Kill Game

by Cordelia Kingsbridge

  Last night, he’d called Jasmine and asked her to keep Rebel at her and Carlos’s place, hinting but never stating outright that he’d just been balls-deep in the tightest ass he’d ever fucked and had no intention of leaving. Then he and Levi had eaten room service in bed and traded hungry, enthusiastic blowjobs before falling into an exhausted sleep.

  At no point had either of them mentioned the one thing that made the night less than perfect: the fact that Levi was inarguably on the rebound. Dominic had no problem with a single amazing night, but he wasn’t going to get more involved with a man who had so recently ended a serious relationship, no matter how much he wanted to, and he was pretty sure Levi understood that. So they just hadn’t talked about it.

  “Do you know how creepy you’re being right now?” Levi said with his eyes still shut.

  Dominic jerked backward and took a sharp breath. He hadn’t noticed any sign whatsoever that Levi had woken up. “How long have you been awake?”

  “How long have you been staring at me?” Levi countered. Now he opened his eyes and gave Dominic a sleepy smile, though he didn’t otherwise move.

  “I wasn’t staring. I was admiring.” With Levi awake, Dominic could no longer keep his hands to himself. He stroked his fingers along Levi’s spine and watched with pleasure as Levi arched into the caress like a cat.

  Then Levi looked at Dominic’s shoulder, where a violent purple-black bruise had blossomed overnight, and his smile dimmed. He reached out as if to touch it, but stopped before his fingertips made contact. “God, Dominic, your shoulder is totally fucked up.”

  “It’s just a deep bruise. I’ve had worse.”

  Levi’s fingers grazed the old gunshot scar not far from the bruise. “You’re not kidding.” Rolling onto his side, he moved his hand to Dominic’s face and traced the lines of his nose. “How’d you break your nose?”

  “Bar fight,” Dominic said without further explanation, just so he could see Levi’s reaction.

  He wasn’t disappointed. Levi’s expression went from surprise to incredulity to weary resignation, all in a matter of moments. “You’re not joking, are you?”

  “Nope. This drunk homophobic asshole called me a—well, let’s just say I took offense. I couldn’t just let it go.”

  “And walked away with a broken nose for your trouble.”

  “He didn’t walk away at all,” Dominic said, still satisfied by the memory. Then, seeing the appalled look on Levi’s face, he quickly clarified. “Because I’d knocked him out, that’s all. Guy had a glass jaw. He was fine afterward.”

  “I know I’m supposed to disapprove,” said Levi. He ran his hand over Dominic’s chest. “You can’t just go around hitting people because they’re rude. But I’ve wanted to do exactly that so many times that all I really feel is jealous.”

  “You’re too classy to get into a bar fight unless you’re in real danger.” Dominic sighed as Levi’s hand made an intriguing trip southward. “I would like to spar with you some day, though. See if I could take you.”

  His voice husky, Levi said, “You didn’t have trouble taking me last night.”

  “Clever.” Dominic’s breath caught as Levi’s hand squeezed his cock, encouraging his morning semi into full hardness.

  “The truth is, you could probably knock me out in one blow if the conditions were right.” Levi continued jerking Dominic off while he spoke. “But you’d have to land that blow first, and that’s where I’d give you problems. I’d never go toe-to-toe unarmed with a man your size if I had any other option. I’d just be looking to disable you as fast as possible and get the hell out of there.”

  “What if you had to arrest me?” Dominic asked, enjoying the challenge of carrying on a conversation while receiving a handjob.

  “In that case, I’d almost definitely be armed, which would change the entire dynamic. Different tactics, different techniques.”

  Dominic thrust into Levi’s hand. “God, that’s so hot.”

  Levi blinked, then rolled his eyes and looked away with a small half smile—an expression which Dominic was coming to learn meant he was embarrassed but still pleased.

  Brushing a thumb along Levi’s sharp cheekbone, Dominic said, “We really need to talk.”

