Kill Game

by Cordelia Kingsbridge

Natasha looked back in the direction Keith had walked in, though he was long gone by now. Her teeth worried at her bottom lip.

  “If he’s still this bad, are the antipsychotics even working?” Levi asked.

  She shrugged. “It can take a while to settle on the right dosage and combination of medications for each patient. It is a little unusual that his side effects became so serious this soon, but I’m not a doctor. I can’t make decisions about medication, and Dr. Tran isn’t interested in anything I have to say anyway. She talks to me like I’m a kindergartner.”

  “Still, Keith is lucky to have you on his side.”

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling. “Speaking of which—when are you coming in for your next session?”

  “Oh, look at the time,” said Levi, and turned toward the substation.

  With a startled laugh, she caught his arm and pulled him back. “Seriously. You still have two sessions left. Do you want to schedule one later this week? Or over the weekend, maybe? I know you have a lot on your plate right now.”

  “Can I let you know later? I haven’t even had a full day off since this serial killer got into full swing.”

  “Sure. As long as that’s a genuine offer and not just an attempt to placate me.”

  It had been, of course, but her calling him out on it made him feel guilty. “I’ll let you know by tomorrow.” He gestured to the front doors. “Are you going inside?”

  “Actually, I think I’m going to head out for an early lunch,” said Natasha. “Decompress a little. That meeting was rough. And Levi? I could get in huge trouble for telling you all this—lose my job, even my license.”

  “I know. It won’t go any further than me, I promise.” He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment and then went inside, returning to his desk.

  Martine hadn’t come back yet, so Levi picked his work back up where he’d left off. Only five minutes passed before he was interrupted again, this time by his cell phone.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said as he lifted the phone to his ear.

  “Levi, it’s your mother.”

  He sighed.

  “Me, too,” his father added.

  “You know I love hearing from you guys, but why is it you always call me in the middle of a workday?”

  “The last time we called you was Sunday,” Nancy said. “How were we supposed to know you’d be working on a Sunday?”

  That was true, actually; Levi had forgotten. The long hours and stress of a top-priority case tended to blur days together for him.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “we’ve been waiting to hear from you. With a happy announcement, maybe?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” He clicked open the ballistics report the lab had filed on one of the other homicides in his caseload.

  “Well, after your young man spoke to us about his intentions . . .”

  “What intentions?” he said, more than half his mind on the report.

  There was a long, loaded pause. Any kind of silence from his parents was so unusual that Levi snapped to attention, and he abruptly realized what they meant.

  “Oh, no. Please tell me Stanton didn’t call you to—to ask permission—”

  “Not permission,” Saul said quickly. “Of course not. Just our blessing.”

  Levi palmed his face with his free hand. Using the word blessing in place of permission was just semantics, trying to make a misogynist relic more palatable instead of leaving it in the past where it belonged. He’d always considered the custom bizarre and disrespectful to one’s partner, regardless of the genders involved. Even if Stanton disagreed—which he obviously did—he should know Levi better than this.

  What made it worse was that he and Stanton weren’t anywhere near ready to get engaged. They could barely spend half an hour alone together without fighting these days. What could Stanton be thinking?

  That a marriage proposal would patch things right up, probably. He’d always been a hopeless romantic—a trait Levi usually found endearing, but which sometimes prompted him to act irrationally.

  “It’s long past time for you to settle down,” said Nancy. “Living in Nevada isn’t an excuse anymore, not since the Supreme Court woke up and brought America in line with the rest of the civilized world. And you know your father and I don’t mind you marrying a Gentile, as long as the mother of your children is Jewish.”

  Levi made a squeaky noise of protest.

  Oblivious to his discomfort, she said, “I already have information on a couple of agencies that specialize in Jewish egg donors—”

  “Oh my God, Mom,” Levi interrupted. “Stop. Please. Stanton and I are not getting married.”

  “Why not?”

  Because I don’t want to marry him.

  The thought sprang into Levi’s mind, pure in its simplicity, and stopped him in his tracks. He gazed blankly at his computer screen while his parents talked over one another, somehow managing to argue both with each other and with him simultaneously.

  “You can’t rush these things—”

  “Well, you can’t just sit around and wait for them to happen on their own, either—”

  “I’m not ready to get married,” Levi said, which effectively shut them both up. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear.”

  “What we want to hear is that you’re happy,” Nancy said. “Whatever that means for you.”

  Saul hummed his agreement.

  “Your poor young man is going to be heartbroken, though.”

  “I’ll talk to him about it,” said Levi, though he had no intention of doing so unless he was completely backed into a corner. When it came to facing off against three gangbangers intending to kick his ass, he could stay calm and in control, but when it came to unpleasant relationship conversations, he was the worst of cowards.

  He spoke to his parents a little longer before hanging up, steering clear of any sensitive topics. Once he’d set his phone down, he propped his elbows on the desk and put his face in his hands.

  “What’s wrong?” Martine asked.

