Cash Plays

by Cordelia Kingsbridge

  A couple of people tried to enter behind Martine. “Out!” she barked. There was the sound of a hasty scuffle, and she slammed and locked the door before approaching him from the side. “Levi . . .”

  “What?” He lifted his head. “What are you going to say, Martine?”

  She said nothing, though her face was clouded with concern.

  “I fit the profile.” They both already knew that, but he had to hear it out loud. “I exactly fit the profile of the serial killer we’ve been hunting for six months.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re not a killer.”

  Levi let out a strangled laugh.

  “You’re not a murderer, is what I meant.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s a pretty fucking important deviation from the profile.”

  He didn’t lean into the touch, but he didn’t pull away either. “This is why the Seven of Spades was so focused on me from the beginning. They said it themselves the first time they called me—they thought I would understand them. They implied it was because of the way I’d shot Dale Slater, but maybe it’s more than that. Maybe they know what happened to me in college, and the way it affected me.”

  “But how many people know that? You never talk about it.”

  “I had to during my psych evaluation when I joined the force. The Seven of Spades has accessed information way better protected than that. Plus, it’s a matter of public record in New Jersey. Anyone who looked into my past would find out pretty quickly . . .”

  He trailed off, considering the way Rohan’s eyes had bored into his during the presentation. “The sort of trauma we’re talking about . . . should be easily revealed through proper investigative work.”

  “Oh my God,” he said. “Rohan did look into my past. He came here with a suspect already in mind. Our goddamn FBI profiler thinks I’m the Seven of Spades.”

  Dominic leaned back in his chair and scowled at his computer screen. His investigation of the house in Summerlin where Jessica Miller was staying had revealed that it was owned by a shell company incorporated in Delaware, one of the easiest places in the world to register an anonymous LLC. There was no physical address, no contact information, no managers or members on record.

  Even when he’d dug deeper, his search had just run him in dizzying circles. Whoever had set up this shell company was no amateur. Hopkins had suggested John Williams might be a con artist of some kind; if so, he was more than a run-of-the-mill grifter. The evidence that was taking shape pointed to skilled, large-scale organized crime.

  While he worked, Dominic reviewed the audio recordings from the hidden pen. He’d heard enough to be sure Jessica had left the bugged purse in her bedroom. Though it was possible she’d gone out at some point in the past thirty-six hours with a different purse, the snatches of conversation he caught made him suspect she almost never left the compound at all.

  That would change tomorrow night. Jessica and Williams had plans to visit some kind of hipster password-protected bar Downtown that Dominic had never heard of. For reasons he couldn’t discern, she was unhappy about it; she and Williams had gotten into a screaming match that afternoon that had ended with him shoving her into a heavy piece of furniture and her falling to the ground. Williams had spat the password at her with a few extra threats before leaving the room.

  Following them to the bar was Dominic’s best shot. The battery in the pen he’d stashed would die by tomorrow morning, and the only other lead he had was an enormous walled mansion he could safely assume was protected by armed guards. A bar in Vegas would be packed any night of the week, password or no, so he could hang back and observe at a distance, look for a safe opportunity to contact Jessica again and maybe slip her a message.

  His other dilemma was whether to update the Millers on his progress. They were in agony not knowing how their daughter was, but was it better for them to know she was trapped in an abusive relationship with a criminal? He didn’t want to get their hopes up too early in case he ended up not being able to extract Jessica after all.

  His internal debate was interrupted by a text from Levi.

  I need you was all it said, followed seconds later by another text: Counterstrike @ 7?

  Counterstrike was the name of the Krav Maga school where Levi trained. Something must have upset him badly.

  Meet you there, Dominic texted back.

  Like Levi, Dominic kept a gym bag with a fresh change of clothes in his car, and he changed in his office before leaving.

  Counterstrike was a casually run school where the higher-level practitioners were welcome to train independently on one half of the large mat while instructors taught small group classes on the other. Dominic entered to find Levi already gearing up.

