Cash Plays

by Cordelia Kingsbridge

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t my car,” Mansfield said, looking at Levi like he was an idiot. “I wasn’t driving it. My wife and I went to a Halloween party in Henderson last night. We took her car, ended up having too much to drink, and decided to stay in a hotel. I didn’t get home until late this morning.”

  The arresting officer had noted that in her report, though corroborating evidence hadn’t been obtained yet. Levi actually thought Mansfield was telling the truth, but there was no reason to give that away so soon.

  “You expect me to believe that someone stole your car from your locked garage, used it to commit a fatal hit-and-run, and then returned it to its original location? Why would someone do all that?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Well, I can make a guess,” Levi said. “See, you’re an accountant for the Park family.”

  Mansfield’s face went smooth and impassive. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “Of course not.” Levi smiled. “The four men in the car that was struck are members of the street gang called Los Avispones. I assume you’ve heard of them?”

  A muscle jumped in Mansfield’s jaw.

  “Between you and me, Mr. Mansfield, there’ve been some strange things happening this past week. A shooting during an argument based on a rumor nobody can trace back to the original source. A drive-by that targeted the wrong people because of faulty information. Now a mystery driver framing an accountant for a hit-and-run that was clearly deliberate. I have to tell you, it’s starting to look like someone is trying to stir up trouble between the three most powerful criminal elements in Las Vegas. But that’s a lose-lose-lose situation for every party involved. So what’s the point? Who would want this?”

  Mansfield, who had grown steadily paler while Levi talked, turned his face aside and wrung his cuffed hands. Levi latched on like a shark scenting blood and leaned forward.

  “Do you have any thoughts on that?” he asked softly.

  Mansfield swallowed, wet his lips, opened his mouth—and then the door opened.

  Levi sprung out of his chair and whirled around, ready to chew out the sheepish officer standing in the doorway. His reprimand died on his lips when he saw who else was entering the room.

  “Ugh,” he said instead.

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you too, Detective Abrams,” said Jay Sawyer. “I hope you’re not questioning my client without counsel present.”

  “He hasn’t asked for representation,” said Levi.

  Sawyer was a young hotshot defense attorney with Hatfield, Park, and McKenzie. Handsome in a clean-cut Ivy League college way that did little for Levi personally, he had an ego bigger than the ostentatious Mercedes-Benz SUV he drove and was twice as irritating.

  He was accompanied by a tall, slender Asian woman dressed in a stunning sheath dress and killer heels. Every detail from her flawless makeup to her subtly expensive jewelry to her confident posture exuded an aura of class and sophistication.

  “I’m sure you’re familiar with my colleague, Emily Park?” Sawyer asked.

  Oh yes, Levi was familiar. The nuclear Park family at the center of the criminal enterprise consisted of a married couple, who were founding partners of the defense firm, and their three children. Emily, the middle sibling, was by far the most intelligent and ambitious. She’d cross-examined him at a few trials in the past, and though she was more polite than most defense attorneys, she was no less relentless.

  “Ms. Park,” Levi said.

  She returned his cool smile with one of her own. “Detective.”

  Looking over his shoulder at Mansfield, Levi said, “Did you know they were coming?”

  The startled expression on Mansfield’s face told Levi everything he needed to know. When Mansfield made to speak, Park said, “Don’t answer that. In fact, don’t say another word. Keep your mouth shut.”

  Mansfield’s mouth closed with an audible click.

  “Our client has an iron-clad alibi for the crime of which he’s been accused,” Sawyer said to Levi. “We’ll have surveillance footage and receipts from the hotel where he spent the night within the hour, and we expect the charges to be dropped immediately.”

  Levi glared at him. “I’m neither the DDA nor the arresting officer.”

  “Then I’m sure you’ll excuse us,” Park said as she brushed by him to sit in the empty chair beside Mansfield.

  This wasn’t a battle Levi had any hope of winning. Still, he stayed where he was for a moment, reluctant to leave when he’d been so close to a new lead.