  Levi lifted his head. Martine had to be at least as tired and stressed as he was, but it didn’t show—her hair was done in perfect, bouncy coils, her lipstick fresh, her gray pantsuit crisply pressed. He, on the other hand, had forgotten to shave that morning, and the last time he’d looked in the mirror, he’d actually winced at the dark circles under his eyes.

  “Nothing important. You get anything out of them?”

  “The first two were tough as nails, but the third guy had priors. He buckled under a little pressure.” She dropped into her chair and jogged her mouse to wake up her computer. “They’re ganged up with Los Avispones, just like you thought.”

  So Dominic had been right. Levi wasn’t surprised—which was surprising in itself.

  “The burglaries weren’t their idea, though—it’s not the usual way they get their ketamine. They were hired for those jobs.”

  “Hired by whom?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

  “They don’t know.” Martine shrugged. “They were contacted by text each time, paid half in advance via dead drop, and paid the rest after completion the same way. The client specifically instructed them to take anything of value, but the only thing Los Avispones sent on was the ketamine. They’ve been mailing it to a box in a private mail service out in the suburbs.”

  “I’m guessing the identity used to reserve the box is fake.”

  “Haven’t checked yet. But Sergeant Wen sent a couple of uniforms out to take a look around the mailbox company. He’s thinking about setting a trap, mailing some ketamine like the job was completed and seeing if anyone takes the bait.”

  Levi fiddled with a pen, tapping the end against his desk blotter. The serial killer knew that Dominic had been injured, so they almost certainly knew how, which meant they were aware the burglary had been unsuccessful. They’d also known about Dreyer’s fraud investigation, Goodwin skipping bail, even that Levi was one of the lead detectives on the case—either they wer
e omniscient, or they had a source inside the LVMPD.

  “That’s not going to work,” he said. “The Seven of Spades knows their little gang of thieves was blown. They’ll never go back to that mailbox.”

  Martine gave him an odd sideways look across their desks.

  “What?”

  “You called them the Seven of Spades.”

  He raked a weary hand through his hair. “Wen was right; it’s human nature to name things. I’ve already started thinking of them that way, and I’m too tired to push back against it right now just for the sake of principle.”

  “All right. Well, we have to stake out the box whether or not we think the Seven of Spades will fall for it or not. You know that.”

  He stared morosely at his computer, which had been idle so long it had logged him out and gone to the LVMPD screensaver. Every other lead they’d come up with so far had been a dead end. Why would this one be any different?

  Ordinary murderers were easy to understand. Whether driven by passionate extremes of rage or jealousy or just cold, calculating greed, their motivations were simple to discern, their personal connection to the victim obvious. Sometimes they were a challenge to nail down, and every now and then one did elude justice due to a technicality or weakness of the available evidence. But Levi had never, ever felt hopeless in the face of a homicide investigation before—like nothing he did would ever be enough.

  He’d never come up against a killer like this.

  “Levi?” Martine snapped her fingers. “You still with me?”

  He shook his head to clear it and refocused on her. “Yeah, sorry.”

  “I gave the perps’ phones to Carmen for analysis. The texts were sent with one of those self-deletion apps, but they’re not a hundred percent reliable. She may be able to get something off them. In the meantime, I thought you and I could plot out the location of the dead drops, see if there’s any pattern?”

  “Sure.” Levi tapped the space bar on his keyboard and entered his password when prompted.

  He was a dedicated cop. He’d do his job, and he’d do it well, just as he always had.

  In the back of his mind, however, a new thought repeated itself over and over: What’s the point?

  “Could you rewind that, please?” Dominic asked the shop owner.

  “Of course.” She hit a button, speeding backward through the footage from the one security camera in her tiny store. Dominic narrowed his eyes at the image of the man on screen.

  He’d spent the day before napping on and off at Carlos and Jasmine’s apartment. After waking up that morning feeling much better, he’d celebrated his improvement by calling around to every florist, gift shop, and cutesy boutique in Las Vegas Valley, searching for the one that had sold the gift basket he’d received.

  A few hours of work had yielded results: Susan’s Trinkets and Trifles, a little shop in Enterprise. The eponymous Susan had been set aflutter by his fudged story about pursuing a dangerous bail jumper, and she’d been happy to show him the security tapes from yesterday morning.

  The camera was aimed at the cash register from across the store. The angle and quality were good enough for Dominic to be certain that the basket on the counter was the one he’d received, but the man purchasing it never faced the camera. Though that had to be deliberate, there was nothing otherwise awkward or suspicious about his body language. And he only looked familiar in the sense that there were a thousand men in Las Vegas who looked just like him from behind.

  “Who’s that waiting on him?” Dominic asked.

  “That’s Leslie, one of my clerks. Would you like to talk to her?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  Unfortunately, Leslie didn’t have much to add. The man had paid in cash; he’d been pleasant, but not so friendly as to draw attention to himself. In fact, she didn’t remember him at all until she was shown the tape, and even then, she could barely describe his face. He’d gotten in and out without making any real impression whatsoever.

  Dominic thanked both women for their time and pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialing Levi as he left the shop. What he’d found wasn’t much, but no detail could be overlooked in a murder investigation, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

  Levi answered with a simple, “Hi,” meaning he’d either saved Dominic to his contacts or he recognized the number from yesterday. Dominic found both options strangely pleasing.

