Levi was up for anything when it came to investigating a case. Half an hour later, he and Martine walked into an interview room at the Clark County Detention Center, where a young man was handcuffed to the table.
Edgar Padilla was barely out of his teens, lean and wiry, his dark hair falling into eyes that were hollowed out with stress and exhaustion. He regarded Levi and Martine warily as they sat across from him.
“Mr. Padilla, I’m Detective Valcourt and this is Detective Abrams,” said Martine. “We’d like to speak with you about the shooting that took place on Saturday night.”
“I already signed a confession.”
“We’re aware of that. What we’d like to know is why your organization targeted members of the Slavic Collective in the first place.”
He stared at them for a moment and then let out a sharp, slightly hysterical laugh. “You serious? You really think we’d go after the Collective on purpose? Shit, how stupid do you think we are?”
Levi exchanged a confused glance with Martine. “You said yourself that you confessed to the crime.”
“I pulled the trigger, yeah,” said Padilla, “but I didn’t know who I was shooting. I never would have— Look, we wouldn’t start shit with the Collective. We got no beef with them, and besides, everyone knows you don’t fuck with Russians.”
The Slavic Collective wasn’t exclusively Russian, but he made a good point. The organization had a reputation for delivering swift and merciless retribution to its enemies.
Martine frowned. “You may not have meant to target the Collective, but you did. How did that happen?”
Padilla looked back and forth between them. “If I tell you guys, will you make sure it’s all on the record? That word gets out and people know the truth?”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Martine said while Levi sat beside her with his brow furrowed. This was bizarrely similar to the plea Kasper Dubicki had made.
“Okay.” Padilla took a deep breath. “Thing is, we got some bad info. We thought we were going after a different group, these new white cocksuckers who been moving in on Vegas. Poaching territory, stirring shit up, that kind of thing. We didn’t even know we’d hit the wrong guys until the next day.”
Levi raised his eyebrows. “How could you not know who you were shooting?”
“I don’t know, man, they’re all tattooed white dudes with bad haircuts. What the fuck do you want from me?”
Martine lifted a hand, heading the confrontation off at the pass. “Do you think you were given bad information on purpose?”
“I have no idea,” Padilla said with a shrug. “I’m just a grunt, you know? I go where they send me, I do what they tell me. I don’t know who told us Utopia was gonna be on that block that night when it was actually the Collective.”
“Utopia? That’s the name of this new group?”
“It’s what they go by, yeah.”
Martine looked at Levi, who shook his head. “I’ve never heard of them,” he said.
“I’m not surprised.” Padilla rolled his eyes. “They only target minorities. They been going after black gangs, Latino cartels—hell, they even popped a couple Jews I knew who did some fencing for us. It’s not a coincidence, either. You should hear these guys talk. They want to drive us all out of Vegas. They’d wipe us off the Earth if they could.”
“They’re white supremacists?” Martine asked.
“They’re fucking psychos, is what they are.” Padilla shifted, his cuffed hands clenching into fists. “The crazy shit that comes out of their mouths—they’re more like a cult than a gang. Talk about remaking the world in God’s image, and you better believe that means anyone who’s not a white so-called Christian’s gotta go.” He made a sound of deep disgust. “They call themselves the alt-right or some bull-crap, but if you ask me, that’s just PR. What they really are is—”
“Nazis,” said Levi.
An interview with the other gangbanger arrested for the shooting confirmed Padilla’s story down to the last detail. Los Avispones had intended to take out some of Utopia’s foot soldiers in retaliation for several deaths of their own. Instead, they’d unknowingly opened fire on members of the Slavic Collective.
Back at the substation, Levi hung up his desk phone with a frustrated grunt and waited for Martine to do the same. “Utopia is on Organized Crime’s radar, but they don’t think the group’s a big deal,” he said. “Apparently they sprang up almost overnight, suspiciously well-funded, but too disorganized to become major players. Dressler says any success they’ve had targeting their competition so far is a mix of luck and coincidence.”
“I heard the same thing from Gangs. They have Utopia classified as an ‘emerging threat,’ but there’s no individual task force assigned to them. There’s never even been a department-wide bulletin sent out on these guys.”
Levi looked across the bullpen to where Special Agent Rohan Chaudhary was standing at the center of a knot of detectives and uniformed officers, some costumed for Halloween, and all of whom were hanging on his every word. They could ask him if the FBI had any information on Utopia; white supremacist groups meant possible domestic terrorism, one of the FBI’s biggest concerns.
“What are we planning to do about this, though?” Martine spread her hands. “We don’t actually have an open case related to any of these groups. Dubicki confessed; the shooting was never ours to begin with. What are we hoping to accomplish here?”
“I don’t know.” Levi reached for his coffee cup, groaning when he found it empty. “But first a Collective middleman gets all fired up over some rumors, loses control, and shoots a Park employee. Then a couple of days later, Los Avispones kill a bunch of Collective soldiers thinking they’re targeting another group entirely? It’s sketchy, especially since all three of these groups traditionally get along. If they start gunning for each other, the gang war could destabilize the entire city.”
“Whoa, that’s a big what-if.” She started tapping her pen against her desk while she stared into space.
