Cash Plays

by Cordelia Kingsbridge

  “Detective Abrams,” Rohan said wearily, “I understand you have little patience for this process—”

  “Because it’s not helpful! If the Seven of Spades was raped or abused, especially as a child, the odds are that crime was never reported and there is no record of it. I can’t go into an interrogation with a potential suspect and ask them if they have a history of child abuse, for God’s sake.”

  “That’s not—”

  “We need to concentrate on actual evidence. Where are we on locating the contract killer who shot Drew Barton?”

  Rohan’s eyes flicked toward Wen.

  “That information has been compartmentalized,” Wen said carefully.

  Levi actually heard the collective intake of breath around the room. That brought him up short, and he realized that everyone was staring at him—some with trepidation, some with avid interest—but all like they were waiting for something.

  Waiting for what? For him to explode in anger? Had that become something he was known for?

  His voice deserted him, and Martine stepped in.

  “What about this website the Seven of Spades mentioned?” she asked. “Do we know anything more about that?”

  “We do,” Rohan said with a grateful nod. “Ms. Rivera, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  Carmen moved to the laptop that was connected to the projector, fussed around with it, and brought up an austere website with a stark color scheme of gray, black, and white. “It’s called SOS Las Vegas,” she said, then paused. “Get it?”

  “We get it,” Martine said in a gentle tone.

  “Anyway, it’s basically a forum where anonymous users vent about people who have done them wrong and fantasize about getting revenge. Most of it is stupid—a guy who cut them off in traffic, a neighbor playing loud music at night—but some of it is serious.” She opened a few new tabs as she pointed them out. “There’s a student at UNLV who’s being sexually harassed by a professor. A secretary who suspects her boss is embezzling from the employees’ pension fund. So the content varies a lot, but one thing all the posts have in common is that they end with some kind of vague appeal along the lines of, ‘Wish someone would take care of this.’”

  “You’re saying these users are more or less asking a known serial killer to target people they have a problem with?” said Captain Birndorf, incredulous. “Can’t we get it taken down?”

  Carmen shrugged. “Probably not. For one thing, the site is hosted in Mexico. For another, it’s layered with disclaimers about how it’s not affiliated with the Seven of Spades, the posts are for entertainment purposes only, etc., etc. And the forum doesn’t allow any identifying information about the people users are complaining about. I’m not sure a legal challenge would be successful.”

  “Did you find the post that tipped off the Seven of Spades about the Collective warehouse?” Levi asked.

  “No. I’m guessing it’s been deleted. But it doesn’t really matter, since they already told you they know who posted it.”

  True. Eddie Mercado had been in contact with the Seven of Spades in the past—he’d helped arrange the veterinary office burglaries earlier in the year to frame Keith Chapman, though the police had never been able to prove that beyond hearsay. Still, Levi would have liked to confirm himself that Mercado was the source this time rather than taking a serial killer’s word for it.

  “We can’t allow this website to continue operating unchecked,” Wen said.

  “I’ll see if I can find out who’s behind it,” said Carmen. “I can’t make any guarantees, though.”

  From the back of the room, Gibbs said, “Even if by some miracle we did manage to take down this site, another would just pop up to replace it.”

  Everyone turned to look at him.

  “Look, I know nobody likes talking about this,” he said, “but a lot of people sympathize with the Seven of Spades.”

  “Including you?” Levi said pointedly.

  “Yeah, including me,” Gibbs shot back. “I’ve never made a secret of that. The call I went out on yesterday, the guy who’d been beating on his wife and kids—I was able to arrest him for assaulting an officer, but he’ll get out on bail and his wife won’t press charges for what he did to them. He’ll go right back home and do it all over again because nobody’s gonna stop him.”

  Drawing herself up with righteous indignation, Martine said, “I know you’re not condoning serial murder right now.”

  “Of course not. I know the Seven of Spades is fucked up. This is as much a game to him as any kind of mission, or he wouldn’t have so much fun showing off and staging the bodies and cutting out dead guys’ tongues. All I’m saying is it’s a waste of time and resources trying to turn the tide of public opinion. As long as the Seven of Spades chooses these kinds of victims, there will always be people on his side.”

  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. Gibbs did have a point, even if he’d made it in the most obnoxious way possible.

  Wen moved to join Rohan at the podium. “Let’s focus, people. Rivera, find out everything you can about this website; we’ll decide what, if anything, we should do with the information later. Valcourt, Abrams, I want you on Eddie Mercado. See what he knows about the Seven of Spades. Burton, stay on top of the lab and let me know the second they find anything . . .”

  The briefing adjourned a few minutes later. As Levi got to his feet with everyone else, Rohan said, “Detective Abrams, could I please have a moment?”

  Levi cast Martine an aggrieved glance. She squeezed his shoulder and headed out.

  The second the door closed behind the last person, Levi crossed his arms and said, “Is this going to be about how you think I’m the Seven of Spades?”

  Rohan blinked. “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of blunt?”

  “No, this is the first time I’ve heard that,” Levi said dryly.

  “I don’t think you’re the Seven of Spades.”

