Cash Plays

by Cordelia Kingsbridge

  “How do you think the Seven of Spades found him, then?”

  “I have no idea. Honestly, I’ve wondered about it for months—and not just that. The Seven of Spades’s MO works because their victims trust them, but Goodwin was on the run. He shouldn’t have trusted anybody. So even if the killer was able to find him, how’d they manage to drug him?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” said Rohan, “and one we may never know the answer to until the killer is found. Would you mind describing your initial impressions of the crime scene?”

  They talked for a couple of hours, discussing the case in exhaustive detail as they lingered over lunch and then dessert. Dominic liked Rohan—he was intelligent and quietly self-assured and a good listener, and his follow-up questions were insightful. It didn’t hurt that he was so easy on the eyes.

  Eventually Dominic glanced at a message that popped up on his phone—his mother bemoaning the fact that Gina still hadn’t gone into labor—and was startled by the time. “Wow, I had no idea we’d been here this long. I should probably get going soon.”

  “You don’t have to,” Rohan said, and then bit his lip. “I mean, if you don’t have other plans, we could go somewhere else and talk more. It’s probably too early for a drink, but . . . well, this is Las Vegas.”

  He gazed up at Dominic through his voluminous lashes, his lush mouth curved in a bashful smile.

  Oh. Oh.

  “Um . . .” Dominic set his fork down on his empty pie plate. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m misinterpreting things, but you know Levi and I are in a relationship. A monogamous one.”

  “Why?”

  Dominic blinked. “Why are we monogamous?”

  Letting out a pleasant musical laugh, Rohan said, “No. Why him? What’s the appeal of Detective Abrams to a man like yourself? He doesn’t seem like he’d be your type.”

  “You don’t know me well enough to have an opinion about that,” Dominic said. “And you don’t know Levi either.”

  “I know as much as I need to.” Rohan took a moment to sip his coffee. “When I started reviewing this case, I initially suspected Detective Abrams was the Seven of Spades.”

  “You were wrong.”

  “About him being this particular serial killer, yes. Not about his general psychological profile.”

  Dominic should get up and leave. It felt disloyal to Levi to even humor this conversation, but he was too curious. “Which is what?”

  “He’s hypervigilant. Mistrustful. He cares little for the opinions of others and has difficulty processing uncomfortable emotions, resulting in few close relationships and an overemphasis on career to the exclusion of other interests.” Resting his forearms on the table, Rohan leaned forward. “He’s angry. Violent. And, I suspect, a little sadistic.”

  “Whoa, hey—”

  “Have you seen this video?” Rohan asked. He tapped his phone a few times and slid it across the table.

  Dominic knew what it was before he looked; Natasha had texted him the link this morning. He didn’t pick up Rohan’s phone, but he watched the video anyway for the dozenth time.

  He had seen Levi in a life-or-death fight once before, and he was no less awed watching him throw down with Nick Bryce. There was nothing graceful or balletic about Levi’s fighting style—it was fast, vicious, and brutally efficient. He didn’t hesitate to play dirty, and did whatever was necessary to survive.

  Near the end of the video, Rohan reached out and tapped the Pause button. “Look at his face.”

  Dominic didn’t ask what he meant. He studied the still image—Bryce on his knees, clawing at the towel Levi was using to strangle him.

  Levi was smiling.

  “That is not an emotionally healthy man,” Rohan said.

  Dominic pushed the phone away without saying anything.

  “You, though—you could have anyone you wanted.” Rohan’s tone was silky, his gaze inviting. It was clear he really meant you could have me.

  “I love Levi. If you truly knew him, you would understand why.”

  Rohan sat back with a frustrated shake of his head. “Levi Abrams is damaged goods.”

  “So am I.” Dominic stood and riffled through his wallet, withdrawing a few bills.

  “No, please, it’s on me,” Rohan said, holding out a hand. “Dominic, I—”

  “Great, thanks,” Dominic said, not at all graciously. He turned and began to walk away.

  “Does Detective Abrams know you’re gambling again?”

  Dominic froze. After a few seconds, he turned back very slowly.

  He didn’t know what expression he had on his face, but whatever it was made Rohan tense up. He strode over and did something he usually made a point to avoid: he deliberately used his size to intimidate, looming over Rohan with one hand on the table and the other on the back of the booth. Rohan shrank against the vinyl, his breathing shallow.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Dominic said softly, “and neither do you. Do you understand me?”

  Rohan nodded. Dominic pushed himself upright.

  “Thanks for lunch,” he said, and walked out.

  Tensions between Las Vegas’s criminal elements escalated with every passing day. A Los Avispones flophouse went up in flames after Molotov cocktails were tossed through the windows; a string of Park-owned small businesses were knocked over by thugs allegedly sporting hornet tattoos. A Collective-affiliated nightclub was revealed as a money-laundering front when its books were leaked from Norman Mansfield’s accounting firm.