  “I know. But can it wait . . .” Levi contemplated his busy hand. “Twenty minutes?”

  “Absolutely,” Dominic said, and pulled him into a kiss.

  They fucked again, spooned up on their sides, moving at a slower pace this time because Levi was sore. Instead of going for deep, hard thrusts like last night, Dominic put all his focus on Levi’s prostate, rolling his hips in a steady rhythm that had Levi squirming in his arms and moaning so sweetly that it took all Dominic’s self-control to stay on task. They came within moments of each other.

  After they’d finished, they showered—separately—and got dressed. Only when they were sitting across from each other at the table with mugs of hotel-room coffee did they address the difficult subject at hand.

  “I don’t regret what happened last night at all,” Dominic said, “but it can’t go any further than this, at least not right now. I’m not interested in being anyone’s rebound. You and Stanton weren’t just dating—you were in love, you lived together for years. You need time to mourn that relationship. Plus, for all I know, you’ll end up getting back together with him.”

  “I won’t.” Levi gazed into his coffee. “You don’t know that, though. I understand. And it’s not like I’m looking to jump from one relationship to another. I’m not ready for that.”

  “But?” Dominic prompted.

  Levi looked up with a troubled expression. “I don’t want to pretend it never happened.”

  “Neither do I! Levi, that’s not what I’m saying.” Dominic reached across the table to take his hand. “This past week has been crazy—serial killers and crime scenes and life-or-death situations every other day. I think we need to get to know each other without all that drama hanging over our heads. Take things slow, you know what I mean?”

  “I always take things slow,” Levi said. He glanced at the wrecked bed and smiled. “Last night excepted, I guess. My question is, can you take things slow without getting bored?”

  Dominic wasn’t offended by the implication—his romantic history was a series of one-night stands and meaningless flings, after all. “With you? Yes, I can.” He squeezed Levi’s hand. “What do you say we wait a couple of weeks and then get coffee, see where that takes us?”

  “Sounds good,” said Levi. Neither of them let go.

  They were jolted into separating by the ring of Levi’s cell phone. Dominic sipped his coffee while Levi got up to retrieve it from the charger on the nightstand. The coffee wasn’t bad, but then, Dominic loaded his up with so much milk and sugar that he could never distinguish much between different brands.

  “Detective Abrams.” Levi was still facing Dominic, so Dominic saw him go pale and tense, all the morning-after lassitude draining right out of him. “Yes. All right. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  He hung up. Knowing there was only one thing that would have caused such a reaction, Dominic said, “The Seven of Spades killed again?”

  “Yes,” Levi said grimly. “And it was really them this time. The five-day grace period is over.”

  Levi’s car flat-out refused to start that morning, its battery finally giving up the ghost. He didn’t have time to get a new one, so he took a cab to an upscale suburban street in Summerlin and walked to the crime scene. It was a boxy mansion in the awkward “desert modern” architectural style he couldn’t stand, all glass and steel and concrete sticking out at odd angles. He logged in with the uniformed officer keeping an eye on the curious neighbors at the edge of the property, ducked under the tape, and met Martine halfway up the long driveway.

  She took one look at him and said, “Oh my God, you slept with Dominic!”

  “What?” He glanced around in a panic, but there was nobody else within earshot. “Why—why would you—”<
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  “Well, you had sex with somebody last night, and the last time we talked, you were alone in a hotel room with Dominic. So unless you ditched him and went running back to Stanton, I’m assuming he’s the reason for your bright eyes and pink cheeks.”

  Levi pressed both hands to his face self-consciously, then dropped them and scowled at Martine. She was grinning from ear to ear.

  “For God’s sake, Martine, somebody died here this morning,” he grumbled.

  “I can’t believe it. It’s so unlike you to jump into bed with someone like that.” Sobering up, she said, “Seriously, though, are you sure that was a good idea? The day after you left Stanton?”

  “Of course it wasn’t a good idea.” Levi pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves as they started up the driveway. “We both agreed to leave it alone for now and take things slow, if we take them anywhere at all.”