  The first time they’d sparred, they’d only used gloves. It was more satisfying when they didn’t have to hold back, though, so every time since, they’d fought in full protective gear—gloves, groin protectors, shin guards, helmets with face shields, and mouth guards. Dominic threw his on as fast as possible and followed Levi onto the mat.

  The moment they touched gloves, Dominic knew he was right. Levi was a thousand percent more vicious than usual—and that bar was set high to begin with. His blows were harder and faster, his expression grim, and there was none of their typical teasing banter.

  Dominic didn’t mind. His body was built to withstand punishment, and Levi needed to vent his aggression. So rather than engage the way he normally would, Dominic just kept his guard up and let Levi whale on him, stoically absorbing every fierce punch, kick, and hammerfist.

  Unfortunately, his good intentions had the opposite of their desired effect. After a few minutes, Levi stopped moving altogether and glared at him. Then he lashed out with a lightning-fast right cross harder than anything he’d thrown at Dominic before.

  The blow caught Dominic square in his face shield, snapping his head back painfully. He stumbled, disoriented, and shook his head to clear it.

  Levi advanced on him like a stalking panther. Dominic lifted his fists and circled out of range, more wary now.

  “Don’t fucking patronize me,” Levi said. His speech was garbled by the mouth guard, but his icy disdain came through just fine. “If I wanted a stationary target, I’d work a heavy bag.”

  He launched himself at Dominic again. This time, Dominic evaded several strikes before landing a solid left hook and then slamming his right fist into Levi’s stomach. Levi coughed, doubling over, and then delivered a nasty snap kick to Dominic’s groin. He stepped back and drove his foot into Dominic’s chest hard enough to send Dominic careening into the wire fence that surrounded one side of the training area.

  Dominic pushed himself off the fence, grinning. Levi smiled back.

  “Why don’t we make a deal?” Dominic asked as they circled each other. “I’ll give you the fight you want if you tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “I fit the official profile for the Seven of Spades word-for-word.”

  Dominic was so startled that Levi’s high roundhouse smacked him right in the side of the head. He recovered quickly, dodging and weaving Levi’s flurry of attacks. Getting in a couple of good hits of his own to create space, he said, “What the hell does that mean?”

  Levi told him about the FBI agent’s briefing in between bouts. Sparring was exhausting enough on its own without wasting oxygen, so Levi’s sentences were short and clipped. Dominic got the gist, though.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said when Levi was finished.

  “What, you think Rohan is wrong?”

  “I think he’s probably right about the Seven of Spades. He’s wrong about you.”

  Levi rolled his eyes and closed the distance for another exchange of blows. Instead of counterattacking, Dominic slipped around behind him and grabbed him in a crushing bear hug, pinioning both of Levi’s upper arms against his sides.

  Levi immediately trapped Dominic’s hands against his chest—a reflex any trained fighter had to keep the attacker’s hands from creeping up towar
d their throat—and based out by sinking his body weight into a low, solid stance, but he didn’t otherwise defend himself. “My first instinct when I’m upset is to beat up the man I’m in love with.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic,” Dominic said, even as he thrilled to Levi’s casual admission. “Your first instinct is to work out your stress against an equal opponent who can challenge you without you needing to worry about doing real harm. That’s not close to the same thing.”

  Levi shifted his hips and banged the side of his fist into Dominic’s groin—decidedly unpleasant even with protective gear. When Dominic’s hold softened up, Levi pivoted out from beneath his arms and used his grip to slam his knee into Dominic’s groin and then his face shield before shoving him away.

  Dominic managed to catch Levi’s ankle with his foot, tripping him so he fell backward. Levi just used his momentum to propel himself into a roll over his right shoulder, popping up onto his hands and leaping nimbly to his feet.

  “George Durham implied to an entire courtroom that I might be the Seven of Spades,” he said.

