Cash Plays

by Cordelia Kingsbridge

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” he’d said.

  “Levi—”

  “I want to be very clear that I’m not angry you relapsed,” Levi had said, not giving Dominic a chance to speak. “Natasha’s always saying that relapse is part of recovery. I’m angry that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me, and that you deliberately hurt me to make it easier to hide. I need time.”

  With that, he’d hung up, leaving Dominic staring at a blank screen.

  Dominic ran that conversation through his mind over and over as he got into his truck at the end of the workday. He’d been trying not to obsess over it. Levi had plenty of his own shit to deal with right now, not the least of which was the fact that he’d shot a man—to protect Dominic. He needed time and space to process, and then Dominic would apologize and make it up to him, and everything would be fine.

  But what if everything wasn’t fine? What if Levi decided he’d had enough? Maybe Dominic’s actions had been unforgivable.

  He’d spent weeks avoiding and ignoring the people most important to him. He’d let Carlos down as his best man; he had no idea how his baby sister was doing in the last days of her pregnancy. He’d almost lost his job, and now he might lose the man he loved.

  He was a disappointment to everyone. A total fuckup. A worthless piece of shit.

  Without really meaning to, he turned onto Koval Lane instead of continuing east toward his apartment. He cruised down the road and slowed as he approached the Ellis Island Casino, gazing at it through the windshield.

  Everywhere he turned, he was confronted by his failures—as a son, a brother, an employee, a boyfriend. His self-hatred was suffocating, crushing the oxygen out of his lungs while his insides twisted and writhed like he’d been poisoned.

  He’d do anything to make that feeling go away.

  Levi hung up the phone with a sense of detachment from reality. Dr. Maldonado had been kind, but she hadn’t understood the effect her call would have.

  The man Levi had shot had died in the hospital two hours ago. Levi was officially a killer.

  Again.

  A loud slam jerked him rudely back to the present, and he jumped in his chair. He looked up at Valeria Montoya, the impassive Internal Affairs detective whose searing eyes always gave him the impression he was being x-rayed. She’d dropped an enormous stuffed file box on his desk.

  “Um . . . hi,” he said when it seemed she was just going to stand there in silence.

  “I have concerns about your emotional stability,” she said.

  “Wow, okay—”

  She held up a hand. “That being said, I also believe you’re the only person who has a real chance of stopping the Seven of Spades. So I’m giving you these.” She patted the folders inside the open box.

  “And they are?”

  “For the past six months, I’ve been conducting exhaustive research on personnel in the LVMPD, the DA’s office, and associated organizations. When Agent Chaudhary shared his profile, I was able to narrow my search and target specific elements of their backgrounds, focusing especially on experiences of trauma. This is the result of that research.”

  His eyes widened as he took in the box. “There must be a hundred folders in there.”

  “This is box one of three.” She saw his dismay and smiled. “The problem with using trauma as a defining characteristic of the profile is that many people enter law enforcement and prosecution because of a traumatic experience. It’s not at all uncommon in our field.”

  True enough. He pulled out the top folder, then did a double-take as he read the name on the tab. “You made one for yourself?”

  “You shouldn’t rule anyone out,” she said, looking at him steadily. “When I was twelve, I was home alone with my little sister one night. I heard noises coming from her bedroom and I saw through a crack in the door that a man had broken in through her window and was in her bed. So I got my father’s shotgun and I killed him.”

  She told her story without expression or inflection, which somehow only made it more horrifying. At a loss for words, Levi could only think to say, “I’m sorry.”

  “As I’m sorry for what happened to you.”

  He blinked and looked into the box again. The second folder bore his own name.

  “There are things in here you shouldn’t know about your colleagues,” Montoya said. “Secrets they have a right to keep. But sometimes we have to bend ethical boundaries to prevent a greater harm.”

  Nodding, he reached for the box. She put a hand on his.