  If Levi were sent back in time, he would choose to sleep with Dominic all over again, because it had been an amazing night. A few hours spent in the company of a skilled, generous lover, with no drama or tension between them, had done more to relax him than the most vigorous workout ever could. He’d needed that.

  Still, he couldn’t deny feeling guilty. He’d gone from breaking up with Stanton to having sex with Dominic in little more than twenty-four hours. If Stanton ever found out, he’d be crushed. And it wasn’t like Levi had magically fallen out of love with Stanton overnight. He was hurting and confused and anxious about his uncertain future, missing Stanton even as he felt drawn more and more intensely to Dominic.

  He had a job to do here, however, and that required compartmentalization. Levi set his personal bullshit aside and prepared himself for whatever the Seven of Spades had left this time.

  The doors to the three-car garage stood open, revealing a silver Lexus sedan crawling with crime scene investigators and uniformed officers—including Gibbs, which was the perfect cap to Levi’s morning. He and Martine approached the driver’s side door.

  The victim was a white man in his mid-thirties, clean-cut and preppy. The Seven of Spades had arranged him like he was about to back the car out of the garage—the keys were in the ignition, though the car wasn’t turned on, and his seatbelt was fastened. His hands were fastened to the steering wheel, probably glued the way Goodwin’s hand had been to his beer bottle. Flies buzzed around the gaping wound across his throat.

  The signature playing card was tucked between his left hand and the wheel, and a half-full bottle of whiskey was wedged into the cupholder. The rest of the car was jammed full of empty liquor bottles.

  “I know this guy.” Levi searched his memory for the man’s name. “Benjamin Roth, right?”

  “Yep,” said Martine. “Nobody’s exactly shocked that he was next on the killer’s list.”

  Benjamin Roth’s case had ignited a city-wide controversy a couple of years ago. Driving while intoxicated, he’d struck and killed a young pedestrian named Armando Moitoso. He’d hired a powerhouse defense team whose early strategy had included testimony from a respected psychiatrist, softening up the jury with descriptions of Roth’s “devastating substance dependence” and the havoc it had wreaked on his judgment and impulse control.

  Only two days after the trial had begun, the prosecutor had offered Roth a juicy plea bargain in return for pleading nolo contendere to a much lesser charge—six months’ jail time followed by probation, a hefty fine, community service, and substance abuse counseling. The deal had prompted a widespread outcry, as many people had interpreted it as Roth getting away with murder with little more than a slap on the wrist.

  Apparently, the Seven of Spades agreed.

  “Okay if I open this door?” Levi asked one of the CSIs. When she nodded, he popped the driver’s side door open and leaned in to get a closer look. One clean slice across the victim’s throat, no signs of struggle, no defensive wounds. “We’ll need to run a tox screen to be thorough, but this seems consistent with the Seven of Spades’s MO.”

  “Yeah, except for all these liquor bottles,” Martine pointed out as she circled the car. “The Seven of Spades has never added anything to the scene besides the playing card before, but this is obviously a direct reference to Roth’s crime. Why start doing this now?”

  Levi straightened up. “Maybe they’re feeling more confident and creative now that they’ve got a few kills under their belt. Or maybe coming out publicly got them all fired up. They’re invested in the theatricality of their crimes as much as anything else.”

  “There must be a hundred bottles or more in here. I guess now we know how they spent the past five days.”

  The array of bottles included every imaginable variety of hard liquor, the brands ranging from top shelf to rotgut that Levi wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot pole. “We should check with area liquor stores to see if they’ve had anyone buying in bulk,” he said, making a note for himself. He looked around until he found Gibbs flirting with the coroner investigator and cleared his throat to get the man’s attention. “Who found the victim?”

  “His wife.” Gibbs broke away to join Levi and Martine by the car. “She’d been out of town, and he was supposed to pick her up at the airport this morning. When he never showed, she took an Uber home, ready to tear him a new one, only to find that the Seven of Spades had already done it for her.”

