“But Levi . . .” Carmen couldn’t quite look him in the eye as she spoke. “It would explain why the Seven of Spades has always been so obsessed with you and Dominic.”
Martine made a thoughtful noise. “The killings started about the time your relationship with Stanton was hitting the rocks. And the Seven of Spades reappeared just when you and Dominic were getting serious.”
His jaw dropping, Levi said, “Martine, you can’t really believe this.”
“I don’t want to. But I’m also not going to reject the possibility out of hand based on my personal feelings.”
“Barclay certainly has the intelligence and resources to commit these murders,” Rohan said. “His relationship with Detective Abrams and his friendships throughout the LVMPD and the DA’s office would provide him with familiarity with police protocol as well as insider information. And whatever he couldn’t access with social influence he could obtain with money. What other suspect do we have who could afford to pay a contract killer three hundred thousand dollars?”
Levi closed his eyes in an effort to control his temper, which he could feel slipping away from him the way it did so easily these days. “Stanton isn’t a murderer.”
Until that point, Wen had observed the meeting in silence. Now he said, “If you advise against arrest, Ms. Rashid, what course of action would you suggest?”
“Send Levi to talk to him.”
Everybody at the table stared at her.
“Isn’t that kind of a conflict of interest?” Martine asked.
“Oh, it’s an enormous conflict of interest,” said Leila. “Under no circumstances should Levi be the one to arrest Barclay or officially interrogate him if it comes to that. But a casual, informal interview just to sound Barclay out and see what he knows? He’ll respond better to Levi than anyone else.”
“You want me to lie to him.” Levi knew exactly what she meant, even if she’d talked around it rather than stating it outright. “You want me to meet with Stanton under false pretenses and hide the real reason we’re talking so that he doesn’t think he needs legal representation.”
She shrugged. “He doesn’t. If you’re off duty, it’s just two exes having a friendly conversation.”
“Except that’s not what it would be!”
“You want to prove Barclay is innocent? This is how you do it. In the meantime, your team can dig deeper. Verify everything you’ve learned so far, and at the very least confirm that Barclay doesn’t have a bulletproof alibi for any of the Seven of Spades’s murders. I can tell you right now the DA’s office won’t bring charges with anything less. And I’d advise keeping this information limited to the people in this room for now.”
Wen took charge then, laying out a strategy for the next steps in the investigation. Levi only half listened. He was sick at the thought of deceiving Stanton this way, but he couldn’t come up with a better alternative.
After the meeting adjourned, he left the substation and retreated to an isolated corner of the parking lot. Standing beside one of the thin, gnarled trees characteristic of the desert landscaping, he stared at Stanton’s office number on his phone and tried to work up the nerve to call him.
He called Dominic instead.
He had already called Dominic twice earlier, right after Carmen dropped her bombshell. Dominic hadn’t answered either time, though, and he didn’t want to put information this sensitive in a text.
The phone rang five times before going to voice mail.
“Hi, you’ve reached Dominic Russo. I’m not available right now, so please—”
Levi hung up without leaving a message.
The Barclay Las Vegas was the most elegant hotel and casino on the North Strip, rejecting gaudy décor and over-the-top gimmicks for classic Old Hollywood glamour. Levi had lived on the property for two years, in one of the residential towers behind the main hotel, but he hadn’t been back here in months.
He entered Hush, a cocktail lounge on the first floor that lived up to its name. It was soundproofed against the noise of the surrounding casino, humming with quiet conversation and the clink of glass as guests shared drinks in plush, intimate leather booths. The room was dimly lit, the carpet underneath so thick that Levi’s feet sank into it.
“Detective Abrams,” the hostess said before he even turned to her. “This way, please.”
She led him to the far back corner, where Stanton was waiting in one of the more private booths. He stood as they approached.
He fit right in with the theme of his hotel, thick brown hair swept back from an achingly handsome face defined by piercing blue eyes and a dimpled chin. His charcoal-gray suit was tailored to flatter his long, lean body, his silk pocket square arranged in a perfect puff fold in his breast pocket.
“Levi,” he said. He had a look of such anxious hope on his face that Levi almost fled right then.
This wasn’t right.
“Stanton. It’s nice to see you.” Levi hovered awkwardly at the edge of the table. He didn’t know what to do—did they shake hands? Hug?
After they spent a moment gazing at each other, Stanton gestured to the booth and said, “Please, sit.”
Levi slid across the leather seat. When he’d called this afternoon, he’d gone through Stanton’s assistant, not wanting to presume he still had a right to call Stanton’s cell. Stanton had cleared his evening immediately and suggested they meet for dinner; Levi had been the one to propose drinks instead. He wouldn’t be able to stomach food while he lied to Stanton’s face and explored the possibility that his ex-boyfriend might be a serial killer.
A server appeared beside their table, soundless on the carpeted floor. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Barclay?”
“A Hendricks martini, please, very dry. And he’ll have a—” Stanton caught himself with a wince. “No, sorry. Old habits die hard.”
“It’s okay,” said Levi. “A Boulevardier, please.”
