“Goodbye, Dale.”
He hung up and swiped away a tear. Maybe in two days, with a few lucky breaks, he could tell her he’d cracked both cases. No…that was why she’d left him, or at least part of the reason. What would he be able to say to Betty that she would care about?
Cops had good instincts and as a homicide detective, Dale had to use his intuition and deep understanding of the human psyche to help solve his crimes. He saw his job as a mission and he was a third-generation police officer. Law enforcement was his grandfather’s calling, then his father’s and now his. He’d been raised with those values.
He sat and thought. For the next few days, until it was time to try to reach Betty again, he would put his personal problems aside and focus solely on getting the job done. Later, he’d know what to do. He hoped.
He heard a honk and looked out the window to find Jimmy in the driveway. Dale checked the gun in his shoulder holster. He rinsed out his mouth, tossed his jacket over his shoulder and walked outside. As he approached the car, Jimmy yelled through the open window.
“You look like shit!”
Dale jumped into the passenger seat and did his best to tuck in his wrinkled shirt and straighten his uncombed hair.
Jimmy handed Dale a covered Styrofoam cup. “I thought you could use this.”
“Thanks.” He peeled off the lid, sipped and felt a little better. “What did you tell the Sarge?”
“I told him you were working the assignment. He was not impressed and wants to hear about some progress right now.”
They walked through the crowded lobby and Dale saw a man in a well-cut suit with the sergeant.
As the detectives entered the office, the mayor turned to them. Another visit meant increased urgency and pressure.
“What do you have now?”
Dale knew that the mayor had a minor background in law enforcement, so he realized that Grant’s murder was scary enough, but when cops were also being murdered, it was even worse—especially with possibly two killers hunting people in the city.
“We have some leads,” Dale said. “There’s a lot of circumstantial evidence to follow.”
“What about this Watters character? The sergeant says that Watters has probably already left the city, maybe even the state and country, while you two go around chasing theories.”
“We are following Watters as well as we can, but as you say, he might have fled. We are focusing on those who are here and profited from those deaths. My team is totally dedicated and focused.”
What he wanted to say was that Sanders was his prime suspect and they should be concentrating on him.
“Listen,” the mayor said in earnest. “I want these cases closed. Pick up Watters, connect him to the murders and find the cop killer. And do it now.”
The detectives were silent again. Dale looked at his sergeant, who nodded.
Then the mayor changed his demeanor. “Detective Dayton, whatever you need to help with these investigations is available. Manpower, money—whatever resources you need. I’ll make sure you have it at your disposal. I have talked to the lieutenant about this and he has assured me that everything possible will be done to bring down the killers. You name it, Detective and it’s yours.”
“Yes, sir,” Dale and Jimmy said at the same time.
“Go get our killers, gentlemen.”
The sergeant escorted the two detectives out. As they left the office, he whispered. “Do whatever it takes.”
Chapter 34
Calvin sat in his computer room eating Chinese noodles from a Styrofoam container when movement at the corner of the monitor grabbed his attention. The long black hair that had flashed by the screen sent chills through Calvin’s body. His gut clenched.
He quickly sat upright and placed the container on the desk beside the monitor. He grabbed the remote and maneuvered the joystick, zooming in from another angle. The man was at a distance and somewhat hidden. Any other time, Calvin wouldn’t have warranted a second glance. But Whitney’s description and the man’s actions—continuing to move, circling out wide and returning at irregular intervals from different angles—showed Calvin the man was scoping the place.
He studied the image on the screen. The hit man was less careful than he should have been. So he didn’t know about the camera and thought he was too far away for detection.
All the cameras were set to record in a continued cycle until Calvin changed the digital hard drives. Depending on the hit man’s location, distance, speed and angle of movement, at least one and sometimes two or three cameras were recording different views.
Then, as if understanding he was being watched, the hit man moved away in haste, turning from the house and starting to walk down the street, avoiding all of the hidden camera lenses.
Calvin dropped what he was doing. He opened the closet and pulled the larger of the two Kevlar vests out, slipping it on over his upper body.
“Rachel, come on.”
“Where are we going?”
He ignored her question and grabbed her by the arm. He pulled out his Harrington & Richardson .32 revolver, the smallest weapon he owned, and raced to the back entrance.
“Make sure to lock up from the inside when I leave.”
“Don’t go, Calvin.” She held his arm.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t forget the secret knock.”
He turned before she said another word. He heard Rachel locking up again from the inside. She’d only open for his knock.
His knee was starting to throb, but Calvin caught up with the assassin and followed him on foot through the streets of Vegas.
It had taken Scott only six minutes to spot Watters and realize that the man had somehow identified him and was coming after him. He could play the hunter being hunted for a few minutes until he led Watters somewhere convenient to finish him.
He used the busy Vegas streets and shop windows as mirrors to position himself for a clear shot. He didn’t know the streets as well as his adversary, but Scott had years of killing experience to his advantage.
They ducked and dodged inside buildings, crossed back streets and took shortcuts through backyards. The quiet, unoccupied side streets with abandoned buildings were the perfect locations for a pursuit.
But they had been waltzing for a half hour and neither was able to get a clean shot without risk of being exposed to the other.
This was Watters’ turf and some street people might even be watching out for him. Best to retreat and finish the job tomorrow.
At the next corner, Scott turned and started running at top speed, twisting, dodging, changing sides of the streets, turning one corner, then another, making a full circle, then breaking away in a new direction. He knew about Watters’ weak knee. Maybe with the sudden change in speed, he could break free.
When he was satisfied he’d lost Watters, he took the service entrance into the hotel and rode the elevator to his suite. He swiped his card to unlock his door and went to the bathroom, shedding his soaked shirt, cursing the whole way, before using a towel to wipe his sweaty face and body. He returned to the bedroom, threw the towel against the wall and without hesitation studied Watters’ dossier again.
Watters was a formidable adversary. Not many of Scott’s targets could find him, let alone pursue him for a half hour and survive. He was going to like this game—almost as good as taking out an FBI agent.
He wouldn’t underestimate Watters again.
Watters had to have spotted him by using cameras at his safe-house.
But killing him at close quarters would be tricky.
Scott knew just what he would do.
Calvin had tried to keep up with the hit man when he started running, but his knee forced him to quit the chase long before he was satisfied he knew how his opponent thought and thereby how to fight him.