  By Wednesday, there was no telling which crimes were the saboteur and which were the fallout of their manipulations. Things had reached a tipping point, and whether the organizations’ leaders understood what was happening didn’t matter, because they’d lost control of their soldiers. Fights were breaking out across the city on street corners, in parking lots, in bars and nightclubs. The CCDC swelled with gangbangers dragged in on charges of assault and battery, and every substation had their hands full controlling the surge of violence.

  Organized Crime finally caught on—better late than never—with Gang Crimes right behind them. Unsurprisingly, that soon devolved into a petty turf war that prevented real progress from being made. Levi and Martine kept their heads down and continued their own off-the-books investigation, though no matter what angle they took, they came up empty time and again.

  As if the situation wasn’t tenuous enough, other local gangs scented blood in the water and began testing their luck, starting shit with the Collective, the Parks, and Los Avispones they never would have dared before. Utopia in particular was having a suspicious degree of success, making a bigger name for itself as it snatched up territory left and right, vandalized minority neighborhoods, and spread its hateful rhetoric throughout the Valley.

  It wouldn’t be long before the media ran full-tilt with the narrative of an emerging gang war and incited public hysteria. The crime beat reporters were already sniffing around like bloodthirsty jackals.

  “I know we’ve determined that the sabotage is an inside job, but I don’t think we can totally rule out the involvement of an external influence,” Martine said. She and Levi had sequestered themselves in the small, rarely used conference room where they’d been storing their files on the investigation. “These other groups have been so quick to move in on these disputed territories. What if that was the goal all along?”

  “Are you thinking a mole of some kind?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe the saboteur is being bribed or blackmailed.”

  Levi drummed his fingers against the table. “My only reservation is that we’re dealing with the three most powerful criminal organizations in Las Vegas. None of these other groups comes close to being a genuine rival. Like, what leverage could the Dirt Road Diggers have over someone with the full weight of the Park family behind them, just as an example? What could they possibly offer or threaten that would be worth all this?”

  Before she could respond, the conference room
door flew open with a bang. He leapt to his feet at once, facing the door in a fighting stance with his hands raised. She stood as well, one hand hovering over her gun.

  They both stood down when they saw Sergeant Wen standing in the doorway—though they didn’t relax, because he was accompanied by Carl Keller.

  A solidly built white man in his early fifties with slicked-back hair and a permanent sneer, Keller was the captain of the Organized Crime Bureau. He looked ready to spit nails, and his anger only grew as he took in the bulletin board Levi and Martine had papered with their research.

  “I told you these two were up to something,” he said to Wen. “My guys have been coming to me for days with reports that their contacts have already been questioned by cops meeting their descriptions.”

  “Valcourt, Abrams,” Wen said calmly. “Would you like to explain yourselves?”

  “Explain why we’ve been doing our job as police officers, or explain why OC dropped the ball?” Levi asked.

  Keller’s chest puffed up with indignation while Wen pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I hope I don’t have to remind you two that you are Homicide detectives,” he said.

  “With all due respect, sir,” Martine cut in, “there have been plenty of homicides associated with these recent conflicts. The arson incident alone resulted in eight deaths.”

  “You are completely out of your depth here,” Keller said, forestalling Wen’s reply. “The moment you recognized any connection to organized crime, you should have shared your investigations with us. All you do in Homicide is react to crimes that have already happened. We actually prevent them.”

  Levi rolled his eyes. “You’ve been doing an amazing job so far.”

  “We’ve been monitoring the situation—”

  “Then why did it take you so long to realize what Martine and I were doing, let alone that there’s a saboteur trying to destabilize the city’s criminal power structure?”

  Keller gave him an incredulous look. “‘Saboteur’? Christ, Abrams, does everything have to be a conspiracy with you? This is just posturing and in-fighting that’s gotten out of control.”

  “You can’t seriously be that obtuse,” said Levi.

  “You are speaking to a superior officer,” Wen said, his voice gone sharp.

  Not just Levi’s superior, either. Though they were in different divisions—Homicide belonged to Investigative Services, while OC fell under the umbrella of Homeland Security—and therefore answered to different deputy chiefs, Keller outranked Wen as well.

  Levi was too incensed to back down. “This has always been an issue with law enforcement. People like you are more interested in protecting their turf and claiming credit than solving real problems. First you have your dick-measuring contest with Gang Crimes, now Homicide. When are you planning on getting around to your actual job?”

  Martine stepped in front of him and put a hand on his chest, which quelled him immediately despite their half-foot height difference. “Stop talking,” she said.

  Glowering at Levi, Keller said, “I know you think you’re hot shit because you’ve got some fancy martial arts under your belt and there’s a serial killer crawling up your ass, but I’m not impressed. If you stick your nose outside your bureau mandate again, I promise you there will be consequences.”

  The soft sound of a throat clearing interrupted the tense moment. Carmen Rivera stood in the hallway behind Keller and Wen, her arms full of bulging folders and her black hair toppling off the side of her head in her signature messy bun.

  Her eyes darted between the four of them. “Um, I can come back if this is a bad time—”

  “It’s fine, Ms. Rivera,” said Wen. “What’s up?”

