“Thank you,” he said, inhaling the steam with pleasure.
“You’re welcome.”
They sat in silence for a while, Levi’s brain slowly clearing as Stanton leafed through his paper and finished his breakfast.
Eventually, Stanton asked, “Are you working today?”
“I have to.”
Though Levi braced himself for an argument, Stanton said nothing, just turned the page without looking up. He would never ask about the case itself, not only because he knew Levi couldn’t share details, but because he hated hearing about Levi’s job. He was one of the few people Levi had ever met who didn’t enjoy cop stories.
“Did your counseling session go okay, at least?”
Levi stiffened. This was the only topic of conversation worse than the one they’d just been on.
When Levi didn’t answer, Stanton glanced up, took one look at Levi’s face, and shut his paper with a sharp, angry flick. “Levi.”
“I didn’t have time—”
“You canceled again?”
“I had to work.” That was bullshit; Levi had canceled his session yesterday morning so he could squeeze in an extra hour with his Krav Maga coach before his shift. “And I didn’t cancel, I rescheduled—”
“For when?”
Levi’s mouth clicked shut and he looked away.
Stanton took his hand. “Levi,” he said gently. “You killed a man.”
The words were like ice water dashed in Levi’s face. He shook Stanton off and snapped, “I know what happened, for fuck’s sake.”
“You had to. You did the right thing. But anyone who knows you can see it’s eating you alive. You’ll never be able to move past this unless you work through it. Let Natasha help you.”
Levi shook his head, though it was in frustration, not refusal. He’d always liked Natasha, one of the counselors in the LVMPD’s Police Employee Assistance Program, but even talking to her about the shooting was so torturous that he’d rather pull his fingernails out at the root.
“You don’t really have a choice. Your lieutenant mandated six sessions, and you’ve only been to three.”
Levi stayed mulishly quiet. He hated emotional confrontations, did everything he could to avoid them, and Stanton tended to take advantage of his discomfort by pressing harder and harder.
“Do you have any idea what it does to me, watching you walk out that door every day not knowing if you’ll come back?” Stanton said after a long moment.
Levi winced.
“Do you know what it’s like to know you’re out there, putting your life on the line all day long, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do to protect you?” Stanton reached out to take hold of Levi’s chin; Levi didn’t resist, letting Stanton turn his face toward him. “Are you really going to make me worry about your mental health on top of everything else?”
“That’s not what I’m trying to do.”
“I know.” Stanton rubbed his thumb over Levi’s lower lip. “So if you won’t do the counseling for yourself, will you at least do it for me?”
Levi pulled Stanton’s hand away from his face, but he kept hold of it, lacing their fingers together. “Yes.”
“Promise me,” said Stanton. “Promise that you’ll call Natasha today and reschedule the session for as soon as possible.”
“I promise,” Levi said.
Dominic’s feet pounded along the sidewalk as he ran his usual route through the campus of the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Rebel easily kept pace by his side, loping along with boundless enthusiasm but never pulling at her leash or trying to steer them off course.
The weather was beautiful, clear and sunny in the mid-seventies, a perfect April day. Dominic enjoyed it while he could—pretty soon, he’d have to move his runs up to early morning or take them inside altogether. Running outside in Las Vegas in the summer was a quick way to drop dead of heatstroke.
They finished their five-mile circuit before returning to the parking lot where he’d left his pickup. He grabbed a towel from the cab to wipe down his face and neck, then retrieved a bottle of water from a cooler, unfolded a collapsible dog dish, and filled it up. Rebel watched him, panting happily, her tongue lolling out of her mouth.
He ruffled her head and set the bowl down. “There you go, sweetheart. Good girl.”
He monitored her water intake carefully—he was paranoid about her getting bloat—and took it away when he judged she’d had enough. Once they’d both rehydrated and he’d changed into a fresh shirt right there in the parking lot, they drove over to Roberto’s Taco Shop, a counter-serve Mexican joint on the other edge of the campus.
He backed the truck up to the front window and had Rebel sit in the bed so he could keep an eye on her while he went inside. After he’d ordered, his attention was drawn to a rack of advertisements and pamphlets for attractions on the Strip and Downtown.
Almost against his will, he picked up a flyer for a promotion the Hard Rock was running for point multipliers on video poker. He’d just deposited the check for last night’s bounty; he could carve out a portion of the money, just a small one, and play with that. Only for a little while. He’d stop when he lost it. He would . . .
Even the fantasy had his breath speeding up, his pulse racing. He could feel it—the surge of adrenaline from placing a large bet, the thrill of getting on a hot streak and chasing the big score. The headrush triggered by victory, even the painful tease of a near loss . . . It was a euphoria unlike anything else in the world.
Closing his eyes, he crumpled the slick paper in his fist. There is no such thing as safe gambling, he thought, falling back on the familiar mantra. Control is an illusion. There is no such thing as safe gambling.
He opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder to where Rebel sat in the truck, tracking him through the glass. She was waiting for him to get his ass back out there and take her home. She depended on him to protect her, just as she protected him, and in order to do that, he had to keep his shit together.
