposed because Pitt knew of her. But Calvin didn’t think that Pitt was smart enough to organize this elaborate setup and was probably working with a partner. If that was the case, then Pitt would surely give this information to whoever was pulling the strings. They’d go after her, even torture Rachel for information. Yet she didn’t know anything. The murder had occurred more than twenty hours ago, so there’d been plenty of time for the bastard to already be on Rachel’s trail. He had to find her.