  “Hey. Listen, don’t freak out, but I have some more information for you.”

  He filled Levi in on what he’d been doing and relayed Leslie’s description of the man who’d bought the gift basket.

  “Caucasian male,” Levi read back to him, “mid-thirties, average height and build, brown hair? Let me get right on that APB!”

  “I know it’s not that helpful,” said Dominic. “And there’s no way to know if that’s the Seven of Spades or just a courier. But at least it’s something, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s something. We’ve got a whole lot of little somethings that add up to one big nothing.”

  Levi sounded even more tense than usual—which, for a man who seemed to walk through his day like a wind-up toy wound three notches too tight, was pretty impressive.

  “Are you okay?” Dominic asked.

  “I . . .” Levi’s heavy exhalation crackled in Dominic’s ear. “I’m just frustrated, I guess.”

  A muffled female voice in the background said, “I know a solution for that!”

  “That’s great, Martine, thank you.”

  “What’s going on?” Dominic said, with no expectation that Levi would actually tell him.

  He did, though, bringing Dominic up to speed on the burglars’ interrogations and their progress—or rather, their lack thereof. Dominic ambled down the sidewalk while he listened, enjoying the fresh air.

  “Anyway, it turns out the mailbox was rented under the identity of a man who died ten years ago,” Levi said as he wrapped things up. “Shocker. There are no internal security cameras in the store, and none of the employees can remember the person who rented it or ever seeing anyone open it.”

  “What about the cell phones? Any luck there?”

  “Multiple burners, each used only once. And the dead drop locations don’t form any particular pattern—at least, not as far as we can tell.”

  No wonder Levi was frustrated. “Something’s gotta give eventually,” Dominic said. “Every bounty makes a mistake at some point, and I’m guessing killers aren’t any different. They’ll slip up somewhere, and you’ll catch it.”

  “Maybe.” Levi’s tone was no more optimistic now than it’d been at the start of their conversation. “Should I be expecting more calls like this from you?”

  Dominic stepped aside to clear a path for a woman pushing a stroller. “No way. I’m out. I’ll admit I can be reckless sometimes, and this killer pushes buttons I didn’t even know I had, but I’m not stupid enough to keep tempting fate. I’m bartending at Stingray tonight, anyway.”

  “You’re going back to work already?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine, really. Little bit of a headache left, that’s all.”

  “Okay. Take care of yourself, then, and I’ll see you around.”

  “You too. Bye.” Dominic hung up and headed back toward his truck, his shoulders already lightening with relief. This case would continue nagging at him, there was no question about it, but he wasn’t going to take responsibility for it any longer.

  Levi was right—he was a civilian. And this civilian had a job to get to.

  In deference to his lingering headache, Dominic switched spots with another bartender so he could work the mellower bar in the club’s courtyard. He would make less in tips, but the music was played at a lower volume out there and the bass was much less intense.

  The other advantage of working outside was that it made for easier conversation. Dominic took full advantage, flirting up a storm with the men who hung around the bar; by the time several hours had passed, he had a few good prospects li
ned up for the end of the evening.

  Then he turned around from the beer cooler, two bottles of Heineken in one hand, and almost dropped them right on the ground.

  Levi Abrams was sitting at his bar.

  Levi Abrams. At a bar. In a gay nightclub.

  “What,” Dominic said, and that was as far as he got before he ran out of words.

  Levi was wearing a dress shirt and trousers, but no jacket or tie. He had a bit of a five o’clock shadow, which Dominic had never seen on him before, and generally looked rough around the edges—though combined with his sharp gray eyes and hollow cheeks, it only made him more attractive. Half the men in the courtyard were checking him out.

  “I want to get drunk.” Levi looked him in the eye. “Can you help me with that?”

  Dominic realized the men whose beers he was holding were waiting impatiently a few spots down the bar. He handed the bottles over without a word—the men had an open tab—and turned back to Levi. “If you get drunk here, you’re gonna have guys cruising you hard from all sides. Is that what you’re after?”

  “No,” said Levi. “But I’m going to drink myself blind tonight no matter what, and it’ll be safer if I do it here, around someone who won’t let anything happen to me.”

  Dominic stared at him. “You trust me that much?”

  “How’s your head?” Levi said pointedly.

  A week earlier, Dominic couldn’t have imagined Levi describing him as trustworthy under any circumstances. Now he felt the same way he did when his sister Angela’s cat—a standoffish bastard with a wicked set of claws—came to him for petting while regally ignoring everyone else in the room.

  Not that he would ever make that comparison to Levi’s face.

  “So what’s your drink, then?” he asked.

  “Old Fashioned.”

  Dominic bit the inside of his cheek and busied himself straightening the bottles in the well while he struggled not to laugh. “Come on, you can’t set me up like that,” he finally said. “It’s not fair.”

  Levi rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “Let’s broaden your horizons a little. I’ll make you something I’ll bet you’ve never had before.”