Levi didn’t have a panic attack. Nor did he get angry. He just . . . stopped.
He was distantly aware of a tinny shouting, then a shrill ringing that happened over and over again, but the sounds held no meaning. He was untethered from his body, floating above it, where nothing could hurt him.
Eventually, the ringing stopped. Levi imagined he could hear the drip-drip-drip of Quintana’s blood hitting the floor in its place, but of course that wasn’t real. All the blood had long since dried.
His phone rang again. This time, it startled Levi back into his body. He sucked in a breath, blinking rapidly, and reached for the phone without looking away from the corpse.
“Hello.”
“Do you like your present, Detective?”
Levi pulled his legs up to his chest and dropped his forehead onto his knees. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“I’m trying to help you. To free you.”
“Free me from what?” Levi muttered into his knees.
“From your past. From your fears. From the restraints you’ve put on your own potential.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“The men who almost killed you will never hurt you or anyone else again,” said the Seven of Spades. “Doesn’t that loosen the hold the memory of the attack has on you? Doesn’t it make you feel better?”
“No! Killing them doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t erase the past.” Levi lifted his head, his stomach churning as he took in the gruesome tableau once more. “They should have gone to jail. I didn’t want them to die.”
“Didn’t you? Look at Mr. Quintana, Detective. Really look at him. Do you remember him from that night?”
Levi could never forget. Quintana had been grinning, enjoying himself immensely, whooping with glee as he drove his fists and feet into Levi’s defenseless body. He’d casually suggested they knock all of Levi’s teeth out to make him a better cocksucker, then laughed.
“They broke more than your bones. They altered the entire course your life would have taken. Drove you away from your family, your friends. Made you angry. Mistrustful. The consequences of their actions extended far beyond a single night. Now they’re paying for it. Can you really tell me that doesn’t make you happy?”
“I—”
“I’ve been treating these men differently, you know. Before I kill them, I talk to them. I make sure they know they’re going to die, and more importantly, why. They suffer first. They know the end is coming, and they’re afraid. Just like you were.”
Levi swallowed, his gaze unblinking on Quintana’s face. He imagined Quintana crying, gibbering with terror, begging for his life the way Levi had. Sensing the inevitability of death and being powerless to stop it. His breath came fast and shallow.
“Do you like that?” the Seven of Spades asked softly.
“Yes,” Levi whispered.
“Good,” the killer said, their electronic voice still hushed. “That’s good, Detective. You’re so close now. Once all four men are dead, their hold on you will break, and you’ll be free to be who you really are.”
“Who I . . . What? What are you talking about?”
Snapping out of the bizarre reverie he’d fallen into, Levi sat upright. This wasn’t just a twisted gift. The Seven of Spades never did anything without an ulterior motive.
His eyes swept the apartment until they fell on the front door, and then it hit him. “No forced entry. The alarm was engaged.”
“There’s nothing you can do to keep me out. Though it’s admirable that you keep trying.”
“You killed Grant Sheppard in Philadelphia while I was nearby on purpose,” Levi said, the pieces falling into place. “I have no alibi for Foley’s murder. Reddick was found in my car, Quintana in my apartment . . . People are going to think I did this. They’ll think I’m the Seven of Spades. But that’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“You don’t need them. They’re only holding you back.”
“So you think if you turn people against me, isolate me, I’ll—what, become like you?”
“You’re already like me. You just won’t admit it.”
“I’m not.” As Levi stood, his old familiar anger washed over him—but this time, he welcomed it. He relished the way it heated his skin, stiffened his spine, swept the befuddled fog from his brain. “I’m nothing like you. I never will be.”
The Seven of Spades’s electronic laugh was chilling. “We’ll see. Happy Birthday, Detective.”
They hung up. Seconds later, footsteps pounded down the hallway outside Levi’s apartment and fists banged at the door.
“Police, open up!” shouted a female voice. The doorknob rattled, but Levi had thrown the locks before he’d turned around and seen Quintana’s body. “Detective Abrams, are you in there?”
Recognizing the voice, he hurried to unlock and open the door. Kelly Marin ran inside, skidded to a halt when she saw the crime scene, and clapped both hands to her mouth with a yelp. Another cop, a man Levi didn’t know, came in behind her, only to stumble backward into the door as his face went dead white.
“Kelly,” Levi said. “What are you doing here?”
She dropped her hands but remained mesmerized by the sight in the dining room, speaking without looking at him. “There was a 911 call, something about you being hurt in your apartment.”
That had to have been Dominic. He must be going out of his mind not knowing what had happened—
Kelly spun around to face her partner. “Radio Dispatch that there’s been another Seven of Spades murder.” When the man didn’t react, she gave him a shove. “Go.”
He hurried out into the hall. Kelly’s eyes fell on the door—the undamaged, clearly unforced door—and the wireless alarm system beside it, then traveled back to Quintana’s body.
“I know what it looks like,” said Levi.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
Of course. The explanation was that the Seven of Spades had copies of his keys and knew his alarm code. They’d said it themselves—there was nothing Levi could do to keep them out. He wasn’t safe in his own home.