  It was Sawyer’s hungry eyes raking over his body that got him moving. Sawyer was aggressively flirtatious with people of any gender and had been unabashed in his pursuit of Levi for years, despite multiple hostile rejections.

  “You look stressed, Detective,” Sawyer murmured. “How’d you like me to help with that?”

  “How’d you like me to break your arm?” Levi retorted on his way out of the room.

  He closed the door to the sound of Sawyer’s delighted laughter and scowled. That arrogant prick never took him seriously.

  Alone in the hallway, he mulled over the situation. He knew he was right. Someone—or multiple someones—was kicking the hornet’s nest, launching veiled attacks against the Parks, the Collective, and Los Avispones. He would suspect an outside organization hoping to upset the balance of power, but all these crimes suggested an inside job.

  Triggering a fatal confrontation between Yu and Dubicki meant knowing which buttons to push and which rumors to spread. The misdirected drive-by required awareness of the Collective’s movements and a surefire way to feed Los Avispones false information. Pulling off the hit-and-run had necessitated access to Mansfield’s locked house as well as knowledge that he’d be away from home—though the real driver probably hadn’t anticipated that Mansfield would end up staying away the entire night and therefore establishing himself a solid alibi.

  By now the three organizations must have realized what was happening as well, or Emily Park wouldn’t have been sent to Mansfield’s aid so quickly. They would do their best to solve the problem behind closed doors, but if they failed, this could explode into an honest-to-God gang war.

  No way—not in Levi’s city.

  Dominic paused on the sidewalk outside a dive bar on the west side of Vegas, not far from the Palms. It wasn’t the most glamorous part of the city, and he couldn’t imagine why Jessica and Williams would come here, but this was the bar they’d been talking about—The Breakdown. He shrugged and stepped through the door.

  Most bars and clubs in Vegas capitalized on some kind of theme to attract tourists. As far as Dominic could tell, the theme of this place was “let’s get wasted as fast as possible.” Calling it seedy would have been too generous. The bar was dark, cramped, and packed to capacity with rowdy drunks getting even more smashed under a thick haze of cigarette smoke. Every surface was sticky with spilled beer and other things he didn’t want to think about.

  What did a place like this need with a password?

  Dominic waded through the seething mass of sweaty, drunken humanity, all his senses on high alert. This kind of environment, small and crowded with only a couple of partially obstructed exits, grated against every defensive instinct he had.

  He made his way to the bar itself, where a couple of harried women were dishing out mugs of beer and shots of whiskey as fast as they could pour. The chaos didn’t stop one of the women from giving Dominic an admiring once-over when he used his size to clear a space for himself at the bar’s edge.

  “What can I get you?” she asked, ignoring the protests from the others nearby.

  “‘We can know only that we know nothing,’” he said, testing out the Tolstoy quote that served as the password. Worst-case scenario, she would think he was just another drunk idiot and he could try something else.

  She smiled, nodded, and waved to a man standing in the far back corner of the room. Once she had his attention, she pointed to Dominic and g
ave the man a thumbs-up. He nodded back.

  Dominic passed her a folded bill in thanks and headed for the corner. As he drew closer, he saw the man was standing guard outside a swinging door. He was Latino, early- to mid-thirties, wearing a heavy jacket despite the bar’s sweltering heat. The way he moved made it clear he was packing.

  Though Dominic tensed, the man just pushed the door open and politely said, “All the way down and to the left, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Dominic crossed the threshold, and the door swung shut behind him.

  He stood in a nondescript tiled hallway clearly intended for staff use. Following the man’s directions, the path ended in a stainless steel door that led to the enormous walk-in beer cooler. Dominic wound his way through crated bottles and stacked kegs, making a full circuit of the unit before he came to a puzzled stop. There was a standalone refrigerator at the opposite end of the cooler, which seemed redundant, but that was the only element out of place. Was this some kind of practical joke?