This wasn’t the kind of bar where he had to explain what a Boulevardier was. The server nodded briskly and headed off.
Stanton looked surprised, and Levi felt a stirring of doubt. Should he have ordered an Old Fashioned like he always used to? Stanton didn’t know why he’d changed his drink, but it still might have been more tactful.
A minute ticked by in silence. “It’s been a long time,” Stanton said eventually. “You said on the phone you wanted to talk?”
“Yes. I . . .”
Levi stopped there, the words stuck in his throat. God, he couldn’t do this. He was supposed to begin with a discussion of the Barclay Foundation’s long-standing partnership with the LVMPD in sponsoring community programs, so that he could lead the conversation around to the foundation itself and how involved Stanton was with the actual finances.
He wasn’t a skilled liar, though, and every detail of the night so far made it clear Stanton hoped this would lead to something more. Levi couldn’t do this. It was too cruel.
“Levi,” Stanton said, his forehead creased with concern. “Are you all right?”
Levi opened his mouth, intending some sort of glib deflection, but that’s not what came out.
“No,” he whispered. “I’m not all right.”
It was a relief to admit it, to say it aloud. He wasn’t all right; he hadn’t been all right for a long time. What was the point in pretending he was?
Stanton started to speak, but held his tongue when the server returned with their drinks. Levi hid his shaking hands under the table.
Once the server had left, Stanton said, “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know how much attention you’ve been paying to the Seven of Spades case . . .”
Stanton met his eyes across the table. “I’ve followed every moment of it. Tell me.”
It was difficult for Levi to begin, but the more he talked, the more easily the words came. Everything spilled out of him—the frustrations of making no progress in the case, his growing insecurity about not being able to solve it, his horror when he’d realized h
e fit the Seven of Spades’s profile. His ever-increasing paranoia about being watched and followed. His unmanageable anger. His nightmares.
By the time he ran out of steam, they’d both drained their drinks to the last drop, though Stanton had waved off the server’s offer of another round. They had moved closer to each other in the semicircular booth, close enough that Stanton could put a hand on Levi’s arm without reaching across the table.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I had no idea things had gotten that bad. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You’ve told me more than once that you didn’t like the way my job affected me.”
“Levi—”
“Maybe you were right.” Levi rattled the ice in his glass. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so close to this kind of darkness.”
“When I said those things, I never meant that you weren’t strong enough or capable enough to handle it. All I meant was that I wanted you to be happy, and I didn’t think working Homicide was doing that for you.”
When Levi didn’t respond, Stanton grasped his chin and turned his face so they were eye to eye.
“But you’ll never quit,” Stanton said with fond exasperation. “Especially not with the Seven of Spades still at large. I know you, Levi. If they try to take that case away from you, they’ll have to pry it out of your cold dead hands.”
Levi let out a quiet laugh. Stanton smiled and released his chin.
“How involved are you with the Barclay Foundation?” Levi asked.
Stanton blinked but didn’t question the abrupt change of topic—probably because three years with Levi had conditioned him to expect sudden conversational shifts when things were getting too emotional. “Well, you know my mother handed the reins over to me a few years ago so she could concentrate on developing our properties in Asia. But the foundation has its own executive structure and board of directors. It’s an independent entity from the Barclay Hospitality Group.”
“Do you choose which organizations the foundation supports?”
“Beneficiaries are chosen by consensus, but yes, I have final approval.”
Toying with the cocktail stirrer in his empty glass, Levi said, “So you make the transfers yourself?”
Now Stanton looked bewildered. “Transfers? What do you mean?”
“The bank transfers with the donations.”
“We don’t make our donations via bank transfer,” Stanton said, sounding mildly affronted, as if Levi had suggested he might serve Thanksgiving dinner on anything other than the fine china. “It’s done by paper check.”
That brought Levi up short. “But you must pay for some things electronically.”
“Operating costs, I suppose. Utilities, employees’ salaries, things of that nature. It comes out of a separate budget from the donations.”
“And does your system keep track of who authorizes which payments?”
Stanton was silent for a moment. Then he shifted backward in the booth, away from Levi, and stared at him.
“Why did you really want to meet me tonight?” he said, his voice hard.
Levi dropped his eyes to the table.
“Levi. Answer me.”
“I told you we were looking for the contract killer who shot Drew Barton. The truth is, we already found him. He won’t give us anything, but we were able to access his financial records and trace the payments he received for Barton’s murder.” He looked up. “They came from the Barclay Foundation. And they were authorized by you.”
Stanton’s face went slack. “This is an interrogation,” he said dazedly. “You’ve been interrogating me?”
“No! Stanton, I know you have nothing to do with the Seven of Spades. I’m just trying to figure out how the real killer made it look like you do.”
“This entire evening was a ruse to get close to me for your investigation.” The shock was beginning to clear from Stanton’s face, replaced by a furious hurt.
“No.” Levi’s stomach churned with guilt and desperation. He slid closer to Stanton, but when Stanton backed up again, he stayed where he was. “I never planned on telling you the things I did tonight. I just—I needed someone to talk to.”