“You’re injured,” Kelly said. “What happened?”
“Oh, this isn’t . . .” Levi lifted a hand to his bruised face, then glanced down at his scuffed, bloody suit. “This happened hours ago; it has nothing to do with the Seven of Spades. But I can’t stay here.”
“I can’t just let you leave,” Kelly said with an apologetic grimace.
“I know. Can you have your partner secure the scene while you take me to the substation? Please.”
She bit her lip, then nodded. After checking in with her partner, she brought Levi downstairs and out the front door of the building. They’d left their squad car right at the curb rather than come in through the parking garage.
As she was opening the rear door for him, a loud screech made them both turn around. A pickup truck came fishtailing around the corner, barreled toward them, and slammed on its brakes only inches away. Dominic sprang out, not even bothering to shut the door before rushing to Levi’s side.
“God, Levi, what happened?” he said, his voice thin with stress. “You’re hurt, Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead—”
“I’m fine.” Levi held up both hands. “This is all from the fight with Utopia.”
A lump formed in his throat as he studied Dominic, who was pale and breathing raggedly. For Dominic to get here from his own apartment in Friday night traffic only minutes after the responding officers, he must have jumped in his truck the second Levi dropped his phone, and broken every traffic law on the way. It was a miracle he hadn’t been pulled over by any of the cops Levi still had on the lookout for him.
“The Seven of Spades killed George Quintana in my apartment and left the body for me to find,” Levi added.
Dominic’s jaw dropped.
“They’re making it look like I’m behind all this.”
Comprehension flickered across Dominic’s face, followed by h
orror. “Shit.”
“Detective,” Kelly said, “I’m sorry, but we really have to go.”
Levi started to duck into the car, but hesitated at the last second and put one hand on the roof. “Dominic,” he said. “There’s still one man left.”
It was nearing midnight when Sergeant Wen entered the interrogation suite where Levi had been cooling his heels for hours. The steel furniture and two-way mirror were worlds away from the comfortable interview room where he’d waited after Reddick’s body had turned up in his car.
Levi sprang to his feet, a dozen questions on his lips, only to be shocked into silence by the stubble dusting Wen’s jaw. In the five years Levi had worked under the man, he’d never seen him anything less than clean-shaven.
“Sit,” Wen said wearily.
Levi sank back into the uncomfortable metal chair. Wen took the seat opposite him, then folded his hands on the tabletop.
“The story is everywhere,” he said without preamble. “Running on every TV channel, plastered across every news website. An investigative journalist dug up your connection to the victims and broke the story along with the news of the latest murder. Everyone knows.”
Everyone knows. Levi’s fingertips scored the table’s tacky surface. He’d kept the assault a secret from almost everyone he knew for over a decade, and now even random strangers he passed on the street would be privy to it.
“What are people saying?” he asked, dreading the answer.
“Many believe the Seven of Spades is just tormenting you. As for the rest, there seem to be two camps: a smaller group that believes you’ve been the killer all along, and a larger and much more vocal group that believes you’ve been borrowing the killer’s MO to carry out your own personal vendetta.”
“If that were true, I’d be failing spectacularly.”
Wen’s lips twitched, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes and disappeared within seconds. “I’m sure you can understand that this has created a public relations nightmare, not just for the LVMPD, but for the entire city. The powers that be decided that swift action is necessary. As such, you’re being suspended—with pay—pending an Internal Affairs investigation into your connection with the recent homicides.”
Levi’s chair crashed to the floor as he jumped up. Wen winced but didn’t otherwise move.
“You’re suspending me?” Levi’s voice shook. He hadn’t imagined it would go this far. “I know the situation is bad, but I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“Then the investigation will bear that out.” Wen held up a hand before Levi could speak again. “This wasn’t my decision. The order came straight from the sheriff himself. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”
Levi scooped his fallen chair off the floor, then stood behind it, his fingers curled in a death grip around the top edge. His eyes flicked toward the two-way mirror.
Were there people on the other side, watching this? Were they enjoying it?
His hands tightened on the chair as he was overcome by the sudden desire to pick it up and slam it into the mirror, to smash it into the glass over and over until the mirror shattered the same way his life had—
STOP, he thought, replacing the violent image with one of a bright red sign. Stop. Stop.
He exhaled a shaky breath and looked at Wen, who was studying Levi’s hands as if he knew exactly what had been going through his mind.
Forcing himself to release the chair, Levi said, “This is exactly what the Seven of Spades wants—to cut me off, to turn people against me. You’re playing along with their game.”
“Be that as it may, my hands are tied.” Wen stood with a scrape of metal against linoleum. “I truly am sorry, Abrams. An IA detective will be by shortly to take your official statement.”
“Wait—”
But Wen was already gone, the door shutting behind him with a decisive thunk. Levi banged his fist against it once, then kicked it for good measure.
He couldn’t bring himself to sit after that, so he paced around the room, stewing in his anger and resentment. By the time the door opened again, he’d worked himself into such a frothing rage that his unchecked response when he saw who walked through it was, “Oh, fuck no.”
