Levi nodded. Exactly why he’d considered that the killer might have legal access to the drug.
“There’s a man named Juan Morales who supplies a bunch of different recreational medications to multiple dealers around the city, including ketamine. Last night, I followed him and found out that he’s ganged up. Los Avispones.”
Levi sat back in his chair, surprised. Narcotics hadn’t given them any indication of gang interest in ketamine sales—but then, their information had been slim in general. Their section tended to focus more on large-scale operations distributing drugs like meth and heroin, and less on party drugs like ketamine and Ecstasy that were passed primarily from friend to friend.
“I can’t prove that Los Avispones are directly involved, but . . .” Dominic shrugged. “It seems to me that a gang would have the connections necessary to establish the kind of reliable supply a serial killer might find themselves in need of, and they wouldn’t ask a lot of questions.”
And if they found themselves facing a sudden increase in demand, they might organize a few burglaries to meet said demand.
Dominic jerked his chin toward the playing card. “On my way home, I stopped at a gas station, and that was on my windshield when I came out of the store. What I can’t figure out is what it means. Is the killer warning me off? Or do they just find what I’m doing amusing?”
“The smiley face does make it ambiguous,” Levi said. The symbol could be mocking, or it could be genuinely playful; they didn’t know enough about the killer to be sure. “Obviously, you caught their attention when you were the one to find Goodwin, and they’re keeping an eye on you. Which is even more reason for you to stay away from this case entirely.”
“I’m not stupid enough to go chasing after a gang, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Says the man who showed a bag full of ketamine to a detective in the middle of a police station.”
Heaving a sigh, Dominic finally pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. “Point taken. But I’m not trying to get myself killed. I just . . . I’m having trouble letting this one go.”
“I understand,” Levi said quietly. Death in battle was not the same as cold-blooded murder, and Levi had seen premeditated murder scenes rattle military veterans on the force the same way they did any other new cop. And that was leaving out the elements of psychopathy in these killings, which were horrifying no matter how experienced a person was. “I’ll take the card to the crime lab so they can look for trace evidence.”
“My fingerprints are on it. I picked it up with my bare hands when I first found it.”
“That’s all right. We still have your prints from the Goodwin scene for elimination.”
“You’re not going to find anything helpful on it,” Dominic said with great finality.
That was almost certainly true, but they still had to try. Levi scooted his chair back, preparing to stand, and picked up the bag. Noticing that Dominic still looked troubled, he said, “I doubt you’re in any real danger at this point. The killer only targets people who have committed serious crimes, and you don’t fit that profile.”
“Unless they consider trying to find them a crime in their warped brain. I read in the article that the killer called the police directly to brag about what they were doing. I can’t imagine how much that freaked out whoever it was who talked to them.”
Levi pressed his lips together. “It was me.”
Dominic’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? Why you?”
“I don’t know.” Levi had been trying to figure that out himself. It could have just been because he was one of the leads on the case—but then, why call him and not Martine? Was it really because he’d killed Dale Slater, or had that just been the killer prodding an obvious sore spot to throw him off balance?
“Shit,” Dominic breathed out. “That must have been insane.”
“It wasn’t fun. But it told me enough to be sure you’ll be safe from the killer if you stay away from the case.”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you loud and clear, Detective.”
They returned to the bullpen, where Dominic followed Levi back to his desk so he could say goodbye to Martine. Levi was distracted for a couple of minutes by a uniformed officer with questions about a different case; when he turned back, Dominic was studying the burglary files on the desk with a pensive look on his face.
Annoyed, Levi slammed the closest file shut. “Go home and do the job you actually get paid for.”
Dominic shot him his trademark disarming grin—the first time he’d smiled since he’d shown up. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to Levi how odd it was to see Dominic so serious for such a long time.
“That’s great advice,” Dominic said. “Good luck with the case.”
Once he was gone, Martine said, “That man is so fine, I don’t know how he makes it down the street without people trying to climb him like a tree.”
“I guess he’s all right, if you don’t mind overgrown meatheads swimming in their own testosterone,” Levi said, but he was thinking about how Dominic had made no attempt to hide his own vulnerability in the face of the killer’s message, and how his first thought after considering that the car he’d borrowed might have been compromised had been concern for his friend.
“The burglary took place the night of Wednesday the twenty-third, is that correct?” Martine asked the first veterinarian they had scheduled to visit, a Dr. Alison Sheffield.
“Yes, that’s right. We weren’t able to determine exactly when, though, because I didn’t discover the break-in until the next morning.”
“Nobody in the area heard or saw anything suspicious overnight?”
“Goodness, no. None of the businesses around here are open past seven; the entire neighborhood is dead by eight.”
Levi listened to the interview with half his brain while he walked slowly around the waiting room. The office was tiny, home to a small private practice owned in its entirety by Dr. Sheffield. She was the sole veterinarian on the staff, which consisted of herself, the receptionist, and a single veterinary technician.