  “Bullshit—”

  “I did,” Rohan said, raising a hand. “When I was first assigned the case, you were at the top of my list of suspects.”

  Levi’s fingers dug into his biceps.

  “Look at it from my perspective. An intelligent, organized serial killer clearly connected to and familiar with law enforcement, primarily murdering criminals, fixated on one detective in particular for no apparent reason? And you’ve always been as obsessed with the Seven of Spades as they are with you. To me, it looked like you were playing the game from both sides.” Rohan shrugged. “When I investigated your background and learned about the assault you’d experienced in New Jersey, it only made me more certain.”

  You had no right, Levi wanted to say, but he bit back the words. Rohan had every right to look into Levi’s past if he was a suspect in a murder investigation.

  “What changed your mind?” he asked instead.

  “You’re too angry to be the Seven of Spades.”

  Levi stiffened.

  “You do a good job of pretending you’re not—at least until recently. I’ve spoken to many of your colleagues, and they all say the same things: You’ve always been an excellent cop, a good man, someone people admire and trust. Yet you’ve also always been cool, distant, even aloof.”

  He walked closer to Levi as he spoke, but Levi stood his ground.

  “Except every now and then you lose your temper in spectacular fashion and that icy image you project cracks right down the middle.” Rohan’s eyes were intent on Levi’s face. “There’s nothing truly cold about you. It’s just an act—one you’ve had more and more difficulty maintaining lately. Why is that?”

  “I’ll assume that’s a rhetorical question,” Levi said, his voice tight. “Yes, it’s been harder for me to control my temper since the Seven of Spades became active. I’ve spent six months hunting a serial killer who’s made me their personal liaison to the entire city. It’s stressful.”

  “Did the trouble begin with the Seven of Spades, though? Or was it maybe a few weeks earlier?”r />
  Now Levi took a step backward. “Are you referring to my OIS?”

  “Isn’t that when your behavior started changing?” Rohan tilted his head. “How did you feel when you shot Dale Slater? Not afterward, but in the actual moment?”

  Levi’s breath stalled in his chest. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Maybe not.” Rohan suddenly changed directions, returning to the front of the room to disconnect his laptop from the projector and gather his things. “I don’t think you’re the Seven of Spades, Detective Abrams. But I do believe the killer sees you as a kindred spirit. You were assaulted a hundred feet away from a place you were used to feeling safe and accepted, and the police did little to nothing to find the men responsible. That event changed every single thing about the way you live your life. The Seven of Spades certainly knows that and empathizes with it. It’s my suspicion that they’re hoping to one day cultivate you as an ally.”

  Rohan slung his computer bag over his shoulder and headed for the door. He paused beside Levi.

  “The thing is, you’d never be the kind of killer the Seven of Spades is,” he said quietly. “I’ve only known you a few days, but I can see the rage boiling inside you. If you were to lose control of that, if you became a murderer, you’d never be content to simply slit a man’s throat and be done with it. You would tear your victims apart and leave them in pieces. That’s how I know you’re not the Seven of Spades.”

  He walked out of the room. Levi stood alone, stunned and speechless, gazing blankly into space.

  Unsurprisingly, Eddie Mercado denied having ever visited the SOS Las Vegas site or tipping the Seven of Spades off to any criminal enterprise. That was all he would say without a lawyer present. Since Levi and Martine didn’t have grounds to bring him in for questioning, much less place him under arrest, they cut their losses there.

  “Do you believe him?” Martine asked as they got into her car. They’d dropped by Mercado’s day job, a respectable auto repair shop with no known ties to criminal activity.

  “Actually, I do. You’ll never convince me that a guy like Mercado blew the whistle on a human-trafficking operation out of the goodness of his heart, and there’s no other reason for him to risk pissing off the Collective. When it gets out that the Seven of Spades named him as the snitch, he’s going to be in deep shit.”

  She turned the key in the ignition. “Why would the Seven of Spades lie to you? They never have before.”

  “I don’t think they did,” Levi said. “I think they really did trace the message back to Mercado’s IP address like they told me—but Mercado isn’t the one who sent it.”

  “Another phase in the gang war our mystery saboteur is trying to spark?”

  “Yeah.”

  She rested her hand on the gearshift but didn’t put the car in reverse. “You realize that we don’t have an actual case here, right? And we can’t officially open one because this isn’t even our territory. It’s Organized Crime’s.”

  “They’re dropping the ball. Something is very wrong inside one of these organizations if someone is trying to bring them down from within. We need to find out who that is and why before the streets of Las Vegas erupt into a gang-war bloodbath.”

  They looked at each other for a few seconds. Levi knew from the mischievous light in Martine’s eyes that they were on the same wavelength. She wanted to pursue this investigation just as much as he did, protocol be damned.

  A smile broke across her face. “If OC finds out, they’re gonna be pissed,” she said gleefully.

  “You’re good,” said the guy across the table as Dominic raked in the pot.

  He was an outgoing white man by the name of Milo Radich, but unlike most of the people here, he was no innocent customer. He was good friends with Volkov and directly involved in the Slavic Collective. Dominic had played with him the night before and found him surprisingly agreeable company for a gangster, if not a particularly skilled poker player.