Levi checked the clock on his phone. He had a full caseload, and Rohan’s presentation on the Seven of Spades was due to start in ten minutes. He didn’t have time to chase after a wild theory that he couldn’t even fully articulate to himself.
Sighing, he cracked his neck from side to side—then startled as a familiar figure strode into the bullpen.
“Dominic,” he said, rising to his feet. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I know, sorry.” Dominic gave him a brief, work-appropriate peck on the lips. “Hey, Martine.”
She smiled up at him. “Hi, Dom.”
“I’m actually here to see Natasha,” Dominic said. “I need her advice for a case I’m working on, and she said she could squeeze me into her schedule this afternoon.”
“Excuse me. Mr. Russo, I’m assuming?”
Levi and Dominic both turned around, and Levi stifled a groan as he came face-to-beautiful-face with Rohan. He didn’t have a chance to gauge Dominic’s reaction to the man’s ridiculous good looks, though, because he was too taken aback by Rohan’s reaction to Dominic. Rohan was gazing at him with a slightly dumfounded expression, his thickly lashed eyes wide and his lush mouth half-open.
“Yes, I’m Dominic Russo. Can I help you?”
“I, uh . . .” Rohan gave his head a small shake and extended a hand. “I’m Special Agent Rohan Chaudhary with the FBI.”
“Oh!” Dominic shook his hand briskly. Levi narrowed his eyes as he watched Rohan’s quick, flustered intake of breath. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Rohan released his hand and just stared at him. While Dominic waited with his customary patience, Levi leaned around his back to see if Martine was picking up the same vibe he was. She arched her eyebrows and gave him a look of pointed commiseration.
“So I don’t know what brings you to the station or what your schedule is like,” Rohan finally said, “but I’d really appreciate the chanc
e to speak with you about the Seven of Spades whenever you’re available. You’re the only person heavily involved in the case who isn’t law enforcement, and your perspective is woefully underrepresented in the case files. It would help me a lot to learn more about your experience.”
“Sure, no problem.” Retrieving his wallet from his jacket pocket, Dominic withdrew a business card and handed it over. “My schedule is pretty flexible, so just give me a call and we’ll work something out.”
Rohan read the card and said, “Private investigator? I thought you were a bounty hunter.”
“I’m also a bartender, but I don’t have cards for either of those things,” Dominic said with a self-deprecating smile.
Rohan laughed and ducked his head. Levi scowled.
“Okay, I gotta run. I don’t want to make Natasha wait after she was nice enough to make time for me.” Dominic kissed Levi again—on the cheek this time—and nodded to Martine and Rohan before heading off.
There was an awkward moment in which Rohan cleared his throat and fidgeted with his suit jacket while Levi regarded him coolly and Martine did a poor job of pretending she was fascinated by something on her computer. When it became clear that Levi had no intention of speaking, Rohan said, “I’ll, ah, see you at the meeting, Detectives,” and hurried away.
“Am I overreacting, or did he just hit on my boyfriend right in front of me?” Levi said.
Martine tilted a hand from side to side, but then a sharp two-tone whistle caught their attention as Deputy District Attorney Leila Rashid crossed the bullpen toward them.
Leila was an athletically built woman with golden-brown skin, silky black hair pulled into a simple ponytail, and the carriage of a well-trained fighter, though Levi had never asked which discipline she practiced. She tossed a thin file folder onto his desk and furrowed her brow. “What’s with this weird energy?” she asked.
“That visiting FBI agent basically just offered himself to Dominic on a silver platter,” said Martine.
“Who wouldn’t?” Leila tapped the folder. “This is the name of the contract killer the Seven of Spades allegedly hired to snipe Drew Barton, as well as everything Dubicki knows about how the Collective contacts him.”
“Great,” Levi said, trying not to let on how his heart had suddenly leapt and started pounding in his chest. “And it only took you three whole days.”
She gave him a lazy smile. “Says the man who’s been hunting the same killer for six months.”
“Well, don’t let us keep you. I’m sure you left your broomstick double-parked.”
She made a kissing noise at him, flicked her ponytail over her shoulder, and sauntered away. Chuckling, Levi flipped the file open.
“You guys have a strange relationship,” Martine muttered.
Dominic knocked on the half-open door to Natasha Stone’s office and poked his head inside. “Hey.”
“Dominic!” she said, jumping to her feet. “Come on in.”
Her office was tiny but cozy, the desk jammed into the far corner to make space for a plush armchair and love seat that faced each other across a coffee table. The room was filled with personal touches like framed family photos and lush potted plants that gave it a homey atmosphere. She also had a special fondness for pop art motivational posters—Dominic’s favorite was one of a grinning dog that read, Smile. It’s contagious!
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” he said as she waved him to the love seat.
She settled into the armchair. “Anytime. You know that.”
Natasha always had home-baked treats on hand in her office, and today she was honoring Halloween with cookie sandwiches decorated to look like cute little monsters. She offered one to Dominic on a napkin printed with jack-o’-lanterns.
He bit into it, savoring the combination of rich chocolate cookies and smooth buttercream filling. “Damn, you’re an amazing baker.”