He tossed the flyer in the trash and turned to the counter as they called his name.
Carting several packed bags of food, he pulled into the parking lot of his nearby apartment building just a few minutes later. It was a simple concrete U built around an inner courtyard with a pool, a bit run-down, but what it lacked in aesthetics, it made up for in friendly neighbors.
He let Rebel off her leash once they’d entered the gate; she was well socialized to all the residents. Waving to Mrs. Muñoz and Mrs. Kim, who sat by the pool while their kids splashed away, he climbed the external staircase to the second floor and knocked on the door to 2G.
“It’s open!” Carlos called from inside.
Dominic frowned and stepped into the apartment. “Since when do you leave your door unlocked?”
“Jasmine’s been going in and out with the laundry.” Carlos sat on the couch, his chest wrapped in compression bandages with drains tucked on either side from the top surgery he’d had two days prior. He extended a hand to Rebel as she trotted up to greet him. “It’s just easier for her not to worry about taking the keys with her.”
Dominic dropped the takeout bags on the coffee table, then assessed Carlos closely. He looked good—healthy color in his golden-brown skin, no circles under his eyes. Unshaven, but he was growing his beard out anyway. “How you feeling?”
Carlos shifted himself into a more comfortable position, rearranging the bright knit blanket thrown over his long legs. “Pretty good. It doesn’t hurt as much as I was afraid it would. What’s all that?”
“I stopped at Roberto’s after my run, so I figured I might as well get enough for three.”
“Dom,” Carlos said, “you don’t have to—”
The door opened again, and Jasmine came through carrying a huge basket of folded clothes. Dominic hurried over to relieve her of it.
“Thanks, Dom.” She rose onto her toes to kiss his cheek, her lip ring cool against his skin.
Dominic had met Jasmine first, li
terally running into her in the hallway the day he moved in. Shortly afterward, he’d been able to get Carlos a job at the club where he bartended, and they’d been good friends ever since.
“I didn’t know you were coming over,” she said.
“He brought lunch,” said Carlos.
She leveled him with a stern look. “Dominic—”
“Bedroom okay for these?” he asked, and hustled off with the laundry basket before she could say anything else.
Jasmine made good money as a tattoo artist, profiting off a steady stream of tourists intrigued by the idea of getting inked in Las Vegas, but they’d just dropped thousands on Carlos’s surgery, and he’d be out of work for a couple of weeks while he recovered. Though they were both touchy about accepting help, they had to be hurting.
When Dominic returned to the living room, neither of them brought it up again, even once it became clear that he’d bought far more food than three people could eat in a single sitting. Jasmine rustled up some of the hipster organic dog treats she kept for Rebel, and they gossiped genially about their neighbors while they ate. Afterward, he was able to make a clean getaway before they could insist he take any of the leftovers with him.
His own apartment was right next door. Rebel flopped into her dog bed in the corner of the living room, all tuckered out, but Dominic didn’t have the luxury of a nap. He took a quick shower, then sat at his desk and booted up his computer.
He usually had multiple cases going at once, so besides Ruiz, there were a few other bounties he’d been pursuing digitally over the past week. Most of them were straightforward. Honestly, in about eighty percent of his cases, he tracked the bail jumper down within one or two days—often somewhere anyone with half a brain would have known to look for them, like a friend’s house or their place of employment. Every now and then, however, he ran into a case that required greater creativity and focus.
Matthew Goodwin was one of those cases. He was a student at UNLV, one of several fraternity members who’d been charged with rape a couple of months ago, and the only one of his buddies to skip town before his court date. For all intents and purposes, he’d dropped off the face of the earth. Dominic had utilized every skip-tracing method known to man, interviewed every person Goodwin could have conceivably confided in, and he hadn’t been able to find a single sign of the creep for over a week.
He was starting to think Goodwin might have left the state, in which case he’d have to drop the case. Dominic didn’t chase bounties across state lines; it stirred up too many messy legal issues, and he couldn’t take his gun with him.
He checked the status of each case in his current load, refreshing himself on the details and making a list of next steps in order of priority. It was a familiar routine, and he was operating so fully on autopilot that he almost breezed past the anomaly that should have jumped out at him right away.
There was a charge on Goodwin’s credit card.
Dominic stared at the screen. Keeping tabs on credit cards was one of the first steps he took with any bounty he didn’t find immediately, and Goodwin hadn’t used his the entire time he’d been missing. Yet, there it was in black and white—a charge for $5.05 at 12:22 p.m. today, at a gas station up north, less than an hour outside Vegas.
For a moment, Dominic felt a stirring of suspicion. Goodwin had successfully evaded pursuit for longer than most bounties. Why slip up now, in such an obvious way, and for such a small purchase?
Then he shook his head, deciding he was being paranoid. People on the run made mistakes. They got tired, or they got overconfident, and they gave in to one small moment of weakness or stupidity that got them caught. His profession depended on that.
Chasing down and bringing in Goodwin would be a lot more satisfying than going after a scared kid like Ruiz. With any luck, Goodwin would put up just enough resistance for Dominic to have an excuse to rough him up a bit, give him a taste of his own medicine. Dominic’s blood ran hotter at the thought.
