He tapped the image on the screen. The tall, trim woman standing alone in the elevator was wearing gloves, sunglasses, and a head scarf like she was about to drive a convertible in the 1950s.
The height and build were right, and the way she held herself struck the same chord of familiarity Levi had felt when he greeted Northridge in person. He couldn’t be one hundred percent certain it was the same woman though, still less convince a jury.
“Hmm.” Martine peered closer. “Could be her. She gets off at the right floor.”
Frowning at the timestamp, Levi said, “At 2:47 a.m. That’s near the later edge of the coroner’s window for time of death.”
“But still inside it.”
He fast-forwarded, looking for the point at which the woman got back on the elevator, but he reached the end of the footage without seeing her again. The cameras from the other elevators told the same story—if the woman had left the twenty-second floor before Hensley had been found dead, she’d done it by another route.
“Think she used the stairs when she left?” he asked.
“It’s possible. She’s in good shape—going down twenty-two flights probably wouldn’t faze her. Or maybe she just went to a different room.”
“I know in my gut that this is Clarissa Northridge. She saw her husband the night he died, and she’s been covering it up.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But calling our evidence circumstantial would be too generous. We can’t build a case on what we have.”
Martine drummed her fingers against the desk. “You got a warrant for her cell records last night, right?”
“Yeah. They haven’t come through yet, though, and we can’t count on them containing anything helpful. And Carmen still hasn’t been able to crack the security on Walsh’s computers.”
They sat in thoughtful silence for a few minutes. Levi clicked randomly though the security cameras, his mind running in circles. If Northridge had seen Hensley the night of his death and gone to such lengths to cover her tracks, she’d almost certainly been the one who killed him. And she’d get away with it if they couldn’t prove that.
The woman in the elevator didn’t have any luggage, only a purse. Had she just gone right up to Hensley’s door and knocked? Or . . .
Levi stiffened. “The lobby,” he said. “The Mirage sent us those security feeds with everything else—but we ended up not needing them once we’d identified Diana Kostas, so nobody ever looked at them. This woman must have walked through the lobby at some point. Maybe she even got a key to Hensley’s room.”
He hunted through the database where they logged electronic evidence until he found what he was looking for. The security cameras in the Mirage lobby covered a few different angles; he picked the one with the best view of the reception desk and skipped forward to around 2:30. Martine leaned in with him to watch.
At 2:36 a.m., the woman in the scarf and gloves approached the desk—and removed her sunglasses, leaving no doubt that she was indeed Clarissa Northridge. Levi and Martine both exhaled heavily.
“That’s Alan Walsh she’s talking to,” said Martine.
On the screen, Northridge and Walsh talked for a minute, and then she slid a small but thick envelope across the desk. He handed her a key card in return, and she put her sunglasses back on before walking away. Walsh stashed the envelope in his inner jacket pocket.
“Oh my God, she bribed him for a room key.”
“I bet you the Mirage’s system records which key cards are programmed when,” Levi said, reaching for his phone.
One quick call later, and he had confirmation that the card coded under Walsh’s account at 2:39 a.m. on Sunday morning had been for room 2218. Levi hung up and turned to Martine in triumph.
“This is something we can build a case on,” he said.
“That shady son of a bitch,” she said, shaking her head. “I questioned him myself about whether he’d seen anything suspicious that night, and he straight-up lied to my face.”
“I guess he figured he’d rather use that information to blackmail Northridge than share it with us. His supervisor was mortified—after he died, they reviewed all of his recent work activity like we asked, but they didn’t double-check every key card he’d programmed. You should have heard how many times she apologized.”
Martine stood and wheeled her chair back to her desk. “We have enough for an arrest warrant. Do you know where Northridge might be now?”
He checked his watch. “I do, actually. Kapoor and Warner’s presentation started ten minutes ago, and she promised them she’d be there.”
“Guess we’re crashing the conference again.”
They drove to the Mirage, checked the room assignment, and entered quietly at the back. The space was packed; the hotel had crammed as many folding chairs as possible into the room, and there were still people standing all around the edges. Levi wondered if the high turnout could be attributed more to the research itself or the notoriety of Hensley’s murder.
A sheet of posterboard propped on an easel near the door bore the title of the paper being presented: Peripheral and central mechanisms of visceral pain. S. Hensley, MD; A. Kapoor, MD; C. Warner, MD.
Levi had read some of their research for background when the case first started. Most of the nitty-gritty science had gone over his head, but he’d gotten the gist of it. Pretty interesting stuff, though he couldn’t vouch for Kapoor’s statement that it was “groundbreaking.”
He and Martine stayed where they were, scanning the room. Warner had the mic at the dais up front, rambling on about inflamed internal organs. He seemed sober today—in fact, he was in the best mood Levi had seen him in so far. His face was animated, his hand gestures effusive, his voice thrumming with passion for his topic. Kapoor stood next to him with a faint yet proud smile on her face.
Martine nudged Levi’s shoulder and inclined her head. He looked in the direction she’d indicated and saw Clarissa Northridge sitting in the third row, hands clasped on her crossed legs, nodding along as she listened.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, paying no mind to the annoyed glances he received from a few people nearby.