  “I managed to break through the encryption on Nick Bryce’s laptop. I’ve been wading through his financial records, and it took time and some tricky maneuvering, but I was able to trace two payments in particular—one for a hundred fifty thousand dollars deposited in his account two days before Drew Barton’s death, and the other for the same amount deposited one day afterward.”

  “Did you find out where they came from?” Levi asked, his heart beating faster.

  She hesitated, pressing her chapped lips together.

  “Carmen?” Martine prompted.

  “The payments bounced back and forth before landing in Bryce’s account, but they originated from the Barclay Foundation,” she said, shooting Levi an apologetic look. “And they were both authorized by Stanton Barclay himself.”

  “Hold the elevator!”

  Dominic’s hand shot out automatically to stop the closing doors, though his brain took a few seconds longer to catch up. He’d been immersed in his phone, researching the current football season for the bets he planned to lay on Thursday night’s games. It had been a couple of years since he’d allowed himself to follow any organized sports, and he was totally out of the loop.

  “Thanks,” McBride said as she hustled inside the elevator. She was holding an enormous travel mug and had a leather computer bag slung over one stocky shoulder. “Oh, Russo, good. I’ve been meaning to speak to you.”

  Sparing one more lingering glance for his phone, Dominic punched the button for the eleventh floor. “About what?”

  “I haven’t gotten a report on the Miller case since last week.”

  “Yeah, it’s a delicate situation. I’ve made contact, but there’s abuse involved and Jessica is reluctant to leave. I’m doing what I can to help. I don’t want to get her parents’ hopes up until things are more concrete, though.”

  Lies were always most convincing when they were mixed with as much truth as possible. Dominic had been keeping an eye on Jessica, and she was reluctant to leave Williams. She just wasn’t at the casino every night. Or most nights. But it didn’t matter, because he was working a long-term plan that would get her free and clear of that asshole forever.

  “That’s fine.” McBride peremptorily shoved her mug into Dominic’s hand so she could get out her e-cigarette and pop a new cartridge in it. “If you think it’s best to keep the parents at bay for now, that’s your judgment call. But I need to know what’s going on at all times. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll have something for you by lunch.” Keeping the gambling out of it would be tricky—McBride knew about the problems he’d had in the past—but he could manage.

  She puffed happily on her e-cigarette, then took her mug back with her free hand. “Good. How are your other cases?”

  The elevator doors slid open. “Everything’s going fine,” Dominic said as they stepped out onto the busy floor, where the stern McBride Investigations logo hung above the receptionist’s enormous desk.

  He’d been working the Miller case primarily at night, so his days were spent on other matters—a lot of background checks and asset research that could be done from the computer, but he’d also run surveillance for potential insurance fraud and performed countersurveillance sweeps for a paranoid CEO. It was an eclectic mix of responsibilities that kept him from getting bored.

  “Keep up the strong work. Make sure you get me that progress report.” She clapped his shoulder and headed off toward her office.

  Dominic went in the other direction, pulling his phone out again as he walked. Looked like the Atlanta Falcons were unexpectedly lighting up their league . . .

  “You are not arresting Stanton Barclay,” said Leila Rashid.

  Martine leaned forward over the conference table. “We have probable cause—”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t arrest him. I said you will not.”

  Levi had asked Leila to come down to the substation to meet with them, Carmen, Wen, and—to Levi’s silent irritation—Rohan Chaudhary. He didn’t trust anyone else in the DA’s office to handle this turn of events with the necessary discretion.

  “Barclay is one of the most influential and socially prominent members of Las Vegas society,” Leila went on. “He’s a billionaire whose charitable foundation provides millions of dollars i
n support to philanthropic organizations every year. He’s friends with the mayor, the city council, the DA, the sheriff—who, I’ll remind you, is your boss. He’s universally beloved and he can afford the best legal representation in the world. If you arrest him on the strength of this evidence alone, not only will he slip right out of it, you’ll spark a public outcry.”

  “I agree with Leila,” Levi said.

  Leveling him with an unimpressed gaze, she said, “You agree with me because Barclay is your ex and you feel guilty about the way you left him.”

  He scowled. She wasn’t wrong, but that wasn’t the point. “I agree because you make a strong argument, and because I think we need to investigate this further before we take any action. Someone is setting Stanton up. There’s no way he’s the Seven of Spades.”

  “Why not?” Rohan asked.

  Levi’s hands clenched into fists beneath the table as he struggled to contain his seething dislike. He could admit he’d overreacted on Sunday when Dominic had told him about lunch with Rohan—he’d been hungover and miserable, and he’d known Rohan was interested in Dominic even if Dominic seemed uncharacteristically oblivious. But things had been weird and tense between them ever since.

  Levi trusted that Dominic wouldn’t cheat on him. He didn’t trust that Rohan hadn’t tried something, and he suspected that Dominic was wary of telling him for fear of how he might react.

  “For one thing, Stanton doesn’t fit your profile,” he said evenly, shoving his relationship issues aside. “Nothing traumatizing has ever happened to him.”

  Except maybe Levi walking out on him and picking up with a new guy almost immediately, but the Seven of Spades had already been in play by then.

  “You can’t know that for sure.”

  “We were together for three years. I’d know.”