  “You may learn things you’d rather not know. The real reason your friend Leila Rashid moved to Las Vegas, for example. Can I trust you to handle this information with the appropriate sensitivity?”

  “Of course. It won’t go any further than me and Martine. We both know how to keep our mouths shut.”

  She released him and stepped back. “Then I’ll have the other two boxes sent to you, and I’ll continue my own investigation as well. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “Thank you,” he said, though that felt inadequate in the face of what she’d offered him. She inclined her head, her fierce hawk-like gaze softening for a split second before she turned away.

  He set her folder down and picked up his own. Not only had Montoya found newspaper clippings about his assault, she’d somehow obtained a copy of the entire file from the police department in New Jersey—responding officers’ reports, witness statements, the hospital’s account of his injuries. Behind that was the LVMPD’s own file on the Dale Slater case, including the determination that Levi’s actions had been ruled justifiable homicide. Then there was his certification from the IKMF as an E1-level practitioner, his own report on his violent altercation with Kyle Gilmore over the summer, the transcript from Drew Barton’s trial in which the defense lawyer had accused Levi of being the Seven of Spades . . .

  He snapped the folder shut and tossed it aside. He was surprised she hadn’t stopped there and pointed the finger straight at him. Had she been this thorough with everyone?

  Leila’s folder was next. He flipped it open to a printout of an online article from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.

  Six Dead in Fire at Local Mosque

  “Oh God.” Levi scanned the article for the salient details: the fire had been set deliberately, there were no suspects, and one of the victim’s surnames was Rashid. An obituary behind the article proved that the man was Leila’s father. Beyond that, the St. Louis police report confirmed that the arson case was still open and, reading between the lines, would likely never be solved.

  The fire had been almost a year ago, and Leila had moved to Las Vegas one month before the Seven of Spades had started dropping bodies with their signature calling card.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, diving back into the box.

  He lost track of time, sucked into a black hole of his colleagues’ dark secrets and painful histories. Montoya was right—these folders were full of things he neither wanted nor deserved to know. It was morbid and depressing, even violating, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

  Martine, who had been out wrapping up a few final details on a case, returned to the substation around nine. “Levi, what are you still doing here?” she said when she approached their adjoining desks. “You should have gone home hours ago.”

  “You’re still here,” he said without looking up.

  She sighed. “What are you doing? What is all this?”

  He told her about Montoya’s surprising delivery, then gestured to the folders littering his desk. “You would not believe the insane things she was able to find out about everyone we work with. Did you know Jonah Gibbs was arrested as a juvenile for assaulting his father with a deadly weapon? The charges were dropped when it turned out he’d done it to protect his mother.”

  Martine’s forehead creased. “That seems like something that should have been sealed.”

  “Apparently that doesn’t stop Montoya.” He picked up another folder and shook it.
“Sergeant Wen was shot by friendly fire while serving with the Marines. A superior officer who tried to cover it up was later court-martialed.”

  “Shit.”

  “Montoya has everything,” he said, stacking the folders on top of each other one by one as he went through them. “What happened to me in college. Carmen’s brother’s accident. The time Natasha was attacked in a client’s home when she was working in victim advocacy. That incident when you and Antoine were hassled by those racist cops in California. You know that sweet, quiet receptionist in the DA’s office—Tamara?”

  Martine nodded.

  “She killed her rapist. Got his gun away from him and shot him in the face while he was on top of her. Can you even imagine what it’s like to live with memories of something like that?”

  “No, I can’t, and I shouldn’t,” said Martine. “We have no right to know this about that poor woman at all.”

  “I know. I know that, but . . . the Seven of Spades could be somewhere in here, Martine. The reason they kill the way they do—I could be looking right at it.”

  “And? Are you any closer to figuring it out now than you were before you started reading this stuff?” She took in his expression and snorted. “Of course not, because judging by the number of files here, the Seven of Spades could be almost anyone. Hell, it could be Montoya herself. Giving you these could all be part of the game, fucking with your head.”