  “Only to smear your name to try to get his piece-of-shit client off for murder. Everybody knew exactly what he was doing.”

  Thrumming with adrenaline, Dominic charged. They clashed again, striking, blocking, and counterstriking, but this time Dominic refused to let Levi disengage. Though Levi was fast and superbly trained, Dominic was far stronger. A toe-to-toe slugfest would end in his favor.

  The problem was that Dominic’s own training was grounded in traditional American boxing and wrestling, two competitive sports with rules and expectations of fair play.

  Krav Maga wasn’t a sport. It was a military fighting system originally developed for the Israel Defense Force. And it had no rules.

  Dominic was so focused on Levi that he hadn’t noticed how close they were traveling to the beginner’s class on the other side of the mat—a class learning stick defense with long-handled rods wrapped in thick foam.

  Levi snatched a stick away from one of the stunned students and whacked Dominic across the face.

  Dominic rocked back on his heels, caught off guard. That was all the opening Levi needed. He planted his foot in the center of Dominic’s chest, slid smoothly into a follow-up side kick that hit the same exact spot, rotated into a back kick with his other leg, and swung around with a ferocious roundhouse to complete the sequence.

  Dazed by the brutal, rapid-fire assault, Dominic reeled backward until he hit the wall opposite the fence. He had enough presence of mind to block the next swing of the stick, however. He grabbed Levi and spun them around, shoving Levi up against the wall and pinning him there with his greater mass.

  He knew Levi could get out of this with no trouble, especially since he was still wobbly himself. But Levi obviously didn’t want to get away, because he dropped the stick on purpose and arched against Dominic with a shuddering sigh.

  They stood like that for a moment, their chests heaving, their bodies soaked with sweat. Levi’s cheeks were flushed red with exertion.

  “Sometimes I enjoy causing pain,” he said quietly.

  That wasn’t news to Dominic. He’d once watched Levi put a handsy guy at a bar in a wicked joint lock. He’d seen the fierce light in Levi’s eyes then, the faint smile on his face as the man gasped and struggled to get away.

  Dominic took a step back, scooped the fallen stick off the ground, and tossed it back to the gaping class. Then he ripped off his helmet, dropped it on the ground, and spat out his mouth guard. Levi followed suit.

  “Everybody has a dark side,” Dominic said. He unstrapped his right glove. “It’s okay to take that side out for a drive every now and then. Healthy adults have this crazy thing called impulse control that tells them when and where to do that. It’s what separates us from psychotic serial killers. And teenagers.”

  Levi snorted. Dominic ran his ungloved hand through Levi’s damp curls, fluffing them up where they’d been flattened by the helmet.

  “Are you really worried people would believe this?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a good man, Levi.” Dominic cradled his jaw. “Anybody who knows you well wouldn’t believe for a single second that you’re capable of the things the Seven of Spades has done. I’m sure Martine said the same thing.”

  “She did. More than once.”

  “Then trust us. Once this Rohan guy gets to know you better, he’ll see what we do. You have to give it a little time.”

  Levi looked like he was about to argue, but then his shoulders slumped and he let out a long, slow breath. “You’re right. It’s just— It’s difficult.”

  “I know,” Dominic said, and released him. He gestured to their dropped gear. “Do you feel any better, or do you want to go again?”

  “Actually . . .” Levi flicked his eyes toward the nearby class, then lowered his voice. “Now I’m in the mood for a different kind of workout.”

  Fighting always made Levi horny as hell. Luckily, it had the same effect on Dominic.

  The school didn’t have locker rooms, but it did have a unisex, wheelchair-accessible bathroom large enough to fit them both at the same time.

  “How’s your case going?” Levi asked while they changed into street clothes.

  Dominic filled him in on everything that had happened, including his plan to pursue Jessica and Williams to the bar tomorrow night.

  “You sure you want to go alone?” Levi shrugged into his suit jacket but didn’t bother with his tie. “Could be dangerous.”