Right now, there was only one patient in the waiting room, an elderly woman who seemed unperturbed by the presence of two detectives and the discussion of the burglary. A Yorkshire Terrier sat on her lap, watching Levi with curious eyes and pricked-up ears.
Quiet neighborhood, small office, laughable security measures—burgling this place had been child’s play. To know that would be the case, however, the perpetrators would have needed to check it out first.
The most common method of casing a burglary target was to enter as a delivery person or repairman, but Theft had already gone down that road. Sheffield had denied any repairs or construction work in the office in the weeks leading up to the break-in, and the only delivery people had been the usual ones she knew on a first-name basis.
As Levi completed his circuit of the room, he drew closer to the woman with the Yorkie. The small dog started squirming, straining toward Levi against the woman’s hold.
Levi smiled. He’d always had a soft spot for dogs, and this one was particularly adorable. Extending his hand, he said, “Is it okay if I . . .”
“Oh, of course. He’s very friendly.”
Levi let the dog sniff his fingers, then gave him a good chin scratch. The dog wriggled around ecstatically.
There was an easy way to case a veterinarian’s office without drawing any suspicion at all.
Levi gave the dog one last pat and headed back to where Martine and Sheffield were still talking. He waited for a break in the conversation to ask, “Do you think we could get a copy of your appointment schedule for the two weeks leading up to the burglary?”
“I don’t see why not.” Sheffield turned to the receptionist, who had been listening in with undisguised fascination. “Marissa, would you mind?”
Marissa didn’t mind at all, and furthermore, she was happy to talk Levi’s ear off while Sheffield took Martine back to see how the controlled substances we
re secured. Levi paid attention—helpful information could come from any source—but it seemed to just be harmless gossip.
They left shortly afterward and continued on to the next two vets who had been targeted. By early afternoon, they were headed back to the station, making a quick stop at a deli for lunch on the way.
The commonalities between the three targets had jumped out at them both. “All small private practices with regular business hours that never keep animals overnight,” Levi said as they stood off to one side of the counter, waiting for their number to be called. “No giant group practices with multiple vets on staff, no animal hospitals open late.”
“Bare-bones security systems, too.” Martine cracked open a bottle of cherry soda and took a sip.
“Easy, low-risk targets.”
“You think the perps cased the offices by posing as patients?”
“It’s what I would have done. We’ll need to cross-reference the three appointment schedules to see if any of the names overlap. We should probably check them against the potential suspect pool, too.”
“Cross-referencing is my favorite,” Martine said with exaggerated enthusiasm, and then turned to the counter as their number was called.
Back at the station, the list of potential suspects was waiting for them. There was a depressingly large number of people in the Valley with criminal records that included crimes motivated by justice or self-righteousness, whether deluded or seemingly legitimate. A separate, additional document listed all employees of the LVMPD who had used force in the line of duty.
Because it was in alphabetical order, Levi’s name was right at the top.
Abrams, Levi. Homicide detective. Fatal shooting of perpetrator during hostage crisis. Ruled justifiable homicide. No charges.
His eyes stuck on the phrase “justifiable homicide.” Technically, any killing of one human being by another was a homicide, regardless of context or intent. Not all homicides were murders.
But he couldn’t move past the word justifiable.
This list was a long one as well. Jonah Gibbs was on here four times alone—and those were only the incidents that had been formally reported. But nothing Gibbs had done was as bad as Keith Chapman.
Chapman, Keith. Police officer. Aggravated assault and battery of suspect during arrest. Pending Internal Affairs investigation and possible criminal charges.
While Chapman had been taking an accused child molester into custody, the man had started taunting him with the things he’d done, and by all accounts, Chapman had just . . . snapped. It had taken three other officers to pull him off, but he’d already beaten the man so severely he’d required reconstructive surgery to be able to eat and speak.
Though Levi had no sympathy for that scum, a cop who couldn’t control himself had no place on the force. Whether or not the DA pursued charges, there was no way Chapman was getting his job back after all the terrible press he’d brought the LVMPD.
Unlike Levi, who had shot a man dead and then returned to work two days later.
“Maybe you should take the criminal history angle,” he said abruptly, pushing his copies of the lists toward Martine even though she had her own. “I’ll compare the schedules to each other, and I also want to follow up on Dominic’s gang lead.”
She gave him a sharp-eyed glance, but she didn’t call him out.
They spent a tedious couple of hours plowing through the vets’ schedules with no luck. None of the names on the three lists matched each other, nor were any known members of Los Avispones. The handful of connections they found between the vets’ patients and the criminal histories were all dead ends—long-time patients well-known to the vet in question. Eventually, Martine redirected her energies toward compiling a list of veterinarians in the area that fulfilled the same criteria as the ones who had been burgled, in case they might be future targets.
Bored and frustrated, Levi flipped through the schedules at random. Each vet used a different format, but they all included the same basic information—the pet owner’s name and phone number, and the animal’s breed, sex, and age. As his eyes roamed over the pages, he paused mid-turn and went back.