“What is it?” Martine asked.
“A text from Carmen,” he murmured. “Northridge’s phone records came in. She received two calls from a number with a Las Vegas area code on Sunday and Monday. The number is associated with a burner phone, no legitimate billing information.”
“Walsh.”
“We can’t prove that unless we find the actual phone, but yeah, I’d put good money on it.”
They both looked back at Northridge. “We should wait until the presentation is over,” Martine said. “City officials won’t like the LVMPD arresting a respected physician in a room full of her peers during a huge money-making conference.”
Levi rolled his eyes, but he knew she was right. They hovered at the back while Warner and Kapoor took turns presenting their research. Once the doctors had finished, they wrapped things up with a touching tribute to Hensley’s memory that completely glossed over what a terrible human being he’d been, and received a thunderous standing ovation.
It took a while for the room to empty out afterward; half the people present seemed to want to speak to Kapoor and Warner in person. Levi and Martine waited until there were only a few people left milling around and Northridge, Kapoor, and Warner were standing together talking.
Northridge was the first to notice their approach; she went pale, her throat bobbing harshly, but she stood her ground. Kapoor and Warner fell silent at her reaction and turned around with puzzled expressions.
“Dr. Northridge,” Levi said, “we have a warrant for your arrest. Out of respect, I’m willing to forgo the cuffs until we reach the car if you’re willing to cooperate.”
“Arrest?” Kapoor exclaimed, stepping between them. “What for?”
“Stephen’s murder, I expect,” said Northridge. When Levi nodded, she took a shaky breath and put a hand on Kapoor’s shoulder. “It�
��s all right, Anika. Just a misunderstanding. I’ll get it straightened out.”
Ignoring her, Kapoor squared off against Levi and Martine. “You can’t be serious. Clarissa was in Baltimore when Stephen died.”
Warner ducked his head, his shoulders hunching as he shuffled his feet like a naughty schoolboy. Northridge closed her eyes briefly. Kapoor glanced between them, opened her mouth, and closed it without saying anything.
“If you’d come with us, please?” Martine said, gesturing for Northridge to precede her. Northridge nodded and joined them in their walk toward the door without protest.
“We’ll follow you to the station, Clarissa.” Kapoor turned to Warner for support, then jostled his shoulder when he didn’t respond.
“What?” he said, his head shooting up. “Oh, yeah, of course.”
Levi and Martine escorted Northridge to the waiting car without incident. As they helped her inside, she said, “I won’t speak without a lawyer present,” in a quiet, firm voice, and then didn’t utter another word.
Dominic finished sweeping his apartment without finding any more surveillance devices. Besides the power strip, there were no other bugs in evidence—nor, to his immense relief, did he find hidden cameras of any kind. He threw the equipment back in the duffel bag, grabbed a notebook and pen, and took Rebel with him next door to 2G.
“Hey, Dom,” Carlos said when he answered Dominic’s knock. His eyes were sleepy and his hair mussed like he’d just woken up; he’d worked a closing shift at Stingray last night. “What’s up?”
“I’m all out of beer. You got any?” Dominic held up the note he’d written as he spoke.
Don’t react to this out loud. I need to sweep your apartment for bugs.
No longer looking quite so sleepy, Carlos blinked at the note and stared at Dominic for a few seconds before saying, “Uh . . . sure. Come on in.”
Dominic entered the apartment, Rebel trotting at his heels, and set the duffel bag on the coffee table in the living room. When Carlos just stood in place as if frozen, he raised his eyebrows and jerked his head toward the kitchen.
Carlos startled, then clapped his hands. “Hey, Rebbie, you want a treat?”
Rebel spun around in an excited circle and raced after Carlos into the kitchen. Dominic unzipped the duffel bag, preparing to start the entire TSCM process from the beginning. This time, he checked the power strips first.
He was still crouched on the floor behind the TV when Rebel returned from the kitchen, settling down on the carpet with one of the crunchy organic dog treats Jasmine stocked. Carlos followed with two open bottles of Stella and handed one to Dominic.
“Thanks,” Dominic said, clinking his bottle against Carlos’s. He took a sip, got to his feet, and exchanged the beer for the spectrum analyzer.
Carlos hovered in the middle of the living room, his own beer hanging from one hand, and gaped at Dominic while he worked. After a couple minutes of that, Dominic sighed and set the spectrum analyzer down to grab his notebook.
ACT NORMAL!!! he scribbled.
Carlos glared at him.
“So are you all set for the proposal tomorrow?” Dominic asked. That was the only topic he could be sure would snap Carlos out of this awkward stupor.
It worked, though not the way he’d expected. Carlos cringed, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. He wandered over to the couch and flopped down.
Dominic retrieved a screwdriver from his bag and began unscrewing the plate from the light switch near the front door. “You don’t sound so sure. Are you having second thoughts?”
“No! It’s just . . .” Carlos waved his beer around. “I’m freaking out a little.”
“I thought you guys had talked about getting married before.”
“Of course we have. I wouldn’t even think about proposing if we hadn’t. It’s just a little earlier than we’d been planning, that’s all.”