  That had occurred to him, but even if it were true, it didn’t change anything. He couldn’t turn his back on this. “At least now we have a more targeted list of suspects. We can check alibis against the murders, look for connections to people licensed to handle ketamine—”

  “Did you guys hear the news?” said an unwelcome voice to their right.

  “Don’t you ever go home, Gibbs?” Levi asked wearily. Somehow Gibbs’s schedule always seemed to line up with his own, making the man’s irritating presence a constant distraction.

  Gibbs gave him a sunny smile. “I was just about to clock out, actually, but my shift got extended. You guys really don’t know what happened?” He drew out a long pause until Levi was ready to smack him, then said, “Carmen Rivera escaped custody a few hours ago.”

  Levi and Martine both bolted upright. “What?”

  “She had a seizure in her cell at the CCDC and became unresponsive, so they rushed her to the hospital. The ambulance got jacked on the way there, and Carmen was abducted. But the best part? The guards and paramedics weren’t killed, just knocked unconscious, and they all swear the guys who did it had hornet tattoos.”

  Los Avispones—the Seven of Spades’s go-to gang when the killer was unable to conduct their own dirty deeds. And the Seven of Spades would have insisted on no innocent deaths.

  “The LVMPD’s mobilizing a manhunt,” Gibbs said, “but if you ask me, Carmen’s long gone by now. The Seven of Spades will take care of her.”

  “Why am I not surprised that you sound happy about that?” Martine said icily.

  “Hey, Carmen’s a good person, and she was doing what she thought was right. She doesn’t deserve to go to prison for that.”

  Martine and Gibbs were clearly gearing up to go another five rounds on their never-ending argument over the Seven of Spades, so Levi was relieved when his cell phone rang. He grabbed it, mumbled an excuse, and hurried a few feet away to a quiet spot.

  He did feel a spike of anxiety when he saw the caller was Dominic’s mother. “Rita?” he said. “Is something wrong?”

  “You’re such a cop,” she teased, and he laughed. “No, honey, everything’s fine. I’m sorry to call so late.”

  “Don’t worry about it; I’m actually still at work. What’s up?”

  “I’m at Centennial Hills with Gina. She had her baby a couple hours ago—a little girl. Isabelle Christina.”

  “Mazel tov,” he said, smiling. “How are they doing?”

  “Tired, but both in perfect health. If you have time to visit, Gina would love to see you. Visiting hours are technically over, but they make exceptions for family.”

  He swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. “Of course. I’ll leave right now.” He didn’t have it in him to hunt down a former colleague anyway, and he’d put in more than enough hours over the past couple of weeks.

  “We’ll see you soon, then. And . . . Levi?”

  “Yes?”

  After a brief hesitation, she said, “We’ve been calling and texting Dominic all day, ever since Gina went into labor this morning, but none of us have heard from him. We must have left him dozens of messages by now. Do you have any idea where he is?”

  Her words said one thing, but the dread and heartache in her voice said another: Is he gambling again?

  A cool rage sank into Levi’s bones, and his hand tightened around his phone. “I can find him.”

  Dominic studied his cards against the blackjack dealer’s. He’d originally been dealt a three and a seven, and he’d hit for a six. Now he was in a tricky situation—sixteen against the dealer’s ten.

  Under most circumstances, he’d take a chance and hit again. But because his cards were so small, as were some of the other players’, many of the cards that could give him a winning hand had been removed from the single deck. It was too likely he’d bust at this point if he drew another.

  He waved his hand from side to side over his cards to indicate he was standing. The game continued around the table, and once everyone’s hand had been played out, the dealer turned over her hole card.

  Queen of Hearts, giving her a total of twenty. Dominic sighed as his chips were raked away.

  “I would have hit,” Levi said from behind him.

  Dominic went rigid. Before he could turn around, Levi’s hand grasped the nape of his neck, fingers digging in hard enough to make him grunt.