  “Nah, I’m not planning to engage. It’ll just be a little recon.”

  Levi nodded, accepting that without further question.

  “But it does mean I may be unreachable all night tomorrow,” Dominic said, shoving his feet into his work shoes. “If you need me—”

  “I’ll be fine.” Levi tugged him down into a kiss. “You do whatever’s necessary to help that woman.”

  Dominic kept his neck bowed, nuzzling the side of Levi’s face. Anyone who thought a man with Levi’s heart could be a serial killer was an idiot.

  “Now,” Levi said, dragging a hand over Dominic’s chest and hip. “About that workout . . .”

  “You realize you just spent a good half hour repeatedly smashing me in the balls,” Dominic said, doing his best to keep a straight face. “They’re kind of sore.”

  “Oh.” Levi gave him a sulky, teasing little pout that made Dominic want to toss him over the sink and ram right into him. “In that case, maybe I should kiss them better.” He brushed his lips against Dominic’s ear and added, “You know, it is Halloween. I still have my uniform from before I made detective.”

  Dominic inhaled sharply. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Nobody treated Levi differently at the substation the next day. He didn’t know why he was surprised—the linchpin of Rohan’s profile was the experience of serious trauma, and very few of his coworkers knew about the assault that had changed his life. There was no reason anyone else would draw the connection he and Martine had.

  He did catch Wen giving him a couple of odd looks, though.

  Now he tapped his pen against the side of his desk, restless and bored. The contract killer Dubicki had identified, an ex-Green Beret named Nick Bryce, was a mercenary with no particular allegiance. While Dubicki hadn’t set up Barton’s shooting himself, he claimed to know the man who had and that he’d also worked with Bryce himself in the past. He’d provided the LVMPD with the protocol used to contact him.

  That aspect of the case had been handed off to a team specializing in undercover work. There was no telling where in the world Bryce was now, so their goal was to lure him back to Las Vegas with a false job and capture him in a sting operation. It was a good plan, but not one Levi could help with.

  There were plenty of other things he could be doing. The Seven of Spades tip line received hundreds of calls a day that were supposed to be reviewed by a detective. He had a mile-long suspect list that had to be evaluated ag
ainst the new profile. His tedious, time-consuming investigation into how the Seven of Spades acquired their ketamine, a joint venture with the DEA’s Diversion Control Division, was ongoing. And he had several additional unrelated cases on top of all that.

  He wasn’t in the mood for any of it. He gazed blankly at the empty desk across from his—Martine was out doing legwork on one of her own cases—and wondered if a few shots of espresso would jump-start his motivation.

  “Abrams!”

  Levi turned to see Wen approaching him with a slim file. “Yes, sir?”

  “This case just crossed my desk for you.” Wen handed him the folder. “There was a hit-and-run on West Flamingo last night, multiple victims. It became a homicide an hour ago when one of them died in the hospital.”

  Levi scanned the file and frowned. “They already have a suspect in custody. There’s no reason to turf a mostly finished case to us just because the charge suddenly changed to homicide. Why not let the original team wrap it up?”

  “Valcourt has a request in the system to refer any cases with certain associations to either her or you. Check out the known affiliations of the suspect and victims.”

  As he flipped through the next few pages, Levi’s eyes widened and he said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Less than an hour later, he was in a CCDC interrogation room yet again, this time sitting across from a plump middle-aged white man named Norman Mansfield. Though Mansfield looked nervous—his shoulders tense, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead—it didn’t appear more intense than the ordinary anxiety any person would experience from being arrested and interrogated.

  “You have the wrong guy,” he said.

  “Mr. Mansfield, there’s no question that your Subaru Outback was the vehicle that struck the victims’ car hard enough to drive it off the road and into a lamppost.” Levi fanned out a series of photographs as he spoke. “The entire incident was caught by traffic cameras, and your license plate is clearly visible. Officers found the car in your garage with heavy body damage and paint from the victims’ car all over it.”