“Got you, you rapist sack of shit,” he said, grinning as he scribbled down the gas station’s address.
Sometimes bounty hunting was almost as good as gambling.
Levi watched the footage from the security camera on the twenty-fifth floor of Skyline’s building, groaned in disbelief, and rewound it to watch the same moment again. He fast-forwarded about fifteen minutes, then paused and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” Martine asked. She set a Styrofoam coffee cup on his desk.
“The security camera is worthless.” He picked up the coffee and added a belated, “Thanks.”
She sat down at her own desk, which was directly across from his, and let out the sigh of someone who’d been on her feet all day. She sipped from her iced coffee before saying, “What happened? Perp corrupted the feeds? Looped the video?”
“Turned the camera,” said Levi.
“What?”
He rotated his computer monitor toward her and replayed the footage. “There’s a blind spot between the elevator in the far corner and where the camera’s sightline begins. The killer came up underneath the camera and turned it all the way to the side—with a broom handle or something, I guess—so it faces in the complete opposite direction of the path to Dreyer’s office. When they came back, they returned the camera to its original position. There isn’t a single second of the killer caught on video.”
She chewed thoughtfully on her straw. “So they staked the office building out in advance, obviously. They knew that was where they were going to kill Dreyer.”
“Yeah.” He pulled the monitor back into place, then tapped the pause button again. “I’m running the IDs of everyone who checked in with building security yesterday, and a couple of techs are going over the cameras from the lobby as well. We’ll see if anything pops.”
They both knew that was a long shot, though. Thanks to the camera feed, they at least knew when the killer had arrived on the twenty-fifth floor, how long it had taken them to kill Dreyer and arrange the crime scene, and when they had left. But in a forty-story building with over a thousand employees, on top of legions of daily visitors and delivery people, that wasn’t as helpful as it might seem.
The killer could have entered the building at any point during the day, whether on legitimate business or under some pretext, and hidden elsewhere for hours before killing Dreyer. They hadn’t necessarily exited the building right after leaving the floor, either. In fact, Levi would bet money that they’d still been on the premises when he and Martine had been assessing the crime scene. Until he had a list of specific suspects to work with, he was flying blind.
“How’d things go on your end?” he asked. While he’d been coordinating the technical side of things and leaning on the coroner’s office and forensics to speed their reports, Martine had been out interviewing Dreyer’s family and co-workers, and creating a timeline of his activities leading up to his death.
“Nothing out of the ordinary on Dreyer’s schedule yesterday. He didn’t have any meetings set up after 5 p.m., and he hadn’t ordered any food delivered. His wife did confirm that he frequently worked late, though. He called her yesterday around three to let her know he’d be staying after-hours.”
“Anyone with a reason to want him dead?”
Levi’s attention was split between Martine and his computer. When she didn’t answer right away, he looked away from his screen to find her grinning and waggling her eyebrows.
“What are you sitting on?” he said. “Spill.”
She set her cup down and leaned her forearms against her desk. “Well, everyone I spoke to denied that anyone would have a grudge against Dreyer. ‘Such a nice guy, can’t believe this happened to him.’ All the usual sanctification of the dead, you know what I mean. Like being murdered means he never did anything wrong his entire life.”
Levi nodded. The phenomenon was a common one, and frustrating when trying to discern motive.
“But when I got back to the substation, I had a very interesting conversation with Singh in Financial Crimes.”
She paused there, drawing out the reveal, but he could already see where this was going.
“You’re not telling me—”
“They’ve had him under investigation for eighteen months,” she said with great relish. “All on the DL, of course, but they’ve been building a case for embezzlement and defrauding investors. They’re furious that he’s dead. Hundreds of hours of manpower down the drain.”
Struck by this development, Levi rocked back in his chair. One of the first things he’d done was run Dreyer’s criminal history, and the man had been clean—officially, at least. This opened up a whole new realm of possibilities. “How many people knew about the investigation?”
“Not many. Dreyer didn’t himself, and neither did his wife or his superiors at Skyline. The DA’s office wanted an airtight case before they charged someone with Dreyer’s wealth and influence, so information was need-to-know—a few people over there, some guys in Financial Crimes.”
“And, realistically, everyone those people told about it.”
Martine snorted. “Got that right.”
Levi mulled it over. “Could be that one of his clients figured out what was going on themselves and decided on a little payback.”
“Sure. Or . . .” Shrugging, she reached for her coffee. “The only truly concrete connection Dreyer and Campbell have is that they were both criminals.”
“That could be a coincidence.”
Martine sipped her iced coffee, her expressive eyebrows saying more than words could.
“Did Singh give you anything else on the case?”
“Yeah. He’s sending over everything they’ve got, actually.”
“What does that mean?” Levi asked with a touch of foreboding.
She jerked her chin toward the far side of the room. He turned around and saw a uniformed officer wheeling a large cart stacked with file boxes into the bullpen, navigating carefully around the desks.
“The investigation was all hush-hush, so everything’s on paper, and paper only,” said Martine. “We’ll have to go through it the old-fashioned way.”
Kill Game Page 3