  “You’re done for the night,” Levi said pleasantly, leaning in to speak in his ear. “Cash out your chips and come with me.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll arrest you and drag you out of here in handcuffs.”

  Dominic started to scoff until he caught a glimpse of Levi’s face and realized he was dead serious. “Arrest me for what?” Dominic hissed, very aware of all the curious eyes on them.

  “I directly witnessed you commit several serious crimes on Friday night. It’d be a shame if the LVMPD changed their minds about letting that slide.”

  Dominic knew when he’d been backed into a corner. He reluctantly withdrew from the blackjack table and exchanged his chips at the cashier with Levi shadowing him every step of the way like the Grim Reaper.

  Anxiety churned his stomach. He wasn’t sure how or why Levi had tracked him down, but he was well and truly screwed. The qualities Dominic loved most about Levi—his ferocious intensity, his indifference to the judgment of others, his take-no-prisoners attitude—were also the qualities that made Levi intimidating as fuck when he was angry. The jagged diagonal cut that slashed across Levi’s forehead thanks to his trip through Volkov’s window only made him look more dangerous.

  Once outside, Levi dragged Dominic around the side of the building, between the casino and the Super 8 Motel next door. “Gonna suck my cock again?” Dominic said.

  Levi punched him in the face.

  He wasn’t expecting it, and Levi didn’t pull the blow at all. Levi’s fist crashed full-force into his mouth, splitting his lip against his teeth and sending him stumbling backward to hit the wall. He raised a hand to his bloody mouth and stared at Levi, dumbfounded.

  “Gina asked me to give you that.” Levi shook out his hand. “She had her baby, by the way. Your entire family’s been trying to reach you all day.”

  “What?” Dominic’s knees weakened as remorse and shock ripped through him in equal measure. Everything he did just made things worse. He hadn’t been there to support his little sister while she delivered her first child or to meet his new niece. And now—now Levi was looking at him like he was an insect. “I had no idea. I’ve had my phone on airplan
e mode since last night—”

  “All the better to make sure your pesky family didn’t distract you from gambling?”

  “No! It’s not like that. I’ve only been here for . . .” Dominic checked his watch and winced. Six hours. “I went to work today.”

  “Oh, you went to work today,” Levi said, giving him a sarcastic slow clap. “What an achievement.”

  “Don’t speak to me like that,” Dominic growled. His lip was throbbing; he spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. “You don’t get to judge me. You have no idea what this is like.”

  “Because you won’t let me help you! You told me you were going to stop gambling after Friday. Was that just a lie?”

  That brought Dominic up short. “No, but it’s . . . it’s complicated.”

  “It’s not.”

  This was pointless. Levi had already made up his mind; Dominic could see it on his face. He’d written Dominic off, and he was going to call it quits no matter what Dominic said or did. Dominic had been right all along about Levi not feeling the same about him if he relapsed.

  Choking resentment swelled in his chest. “I have to win back the money I lost on Friday night. When you busted up that poker tournament, I forfeited my entire buy-in. You may have been able to get your rich ex to spot you, but that was my own money, Levi. Some of it was from the winnings I’d made off the gambling ring, but I borrowed the rest from a loan shark.”

  All the color drained from Levi’s face as Dominic spoke. “You did what? Dominic, you’re already tens of thousands of dollars in debt!”

  “Yeah, and now it’s worse thanks to you! Look, I’ve been having a run of bad luck tonight, but that’s about to turn. I’m owed some good cards. I can feel it. If I can just earn that money back—”

  “Oh my God.” Levi pressed both hands to his mouth and breathed in and out a few times. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered when he lowered his arms. “I don’t know how to help you. Please tell me what I’m supposed to do here.”

  “Give me a break,” Dominic said, sneering. “This was over for you the moment you walked into that warehouse and saw me sitting at that poker table. You don’t have to pretend.”