  Looking up at the ceiling, he noted a couple of surveillance cameras, which was to be expected. But one of the cameras wasn’t placed at an angle to cover the stock. It was pointed right at the refrigerator door.

  Feeling foolish, Dominic grasped the handle and tugged. The door opened to reveal a narrow staircase that descended into darkness.

  “Whoa.” He clicked on his cell phone flashlight and started down the steps.

  This staircase had not been designed for someone of his dimensions. He had to stoop in half and turn his body sideways to even make it to the end, where he found another door. Pushing it open, he stepped out, straightened up in relief—and then sucked in a strangled breath as he jerked back against the closing door.

  He was in a literal underground casino.

  In direct contrast to the bar upstairs, this space radiated elegance. The floors were dark hardwood, the patterned silk wallpaper the color of a rich cabernet, the lighting a soft and flattering amber glow. It was laid out in what was called the “playground” style of casino design—small, inviting clusters of table games between wide aisles that left plenty of room for movement.

  The patrons were well-dressed, the room humming with civilized energy and excitement. No sound penetrated the casino from the bar above, and even the cheers from the craps tables and the sports book lounge in the corner were courteously unobtrusive. Servers circled with gleaming trays of champagne and sparkling rosé.

  Dominic stared dry-mouthed at a nearby poker game. His brain flashed from one potent sense memory to another—the nubby felt of the table, the slick slide of the cards as he judged his hand, the ridges of the chips while he debated his bet—

  Jesus Christ, he had to get out of here.

  He was scrabbling for the door handle before he realized that leaving wasn’t an option. This was obviously an illegal establishment, and nothing would attract more attention than a man his size running out the door only moments after he’d arrived. There were cameras everywhere, an armed guard upstairs—and, now that he took a closer look around, several more guards down here as well. A hasty departure could mean a bullet in the back.

  His right hand throbbed. He looked down and realized he was still clutching his cell phone, his fingers clawed around it like a vise. He shoved the phone into his jacket pocket and shook out his hand while he cast about desperately for a solution.

  Across the room was a crescent-shaped oak bar with a few open spots. Perfect. If he sat there, he could turn his back on the games, and nobody would look askance at a man chilling alone with a drink.

  He crossed the casino to the bar, keeping his eyes on the floor and focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. There was no way for him to block out the sounds, though. They hammered against his skull like a battering ram splintering a flimsy wooden door.

  Dealers calling out bets. Cries of triumph and disappointment. The clink of chips being stacked and passed.

  By the time he reached the bar, he was sweating and breathing hard. He more collapsed onto a stool than sat on it, propping his elbows on the counter and burying his head in his hands.

  “Can I get you a drink, sir?”

  “Vodka,” he said without looking up.

  There was a pause, and then the bartender said, “Ah . . .”

  “Literally any brand of vodka in any drinkable form. Your choice.”

  “Yes, sir.” There was the sound of footsteps as the bartender moved away.

  Dominic spent every day of his life fighting such an all-consuming urge to gamble that it was almost a primal need. He never felt better than he did when he gambled: powerful, in control, thrilling with the adrenaline of competition and risk. And he never felt worse than he did afterward, when he realized hours had passed without him noticing or he’d lost thousands of dollars chasing a bad hand instead of quitting while he was ahead.

  The problem was that once he started gambling, it was almost impossible for him to stop. Any sense of control was just an illusion. At his worst, he was a prisoner in his own body, a tiny corner of his mind shrieking helplessly at him to stop while the rest of him moved like a puppet on strings.

  “Excuse me,” said a woman’s voice as a hand landed gently on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  He lifted his head, about to snap at her to leave him alone, and found himself looking into the eyes of Jessica Miller.

  Recognition flickered across her face in the same moment. Her hand slid off his shoulder, and they gaped at each other in silence.

  Good God, could Dominic be any more of a monumental fuckup?