“Not happy to see me, Abrams?” said Terence Freeman. In a department full of assholes, he was one of the worst—aggressive, closed-minded, and obstinate. He and Levi had been at odds since the first moment they’d met, and their relationship hadn’t been improved by the way Freeman had handled Keith Chapman’s IA investigation last year, nor his arrest of Kelly Marin for leaking the Seven of Spades story to the press.
“Did you ask for this assignment, or did the universe just decide it wasn’t done shitting on me tonight?” said Levi.
Freeman smirked and stepped aside to let his partner into the room. Valeria Montoya was in many ways his polar opposite, a stoic woman with the piercing eyes and stony silence of an owl.
Some of Levi’s tension eased at the sight of her. Montoya had actually assisted with the Seven of Spades investigation—she’d done exhaustive independent research into dozens of potential suspects before entrusting that information to Levi. But Levi and Martine were the only people in the substation who knew that.
“Why don’t you sit down so we can get started?” Freeman said. “I’d rather not be here all night.”
The three of them sat at the table—Levi on one side, Freeman and Montoya on the other. Freeman got out a notepad while Montoya simply sat with her hands in her lap and her unsettling gaze trained on Levi’s face.
“What time did you arrive home tonight?” Freeman asked.
“A little after 9 p.m.”
“Did you notice anything unusual as you entered your apartment?”
“No. The door was locked, and the alarm system was engaged. I didn’t see the body until I was already inside.”
“How many people besides you know the code to your alarm?”
“Two. Martine Valcourt and Dominic Russo.”
Freeman scribbled on his pad. “Mr. Russo called 911 to report a disturbance at your apartment around the same time you say you arrived home.”
“We were on the phone with each other at the time,” Levi said. He kept his voice calm and steady, just stating the bare facts. “He heard my reaction to finding the body but didn’t know what had happened, so he called for help.”
“But you didn’t,” Freeman said, tilting his head.
Levi’s jaw clenched.
Making a show of riffling through his notes, Freeman added, “I have here that the responding officers arrived about fifteen minutes after Russo’s 911 call. In all that time, you never called 911 or anyone else to report the crime. Did you know Russo had already done so?”
“No.” Levi dug his fingers into his thighs. Though the truth was embarrassing, it was far preferable to the conclusion Freeman would draw in its absence. “When I found Quintana’s body like that, I experienced a dissociative episode. I wasn’t aware of the passage of time or anything else.”
Montoya’s forehead creased, and Freeman blinked.
“A dissociative episode, huh? Has that happened to you before?”
“To a degree.” Levi remembered his reactions to Drew Barton’s shooting, to Reddick’s corpse in his car. “It was much more severe this time.”
“Hmm.” Freeman tapped his pen against the table. “Were you still dissociating when you had a five-minute conversation with whoever called you before the police showed up?”
Levi tensed, too caught off guard to hide his reaction, and Freeman smiled.
“You received a call from a number registered to a disposable cell phone ten minutes after Russo contacted 911. That call lasted for a full five minutes. Do you really expect me to believe you were dissociating all that time?” When Levi didn’t answer, Freeman leaned forward, his eyes intent on Levi’s face. “Who were you talking to, Abrams?”
Freeman already knew, of course, and so did Montoya. It was obvious. But not only had Lev
i been too rattled to record the Seven of Spades’s call like he was supposed to, he hadn’t told anyone about it. He wet his dry lips while he considered his response.
The door flew open. Levi startled and turned toward it, only for his surprise to grow when Jay Sawyer strode inside.
“This conversation is over,” Sawyer said.
A clean-cut, handsome defense attorney, Sawyer’s impressive case record was outstripped only by his massive ego. Even in the middle of the night, he was dressed to the nines in a sleek Brioni suit, his hair perfectly coiffed and diamond cuff links glinting subtly at his wrists.
Under ordinary circumstances, Sawyer’s mere presence was enough to send Levi’s blood pressure skyrocketing, but right now he only felt bewildered relief.
“What the hell are you doing here, Sawyer?” Freeman snapped.
Sawyer’s eyebrows rose. “I think a better question would be what you’re doing here. Because it looks to me like you’re interrogating a decorated homicide detective without counsel or even a union representative present.”
“Detective Abrams isn’t under arrest.”
“Good, then he’s leaving.” Sawyer waved at Levi imperiously. “Come on, let’s go.”
Dazed by the sudden turn of events, Levi pushed his chair back and stood. Freeman jumped up as well; only Montoya remained seated, observing the confrontation with her trademark pensive silence.
“He’s not going anywhere until we’re finished talking to him,” Freeman said.
“The only person you’ll be talking to from now on is me,” said Sawyer. “My client is invoking his right to remain silent, and will continue to do so in all official communication with the LVMPD until his suspension is lifted and this ludicrous investigation is closed for good. As such, there’s no point in detaining him unless you’re going to file charges, which you and I both know you don’t have enough evidence to do.”
Freeman clenched his fists, his nostrils flaring. Levi saw a tiny smile flicker across Montoya’s face before her expression smoothed out into its usual neutral lines.
One-Eyed Royals Page 18