Male Tibetan Mastiff, age seven. Hadn’t he seen this same dog in one of the other vets’ schedules as well? It had caught his attention because the Tibetan Mastiff was a relatively rare breed, especially in a hot environment like Las Vegas.
He set Dr. Villa’s schedule aside and picked up Dr. Sheffield’s. He found the appointment in question a couple of minutes later—different names for the dog and owner, different phone number, but all the other identifying information about the dog was the same. A check of the third schedule found the dog there as well, again with the names changed.
“We were looking for the same person going to all three vets,” Levi said to Martine, breaking a solid half an hour of silence. “We should have been looking for the same animal.”
He showed her the three separate appointments he’d circled. “I’ve never even heard of a Tibetan Mastiff,” she said as she examined them.
“Exactly. Even with a more common breed, it would be suspicious if one of the same sex and age showed up at all three vets within a couple of weeks. An unusual breed like this one? No way it’s a coincidence.”
Already a step ahead of him, she said, “If we call around to these other vets, we may find out which ones are being targeted next.”
While she did that, he checked out the names and phone numbers associated with each appointment, just to be thorough. Unsurprisingly, they were all bogus.
“I’ve got two vets who treated a Tibetan Mastiff within the past week,” she said after she finished her last phone call. “They’re both willing to make time for us tomorrow morning to answer questions, and in the meantime, I advised them of the risk and recommended they tighten up their security.”
“Great.” Levi’s shoulders relaxed a fraction—finally, some actual progress.
“Just in time, too, because I’ve gotta get going or I’m going to be late.” She started clearing her desk, straightening her piles of papers and folders.
He’d forgotten about her daughter’s softball game this afternoon. Martine’s two kids were heavily involved in all kinds of activities, and he never minded covering for her when she ducked out an hour or so early to attend.
“I’m going to hang around for a while, get some paperwork done. Wish Mikayla good luck from me.”
“Don’t stay too late,” she said on her way out.
Levi smiled, nodded, and didn’t move from his desk for the next two and a half hours.
This paperwork didn’t have to be finished tonight. There was no reason he couldn’t go home . . . except for the fact that he didn’t want to.
The afterglow of his and Stanton’s night together had been ruined by how upset Stanton had gotten over the Seven of Spades story. Once again, he’d pleaded with Levi to consider quitting his job, and once again, Levi had walked out in the middle of the argument. The same dysfunctional patterns, repeated over and over.
Levi had always wanted to be a detective, though as a gangly, awkward kid, he’d never imagined that could be anything more than a pipe dream. Now he couldn’t imagine doing anything else. He’d thought Stanton understood that.
He was going to run out of work he could do at his desk long before he was ready to go home, so he decided to head out and canvass the neighborhoods around the two potential targets they’d found, see if anyone had noticed any suspicious behavior in the area lately. It was the sort of task that would normally be assigned to a uniformed officer, but there was no reason he couldn’t do it himself.
He had to sign a car out of the department motor pool—though he did own a car himself, the penthouse’s proximity to the substation and Stanton’s easy access to a car service meant he hadn’t taken it out of the garage since he moved in. Choosing one of the nondescript sedans at random, he headed for his first destination.
As it often did, canvassing turned out to be an exercise
in frustration. None of the vet’s neighbors had observed anything out of the ordinary recently, and they were annoyed by having to stop to talk to a cop when they were trying to close up and get home. Levi handed his card out, knowing that the chances of anyone not chucking it straight in the trash were slim at best.
By the time he reached the second potential target, there was no longer any point; everything was closed. Like Sheffield’s neighborhood, this was a quiet commercial area far from the touristy parts of the city, a long strip of shops and professional practices that didn’t tend to stay open late—a small law firm, an accountant, a jewelry store. The only sign of life was a single pickup truck left in the parking lot.
Levi parked as well, clear on the other side, and dropped his head back on the seat with a sigh. How long was it going to take for him to admit how pathetic he was being? Things with Stanton weren’t going to get any better while he was sitting out here moping. He needed to go home.
A flash of movement caught his attention, out of place in the deserted lot. When he narrowed his eyes, he could make out someone moving around in the cab of the truck—a large man, by the looks of it . . .
“Son-of-a-bitch,” he said.
Dominic was alerted to Levi’s presence by Rebel’s two sharp warning barks, her signal that a stranger was approaching. He acknowledged her, told her to sit, and then rolled down the driver’s side window when Levi rapped on the glass.
“Problem, Officer?” he said innocently.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Levi pinned him with a thunderous glare. “You must have a goddamn death wish.”
“I thought you said the killer wouldn’t target me.”
“I’m the one who’s going to kill you!” Levi said, though he sounded more exasperated than genuinely angry.
Rebel peered around Dominic, examining the newcomer. Levi glanced at her, his frosty gray eyes warming slightly as some of the tension left his face.
“You brought your dog out hunting burglars?” he asked.
“She’s a trained personal protection dog,” said Dominic. “I trust her to have my back more than I’d trust most humans.”
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