  The silence was broken when the bartender set down a glass. He’d poured Dominic a simple double vodka on the rocks, a wise choice. Dominic nodded his thanks and tossed it back in one swallow.

  “You’re the guy from church,” Jessica said.

  “Yeah.” Dominic wondered what the hell he should do now. His entire plan had been predicated on not making contact with his subject yet. “Hi.”

  She glanced around, but she appeared to be alone for now—no bodyguards, no John Williams. “Did my parents send you?”

  The note of hope in her voice decided Dominic in favor of the truth. “Yes. They’re worried about you.”

  A tiny smile curved her lips and then immediately vanished. “Are they okay?”

  “They’re fine. Just missing you.” He leaned in toward her and lowered his voice. “I’d like to help you, if that’s what you want.”

  To his surprise, she shook her head. “You should get out of here while you still can. You have no idea what you’ve walked—”

  She cut herself off abruptly, and Dominic turned toward the man he sensed approaching from the left. It was one of the guards who’d been with Jessica at church. Shit.

  “Hey,” the man said in a thick Eastern European accent. He regarded Dominic with a narrow-eyed stare. “I know you.”

  “He’s a friend from church,” Jessica said before Dominic could respond.

  “Friend? He act like he don’t know you.”

  “What the hell do you know about it?” she snapped. “You barely speak English.”

  “Is there a problem here?” said a new voice as the so-called John Williams joined them.

  This just kept getting better and better.

  Williams was a skinny, fast-talking little white guy whose body was in constant motion. Good-looking enough, Dominic supposed, but not drop-out-of-college-and-run-away attractive. He must have had other qualities going for him.

  “No problem,” Dominic said calmly. “Just enjoying a drink.”

  “He was at Ms. Miller’s church on Sunday,” the guard said to Williams.

  Williams’s gaze sharpened. “That so? How’d you even get in here?”

  “Oh my God, I invited him!” Jessica exclaimed. “Would you chill out?”

  “You invited him, huh?” Williams glared and shifted closer to her, his body language screaming aggression. “You letting him fuck you too?”

  Her jaw dropped. D
ominic fantasized about knocking the twerp’s lights out—he was sure he could do it in one punch.

  “Whoa, hey,” he said instead, spreading his hands. One thing almost all abusers had in common was jealous, possessive behavior, and he had to nip that in the bud before Williams got violent. “It’s not like that, man. I’m gay.”

  That could backfire as well, but at least if it did it wouldn’t be in Jessica’s direction.

  All three of them gave him startled looks. “No shit,” Williams said in a much friendlier tone. “Big guy like you?”

  Bemused, Dominic said, “That doesn’t really have anything to do with—”

  “Hang on, you’ve gotta meet Gay Sergei.” Williams slapped the guard’s shoulder, and the man nodded and headed off into the crowd.

  “Gay Sergei?”

  “Oh hey, I’m not like prejudiced or some shit,” said Williams. “Sergei’s my cousin. He gave himself that name—likes to lead with it, you know, so people don’t think they can use it to fuck with him.”

  “I see,” Dominic said, and then trailed off as his attention was caught by a rolling mountain of a man moving toward them.

  The man was a couple of inches taller than Dominic and even brawnier, particularly beefy through the chest and shoulders. This casino must have another entrance than the one Dominic had used, because if he’d had trouble getting down those stairs, there was no way this behemoth could have fit. He had a head of thick black hair and a beard to match, his face scarred and weather-beaten and oddly compelling.

  Dominic didn’t need to be introduced; he already knew this man by sight. Sergei Volkov was the leader of the American southwestern branch of the Slavic Collective.

  All the pieces fell together. Volkov was Williams’s cousin, the owner of the estate in Summerlin. That explained the house’s mysterious untraceable ownership, its high walls, and the armed guards following Jessica around. Williams wasn’t an ordinary con artist; he was intimately tied to Eastern European organized crime.

  And Dominic was sitting in one of their casinos.