He had to watch the cops and watch his enemy, who at this point knew everything about him while Calvin knew nothing about his enemy.
He had double pursuers.
He made a quick stop at a side-street convenience store, found a phone booth and made two calls. First, he called a taxi service he’d never used before. He dialed again.
“Wanda, it’s Calvin. I need you to give Rachel a message.” He left the message with Rachel’s roommate and hung up.
He ran into the store and picked out only the necessities for the first few days. Tomorrow, he’d buy enough to last more than a month if he ended up having to stay in his workshop in a state of siege.
Outside the store, the taxicab was waiting. He exhaled when the driver showed no signs of recognition. As the vehicle pulled out, Calvin scanned for police or a tail.
As the cab wove its way through the busy Vegas streets, he continued to glance out the back window. He had the driver switch lanes the whole way.
He stopped by a clothing store: one suit, street clothes, sportswear. He dropped $3,500, but it was a necessity.
One more stop with the meter ticking.
“Wait here.”
He was thankful that the restaurant was open twenty-four hours. He slipped in the back of the almost empty waffle house. All that he wanted to do now was get Rachel safely to the workshop and keep her under constant guard.
He checked his watch. She was late. He hoped that Wanda had been able to deliver the message. As his concern began to mount, he saw Rachel outside the restaurant. He picked up the phone receiver, using it as a prop to hide from her, and turned his back to the door, watching Rachel out of the corner of his eye. He had specifically warned her not to identify him.
She stepped inside the restaurant carrying two large, overstuffed knapsacks, made her way to the back and passed by him. She turned and entered the bathroom. He looked around a moment and then followed her.
Before she could speak, he put his finger to her lips. He checked the stalls and locked the entrance. When he turned around, Rachel jumped into his arms.
“I missed you so much,” she said, smothering him with kisses.
“Easy, Rachel, I missed you too. But we don’t have time to talk here.”
“Okay.” She stepped back.
Just then there were two hard and two soft knocks. Wanda. He unhooked the door.
The waitress stuck her head inside. “All clear, Calvin. Rachel wasn’t followed.”
“Thanks.”
Calvin and Rachel slipped out the back. His taxi driver hadn’t deserted him.
They got in the back and didn’t say a word to each other. Once in the workshop, he’d tell her everything.
Calvin had the driver drop them two blocks away. “Pick me up here in an hour.” He tipped the driver twenty dollars.
He and Rachel dipped in and out of backyards and made several circles before arriving at the workshop. He dropped the bags on the concrete floor and scoped the old building.
He had Rachel shave off his long dreadlocks and shaggy facial hair. After she had removed enough with the electric razor, she used a disposable one to finish.
When the transformation was complete, he looked much as he had in college. But even with a bit of hair loss, Calvin was still too recognizable. He’d need to give the next step some thought.
“What do you think?”
Rachel ran her hand along his now-smooth scalp. “I like it,” she said, wiping off the last of the shaving cream.
“Now it’s your turn.” He helped her dye her hair black and gave her the short version of the situation now. With the hair change, Rachel looked like a different person. He missed her real looks already, but they also cut her long hair into a bob.
The cab was waiting and the driver did a double take at the new looks but said nothing.
They headed toward Cruiser’s Bar.
After stopping at a convenience store for a new tin of chew, Dale ran over his interview with Pitt. Why had the bookie given up Watters just like that? If Watters really was the bookie’s number-one employee, then why was Pitt so eager to help?
Dale had been expecting lies and deceit but had gotten the complete opposite. It had been too easy, just like Watters’ fingerprints in Grant’s office. That had him on edge.
He parked in his space at the precinct. When he stepped into the damp, air-conditioned lobby, he felt a chill. He wasn’t sure if it was from this case or the weather. He walked past the few others working after-hours and straight to his desk.
After booting up his computer, he ran Watters’ name through the Nevada Crime Index (NCI) database and at the national FBI level (NCIC).
Had Watters known Grant or had he been in any direct contact with the casino owner prior to his death? Because of fingerprints, Dale knew that Watters was in Grant’s office the morning after Grant was murdered, sent there by his boss. But why the phony disguise and fake name?
When the computer beeped, he searched the website of the USC Trojans. He researched team lists from five years back and clicked on Calvin Watters’ name.
Even though the disguise had been elaborate, the pictures on the USC site made it obvious that the visitor to Grant’s private office could have been Watters. By now, Watters could be anywhere—Canada, Mexico or even off the American continent. If he was guilty it was highly unlikely, but a remote possibility, that he was still in Vegas.
Dale ripped off the sheet and left the office. He threw the two color pictures onto the front desk counter and ordered a city-wide APB. All he could do was get the photo across the state, to the FBI and to Canadian and Mexican police. No Interpol stuff—not yet.
He went back to his office to study the crime scene photos again. As he sat back down and removed the magnifying glass from his desk, he was interrupted.
“Excuse me, Detective Dayton?”
“What is it, Craig?”
“I have a copy of the phone records.” The young man, the relative rookie he’d taken onto the case, held up a stack of computer printer paper.
The detective waved him into the office. “Just set them on my desk.”
The phone records dated to three months back, with the local calls separated from the long-distance calls. Craig had spent hours on this. Short on time, Dale skimmed over the copies.
On first glance, most of Sanders’ calls could be accounted for—other casinos, strip clubs, 900 numbers. Dale recognized these from their 702 area code. But there was one unusual call, a 504 area code. He couldn’t place it off-hand. He would have to look it up.
He moved Sanders’ reports to the side and shuffled the pages to Calvin Watters’ phone records. Watters had called L.A. once—his brother?—and that was it. He made few calls of any kind.
From their home, work and cell phones, Doug, Linda and Shawn Grant had only made a handful of calls out of state. Three of the seven calls were to Atlantic City, where Dale assumed calls had been placed to rival casino owners. Two calls were to Boston and another two were made to Memphis, where Linda Grant had been born and raised and still had family.
Then he saw the obvious. One call was made from Grant’s private office after his time of death—to Pitt. The scheduled appointment guest list from Grant’s office complex indicated that Watters’ assumed alias was the only name on the list.
Interesting.
“I believe I’ve seen that number before. That lyin’ son of a bitch!”
He checked the clock at the bottom of the computer screen. Go home to an empty house or follow a lead while it was hot?