  “Thanks.” Dominic sorted his chips while a few people left the table and a couple of new ones joined. His hot winning streak tonight had put him in an excellent mood, and he tipped a server generously as she brought him a fresh vodka soda.

  “You’re a friend of Illya’s girl, right?”

  Illya was John Williams’s real name, or at least the name he used with his family and the Collective. “We go to the same church,” Dominic said casually. He needed to associate himself with Jessica to maintain his in with the gambling ring, but he didn’t want to create too strong a connection between them for her safety.

  “How does your church feel about gambling?” asked a man to Dominic’s left.

  “That’s between me and Jesus,” Dominic said with a wink. Laughter rippled around the table.

  The dealer laid out the rules for the game—pot-limit Omaha poker again, Dominic’s favorite. She had the players to her left put in the blinds, and began dealing the cards.

  “I’m surprised I hadn’t heard about this earlier, actually,” Dominic said while she worked. “I’m pretty hooked into the local gambling scene, and not having to report my wins to the IRS is always a plus.”

  That earned him a few more chuckles. Everything that happened in these underground casinos was illegal, but because most people didn’t consider unregulated gambling a serious crime, nobody was bothered by it. He doubted the majority of the patrons ever thought of themselves as criminals.

  Of course, as far as they were aware, their fun VIP casino experience wasn’t harming anyone. They didn’t know the profits funded far less savory organized-crime activities.

  “These games only started about six months ago,” said Eugenia, an older, well-dressed woman sitting on Dominic’s right. Between her earrings, necklace, and tennis bracelet, she was wearing enough diamonds to buy the house they were playing in.

  “Sergei had been wanting to set up a private casino for a while.” Milo picked up his four cards and looked them over. “They’re usually on the sketchy side, you know? A bunch of people crammed into a dingy backroom somewhere hunched over a handful of crappy games. He wanted to create an experience that was just as classy as anything you’d find on the Strip, without the government stealing your money.”

  Dominic glanced around. The casino was located in a private home tonight, a grand Mediterranean villa in a gated community in Summerlin. Their table sat in a great room with a two-story cathedral ceiling boasting an enormous chandelier, right by a wall of windows that looked onto a backyard lit with twinkle lights and paper lanterns.

  “I’d say he succeeded.”

  Milo nodded. “He found partners with the same vision. More capital, more properties to work with, less risk all around.”

  Although Dominic hadn’t figured out Milo’s exact position in the Collective yet, he did have loose lips, which made him a prime source of information. Dominic had made a point of playing with him again tonight.

  After everyone at the table had put in their preflop bets, the dealer discarded the burn card at the top of the deck and placed the first three community cards faceup in the middle of the table. Dominic kept his face smooth and blank as he judged the flop against his hand.

  He made light conversation over the course of the game, drawing out Milo and the others so he could learn what they knew and add it to the growing pile of intel he had at home. By now, he’d deduced that the rotating underground casino was a cooperative venture between certain members of three organizations—the Slavic Collective, the Park family, and Los Avispones. Every employee, from the guards and dealers to the servers and bartenders, belonged to one of those three groups.

  Underneath the aura of grace and refinement, however, there was a layer of tension that grew thicker every day. He didn’t know what was causing it.

  Once the last community card had been dealt, he made his final bet and looked across the room. A blackjack table was set up by an enormous marble fireplace—unnecessary ornamentation in Las Vegas—where Volkov was playing with petite
, beautiful Rocco perched in his lap.

  At first, Dominic had wondered if he needed to discreetly offer help to Rocco as well. But he’d been watching the two of them for three nights now, and he had never seen Volkov treat Rocco with anything but gentleness and respect. Apparently being a crime boss didn’t preclude being a good partner.

  Volkov whispered into Rocco’s ear. Laughing, Rocco twisted around to kiss him on the cheek. Everything about Rocco’s body language communicated comfort and happiness.

  Dominic shook his head, bemused. Before he could return his attention to the game, it was caught by a self-possessed woman striding into the great room from the foyer.

  Emily Park.

  He straightened up. So far, he hadn’t found a way to work Emily Park into any of his conversations. This could be his chance.

  Park made a beeline for Volkov and Rocco. She had a young man in tow as well, but judging by the strong family resemblance, Dominic guessed brother instead of boyfriend—though with his spiky hair, loud sports coat, and flashy Converse, the guy gave off a much different vibe than his sister.

  “Hey, who’s that woman over there by Gay Sergei?” Dominic asked. “She looks so familiar, but I just can’t place her.”

  “You’ve probably seen her on television,” said Eugenia. “Her name’s Emily Park; she’s a rather well-known defense attorney. She and my husband work at the same firm.”

  “She plays here too?”

  Milo waved a hand. “She never plays. She’s one of Sergei’s partners. Her brother is the gambler in the family.”

  “Very entrepreneurial of her,” Dominic murmured.

  Volkov had left the blackjack table and moved a few feet away, engaging Park in a tense, whispered conversation. A very attractive female server walked past them, catching the younger Park’s eye. Without even looking, his sister reached out, snagged the back of his jacket, and reeled him in.