“And your big manly boyfriend wasn’t available, so I was the next best thing?”
Levi flinched. “Don’t.”
Leveling him with a cold glare, Stanton said, “Am I under arrest?”
“No, of course not.”
“Good.” Stanton got out of the booth, buttoning his jacket as he stood.
“Please don’t leave like this,” Levi said.
“If you or anyone else at the LVMPD has something to say to me, you can say it to my lawyer.” Stanton’s gaze flickered over the empty glasses. “I’ll let you pay for the drinks. I know how much you hated it when I treated you like a whore.”
He strode away. Still reeling from that parting shot, Levi sat motionless for a few seconds before burying his face in his hands.
Levi allowed himself a single dry sob—just one. Then he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes and sat upright.
He deserved every ounce of Stanton’s anger. He had misled him, deceived him, treated him with disrespect—and that was just tonight, let alone the way their relationship had ended. Even the dig about being a whore had been Stanton throwing Levi’s own words back in his face, not something Stanton had ever thought himself.
Levi pulled out his phone and dialed Dominic’s cell.
“Please pick up,” he said under his breath while he listened to it ring. “Please, Dominic. Please.”
Dominic didn’t pick up.
“Do you need to get that?” Jessica asked.
Dominic shoved his phone back into his pocket. “No, it can wait.” Levi had called him a few times today, but since he’d never left a voice mail or even sent a text, it couldn’t be that important.
At the very least, it wasn’t more important than Jessica. She had finally shown up at the traveling underground casino again, and Dominic had jumped at the chance to speak to her in private. By now, he’d established his presence within the gambling ring well enough that he and Jessica didn’t raise any eyebrows grabbing a drink together at a quiet corner of the bar.
She regarded him over the rim of her wineglass. “Was it your boyfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“You really are gay, then? That wasn’t just something you said to cool Johnny off?”
“I’m really gay,” Dominic said with some amusement.
She ducked her head. “Sorry. I try not to make assumptions, but . . . you know.”
“I get it. We’ve all done it.”
He sipped his beer, Natasha’s advice echoing in the back of his mind. He would wait and let Jessica direct the course of the conversation no matter how badly he wanted to start proposing escape plans.
She glanced around, but nobody was close enough to overhear them. “How are my parents?”
“Sad. Worried.” His eyes traveled to the faint bruise on her wrist. “How are you?”
Shaking the long sleeve of her dress down, she said, “Fine.”
He nodded.
“Johnny doesn’t hit me,” she said a moment later. “Sometimes he grabs me too hard, or pushes me, but it’s not like . . . I don’t want you to think he beats me or whatever. He wouldn’t. The one time he slapped my face, Sergei saw him do it and almost killed him.”
Careful to keep his opinions to himself, Dominic said, “Was he always like this?”
“No.” Her expression softened as she gazed into the distance. “When we first met, he was so sweet. Exciting. I’d always played by the rules, and he showed me how to break them a little—not in a way that would hurt anyone, just enough to make life more interesting.” Sighing, she pushed her wine away. “I couldn’t even tell you how or when things changed. He had me so messed up and confused that by the time I figured out what was really happening, it was too late.”
“It’s not too late,” said Dominic.
The smile she gav
e him was weak but genuine. “You’re sweet too, but you’re wrong. Johnny will never let me go. It’s not just about his ego, either. I know too much.”
“Because he and his cousin are involved with the Slavic Collective?”
Her eyebrows shot up.
“Before I was a PI, I was a bounty hunter. I’m pretty familiar with the criminal elements in Southern Nevada.”
“Then you must get it,” she said. “People don’t walk out on the Collective. Even if I could get away, which I can’t imagine, they’d come after me. My parents. We’d never be safe.”
She had a point—one he’d already considered. The solution to her dilemma was obvious, but he couldn’t just state it outright. He needed her to come to her own conclusions.
A rousing cheer went up from a nearby craps table, distracting them both for a second. Emily Park’s younger brother, the blithe and carefree Danny, was having a run of his usual good luck as he threw the dice. Surrounded by beautiful women, he was grinning and tossing back tequila shots, looking like he was having the time of his life.
Placing a hand on Dominic’s arm, Jessica said, “You did your job. You found me. Just tell my parents I’m happy and I don’t want to leave.”
“Jessica—”
“You don’t have to keep coming here. Sergei said you’ve been almost every night for a week.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What else has Sergei said about me?”
“He thinks you have a gambling problem. But that’s just because he doesn’t know the truth, thank God.”
The truth. Right.
“I’m not only coming here for you,” Dominic said, steering the conversation back on track. “I know a fancy traveling underground casino may not seem like a big deal, but the money Sergei and his partners make here goes on to fund the drug trade, arms trafficking . . . I can’t turn a blind eye.”
“So, what, you’re undercover? You’re not a cop.”
“No.” He paused as the bartender skirted too close to their private end of the bar, and waited until the man moved away before continuing. “But my boyfriend is.”
Her eyes widened. “You’ve been passing him information?”
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