She beamed, a blush spreading across her pale, freckled skin. “Thanks. That probably explains why I’ve never been able to lose this last stubborn bit of pregnancy weight, though.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You look great.”
As usual, Dominic found himself soothed by Natasha’s calming presence. He could only imagine how effective she’d been in victim advocacy before she’d transitioned to peer counseling.
“So what can I help you with?” she asked.
“My firm was hired to track down a missing woman, and I did find her, but the situation is more complex than I’d expected. I’m worried that my intervention might end up doing more harm than good.”
Nodding, she leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. “Tell me about it.”
Dominic ran through the Jessica Miller case step-by-step, leaving nothing out. Natasha’s professional code of ethics bound her to confidentiality, but he would have trusted her discretion regardless.
“I’ve come up with a few potential scenarios for how I could contact her,” he said as he finished. “But what if I do or say something that tips off her boyfriend and he thinks she’s turned on him? He could hurt her. Kill her.”
“That’s a definite possibility.” Natasha tilted her head. “A victim of intimate partner violence is most at risk when they’re trying to leave their abuser. That’s especially true in a situation where there are guns present and criminal activity is involved. You’ll have to step carefully.”
“I can’t risk bringing cops into this—even if I thought they’d touch this case, which they wouldn’t.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m not sure how to handle it on my own, though. I don’t know how to talk to someone who’s being abused. What do I even say?”
“That, I can help you with.” She stood and returned to her desk, riffling through the drawers. “Does Jessica have a cell phone?”
“Not that I’m aware of. If she does, her boyfriend definitely monitors it. He’s paranoid about the possibility of her calling her parents.”
“Okay. There are a couple of apps designed for victims of IPV, but I have paper resources too.” She returned to Dominic and handed him a pile of papers and brochures with a tiny card on top. “This has the National Domestic Violence Hotline number, and it’s small enough for her to hide in her shoe or any other place her boyfriend wouldn’t find it.”
“Thanks.” He tucked the card into his wallet for safekeeping.
“The rest of that is for you,” she said as she sat back down. “Guidelines on how to support and help a person who’s being abused by a partner. One of the most important things is to listen to the person’s perspective and not try to impose your judgment of the situation on them.”
Scanning the materials, he hummed acknowledgment.
“Dominic,” she said, and waited until he looked up. “I need to make sure you understand there’s a good chance Jessica will refuse to leave.”
“Why would she do that?”
Natasha shrugged. “There are a lot of reasons. One of the biggest is what I mentioned earlier—trying to leave will put her in more danger, which she’s likely well-aware of. But there are other possibilities. He may have threatened her family or other people she cares about. The actual logistics of leaving may seem impractical or overwhelming to her. Or she may genuinely love him and believe that if she tries hard enough, she can change him or herself in a way that will stop the abuse.”
Dominic blew out a long breath. After he’d heard that recording last night, it had never occurred to him that Jessica wouldn’t leap at the chance to escape Williams’s clutches.
“Safety planning for IPV can be a long and frustrating process with multiple steps forward and back,” Natasha said in a gentle tone. “It’s not anyone’s place to force the victim’s decision. Our role is to make sure they know we’re on their side and ready to assist as needed. You’re not some white knight swooping in to rescue a damsel in distress. You’re an advocate extending a helping hand, and even if you do everything right, she may still reject that help. Are you prepared for that?”
“No,” he said honestly.
She let out a soft laugh. “Nobody is, not really. But it’s an important reality to accept. Forcing people to take action before they’ve reached a state of readiness for change tends to backfire spectacularly.”
That was something Dominic knew from personal experience. His brain was full of cringe-worthy memories of all the times he’d aggressively driven away friends and family who had tried to help him quit gambling. It wasn’t until Rebel had gotten sick as a puppy that he’d been willing to even talk about it.
“I understand,” he said. “Thanks so much, Natasha. I appreciate your help.”
“My pleasure. Good luck with your case. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
The briefing room buzzed with activity and conversation as a flood of people entered, packing themselves into the dozens of chairs and standing against the walls when all the seats were taken. Glancing around from his spot in the front row beside Martine, Levi saw detectives, uniformed cops, and support personnel from divisions and substations across the entire LVMPD, plus several bureau captains and division chiefs.
Even Internal Affairs was represented by Valeria Montoya, one of the detectives who’d investigated the violent incident that had gotten Keith Chapman fired. A perpetually silent woman notorious for her piercing, unsettling gaze, she stood in the far corner of the room with her arms folded across her chest.
Despite the somber occasion, more than a few people were wearing the costumes they’d brought to work. Levi thought there was a special irony in having this presentation on Halloween.
“Quiet, please,” Sergeant Wen said from the podium at the front. A veteran Marine, he stood with the proud bearing of a military man, his hair cut short and his face clean-shaven, his tie pin-straight and his shoes polished to a blinding shine. “Many of you have already met Special Agent Rohan Chaudhary with the FBI’s NCAVC, so further introductions are unnecessary. The pursuit and capture of the Seven of Spades is now officially the LVMPD’s highest priority. With that in mind, please give Agent Chaudhary your full attention.”
Cash Plays Page 8