Dominic shone a flashlight inside the light switch, searching for any suspicious wiring. “And you’re positive Jasmine’s the kind of girl who will enjoy being proposed to in front of her entire family?”
“Yep,” Carlos said with a grin. “You know how much she loves those YouTube proposal videos where the family and friends are in on it.”
“Then why are you so nervous?”
Carlos took a long, contemplative swallow of his beer. “I don’t know if I can explain it. She’ll love the ring, and I know she’ll say yes. But it’s still one of the most nerve-wracking things I’ve ever done.”
He trailed off into silence, though he didn’t seem finished. Dominic kept listening while he closed the light switch back up.
“I want everything to be perfect,” Carlos said. “I want Jasmine to have that great romantic proposal story she can tell all her friends, you know? This is . . . it’s one of the most important things a man does in his entire life. I have to get it right.”
Ah.
Carlos lifted a hand before Dominic could speak. “I know how heteronormative that sounds, okay? I hear it. But it doesn’t change anything.”
“You don’t have to justify the way you feel,” said Dominic. He returned to the spectrum analyzer. “Especially not to me. You’re still going with the idea we came up with?”
“Yeah. Mind if I bounce what I’m planning to say off you?”
Over the next hour, Carlos rehearsed his proposal speech and jotted down notes for himself while Dominic continued sweeping the apartment, offering his thoughts along the way. They’d moved into the kitchen when Dominic started getting iffy readings on the spectrum analyzer; a few minutes of concentrated searching revealed the source of the problem. He dragged over one of the dining chairs and stood on it to access the smoke detector.
The bug was wired into the device, once again supplying it with a constant power source. It was professional equipment—not military-grade, but on par with domestic law enforcement.
With a little time and focused concentration, Dominic managed to disengage the bug without compromising the smoke detector. Carlos had been watching silently, but when Dominic hopped off the chair with the bug in the palm of his hand, he said, “What—”
Dominic slashed his free hand by his throat and then held up one finger. He hurried back to his own apartment, where he tossed the bug into the shoebox.
Carlos was waiting for him in the exterior hallway, Rebel by his side. “What the fuck is going on, Dom? I didn’t ask any questions earlier, but you can’t tell me you’re sweeping my apartment for bugs and pull weird shit out of my smoke detector without some kind of explanation.”
Fair enough. “Do you remember the Seven of Spades?” Dominic asked.
“The serial killer? How could I forget?”
“They’re not dead.”
“What do you mean, they’re not dead?” Carlos said, giving him a bewildered look. “Didn’t Keith Chapman kill himself right in front of you?”
“He wasn’t the killer,” said Dominic. “Just a fall guy. Most people in the LVMPD don’t believe the real Seven of Spades is still out there, but Levi and I know the truth.”
Carlos’s jaw was hanging open, but he didn’t say anything. Rebel moved to sit on Dominic’s foot, leaning her considerable weight against his leg.
He reached down and smoothed a hand over her head. “The Seven of Spades had a weird fixation with the two of us during their spree in April, and now it seems like they never let go of it. I can’t go into details, but last night they set things up to give me what I needed for my investigation with McBride while also helping Levi with one of his cases. Then this morning I found a GPS tracker in my car and a bug in my apartment, plus the one I found in yours. I have no way of knowing how long any of that’s been in place. Could be a week, could be three months.”
“Holy shit,” Carlos breathed. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really believe you’re being monitored by a serial killer who everyone thinks is dead.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.”
“No,” Dominic said firmly. “The Seven of Spades was—is—a self-righteous vigilante. They only kill people who have committed a serious breach of trust that they feel is unforgivable. They’re probably just keeping tabs on you and Jasmine because they know how much time I spend at your place.”
“And what if they decide to make an exception for the guy trying to bust them?” Carlos asked. “Because that’s what you and Levi are doing, isn’t it—trying to track down the real killer?”
Dominic shrugged.
“Jesus Christ, Dominic. Have you considered that’s the reason for the Seven of Spades’s ‘fixation’? Maybe they’re watching you and Levi to make sure they can stop you before you get too close to the truth.”
“Of course I’ve thought about it. But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to stop, and neither will Levi.” He gripped Carlos’s shoulders with both hands. “If you and Jasmine were in genuine danger, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you. I’d never do anything to put you guys at risk.”
Carlos studied Dominic’s face for a long moment, then breathed out and nodded. Dominic released him.
“How’d this person break into our apartments without us ever realizing?” Carlos said.
“I have no idea,” said Dominic. For all he knew, the Seven of Spades could have keys. “I’ll talk to building management about installing more serious security measures. In the meantime, let’s go back inside. I still need to look for bugs in your bedroom.”
Carlos blanched.
Levi heard the commotion in the bullpen from the front doors of the substation. He shot a worried glance at Martine, who was escorting Northridge, and broke away from them to hurry toward the source of the noise.
Diana Kostas stood in the center of the bullpen in a towering rage as she confronted her erstwhile friend. Julie was half cowering behind the uniformed officer who must have come to transport her back to the CCDC.
“You treacherous fucking bitch!” Kostas shouted. “How could you do this to me?”
Trick Roller Page 17