  They both grimaced. “Christ, Gibbs, have some respect,” Martine said.

  Gibbs threw his hands in the air. “For what? This piece of shit killed an innocent guy and got off with a lighter sentence than some people get for marijuana possession. That’s fucked up.”

  “Our legal system couldn’t function without plea bargaining,” Levi said, though he’d been just as appalled by the deal two years ago. He’d always assumed that the prosecutor had panicked after the doctor’s testimony and decided that getting Roth on something was better than the risk of getting him on nothing.

  “Yeah, and what does that say about our legal system?”

  Before Levi could respond, Kelly Marin came running up the driveway, her equipment belt jingling as she skidded to a stop. “They just found another Seven of Spades murder in Henderson!”

  Levi’s jaw dropped. “Already?”

  Martine sent him a troubled glance over the top of the car. “That kind of escalation in timeline is not a good sign.”

  They drove to Henderson, making better time on a Sunday than they would have during the week. Like Roth, this murder had been committed in the victim’s home. She sat on the living room couch, bundled up in pajamas and a robe, the seven of spades card tucked into the robe’s blood-soaked pocket. A plastic grocery bag stuffed with wadded-up tissues sat next to her, and there was a bottle of cough medicine on the coffee table beside a glass of orange juice. Over a dozen neat piles of paper were stacked on her lap, the couch, and the floor around her feet.

  Levi and Martine just stood in the living room and stared.

  The victim was Loretta Kane, the deputy district attorney who’d prosecuted Roth’s case.

  “I guess the race and sex of the previous victims were coincidences,” Levi finally said. While all the other victims had been white men, Kane was a black woman.

  “Why would the Seven of Spades target her?” Martine asked, shaking her head and looking as baffled as Levi felt. “She wasn’t a criminal!”

  The responding officer hustled over to give them his report as the crime scene photographer got to work. Due to her bad head cold, Kane had stayed home while her family had gone out to church and a potluck lunch. Her husband had found her upon their return home; he was in such a bad state that he’d since been sedated and sent to the hospital. The kids, who fortunately hadn’t seen anything, were being looked after by an aunt.

  After the photographer had finished, Levi and Martine checked out the stacked papers. He started with the pile on Kane’s lap, since he’d lay money on that being the most important one. He rifled through the papers, and since he’d never had any training in forensic accounti
ng, it took him a few minutes to understand what he was looking at. Once he did, he sucked in a breath and spun around.

  “Holy shit, Martine, look at this.” He pointed to a line on the top page, a statement from Kane’s checking account, which indicated a deposit of ten thousand dollars on February 18, 2014. “I’d have to double-check the date, but I think this deposit is from the same week as Roth’s trial. It’s from a consulting firm, but when you look through the rest of these documents . . .” He shuffled through the papers. “That’s just a shell company, owned by another shell company, on and on until it circles back around to Dorsey Technologies. Roth sits on their board of directors.”

  Martine tapped her own stack of papers; she had her phone out in her free hand. “I’m pretty sure I’m looking at the same thing here—only from five years ago. I’ve been trying to figure out who’s connected to the company at the end of this paper trail.” Her thumb slid across the screen of her phone, and then she groaned in disgust. “Clay Adkins.”

  “That rapist who served less than a year of time?”

  They looked at each other for a moment, Martine cursed under her breath, and they turned their attention to the rest of the documents.

  The Seven of Spades’s research was exhaustive, the evidence overwhelming. For over a decade, Loretta Kane had been accepting bribes—in the guise of legal consulting fees from shell companies—in exchange for offering the occasional wealthy defendant juicy plea bargains so generous they skated right on the edge of common sense and decency.

  “How could the Seven of Spades know about this?” Levi sat on the floor with Martine, careful to return each paper to its original position after he’d examined it. All of this still had to be bagged and tagged, plus reviewed by an actual forensic accountant to verify their conclusions.