Dominic frowned, but he replaced the expression with a friendly smile as he approached the receptionist. She was already eyeing him with appreciation.
“Hi, I’m Adam Smith,” he said, giving her the highly creative pseudonym Levi had booked the appointment under. “I have a one o’clock with Dr. Tran?”
“Welcome, Mr. Smith. Let me get your intake paperwork.”
The false identity was possible because the appointment wasn’t being paid for by insurance. Levi had handed him an actual envelope full of cash the other day, and his jaw had hit the floor when he’d seen the amount. He’d protested, thinking he should contribute part, even though he couldn’t afford it, but Levi had waved him off. Only when Dominic pressed the issue had Levi admitted that because he’d paid for so few of his expenses during the time he’d lived with Stanton Barclay, he had almost two full years of his salary saved up.
He’d been so mortified that Dominic had changed the subject immediately—though not before experiencing a moment of self-doubt. What was it like for Levi to go from dating a powerful billionaire to a working-class guy with terrible credit and a mountain of gambling debts?
He shook off those stupid thoughts as the receptionist handed him a sheaf of papers through a window in the glass. Both the pen and the clipboard bore the Solantia logo.
“Thanks,” he said, dialing up the brightness of his smile a bit. She giggled and tucked her hair behind her ear.
Settling on one of the loveseats, he reviewed his goals for this visit. Dr. Tran had continued prescribing Chapman antipsychotics despite what seemed to be severe side effects—though they’d discovered after his death that he’d been poisoned with a mix of contraindicated drugs—and had ignored Natasha Stone’s repeated concerns about his physical and mental state. Dominic’s purpose here was to assess Tran’s personal qualities and clinical style to judge whether Levi needed to investigate her more closely.
As Chapman’s psychiatrist, Tran would have known he’d make the perfect fall guy for the Seven of Spades. She would have had access to the drugs used to poison him, not to mention the ketamine used on the Seven of Spades’s victims, and the mailbox used in the setup was a short walk from her office. One question needed to be answered: had her blasé attitude toward Chapman’s difficulties been the result of clinical misjudgment or something more sinister?
Dominic filled out the paperwork with the cover story he’d devised, which was pretty much his own real story with just a few details changed. A lie was always most convincing when it resembled the truth as much as possible. He dreaded talking about his gambling for fifty minutes, but there was too great a chance Tran would call his bluff if he tried to fake something else. He could power through it.
After he returned the papers to the receptionist, he only had to wait five minutes before another man left the inner office, barely sparing Dominic a glance as he walked by. Tran herself emerged a short while later.
“Mr. Smith, I’m Dr. Tran,” she said, extending her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He tossed aside the magazine he’d been pretending to read and rose to shake her hand. “You too.”
Tran was somewhere in her mid-forties, of average height, her black hair pulled up in a bun. She had a benevolent smile and gave off a composed, professional vibe as she showed Dominic into her office.
Unsurprisingly, there was no evidence just lying around that screamed I’m a serial killer! There were, however, a ton of drug posters on the wall, more even than in the waiting room. Dominic felt like he was at a Solantia convention as he took a seat in the cushy armchair Tran indicated.
She sat across from him with an open folio on her lap. “I’ve been reviewing your intake forms—I see you describe your condition as ‘compulsive gambling’?”
He knew what she was getting at. “I’ve never been a fan of the term ‘pathological gambling.’”
“Understandable. In fact, the new DSM doesn’t use that term anymore either; the diagnosis is ‘gambling disorder’ now. But of course we’ll use whatever language you’re most comfortable with.” Crossing her legs at the knee, she leaned back in her chair, pen at the ready. “Why don’t we start with a brief history of the problem? Anything you think is important to my understanding.”
Dominic gave her the bullet points—how he’d been fascinated by gambling throughout middle and high school, but it had only become an obsession after he graduated and was bored out of his mind at community college. Realizing he was on a dangerous path was one of the reasons he’d enlisted in the Army. Eight years of purpose and structure with the Rangers had kept him out of trouble; once he’d been discharged home, it had surged back with a vengeance. He’d spiraled out of control over the following two years, getting himself into some very deep shit, until a nasty shock with Rebel’s health had driven him to commit to abstinence. He’d been in recovery ever since.
Tran gave him her full attention, listening without comment, jotting down the occasional note. So far, her behavior had been above reproach.
“Have you sought professional treatment for compulsive gambling in the past?” she asked when he was done, even though there was a section on the intake form where he’d put all that information.
“Yeah, I had a couple sessions of cognitive-behavioral therapy with a counselor when I first quit.”
“Mmm. So—why now?”
“I’m sorry?” he said.
She smiled. “It’s a question I ask all my new patients. What drove you to seek help now, as opposed to a week or a month or a year ago? Has something changed in your life? Some new source of stress, perhaps?”
My quasi-boyfriend thinks you may have killed five people and framed an innocent man. “Uh . . .” Dominic went with the first explanation that came to mind. “I started a new job recently, and I couldn’t avoid being exposed to an environment I shouldn’t have been in. It might happen again, so I thought it would be a good idea to get some help.”
“I see. You’re in . . .” She flipped back to his forms. “Personal security?”
“That’s right.”
“That must bring you into frequent contact with gambling triggers in a city like Las Vegas.”
“They can be difficult to avoid, yeah.”
Tran was quiet for a moment, tapping her pen against her pad. “Tell me, Mr. Smith, how do you feel when you gamble?”
He thought it was an odd question, but he didn’t see the harm in an honest answer. He’d explored this topic ad nauseam in Gamblers Anonymous. “Excited, I guess. During the times I was gambling, it was my go-to whenever I was bored, which was a lot. I enjoy the social aspect, the skill involved—everything about it, really. I’ve always been kind of a thrill-seeker. I’m competitive, I like to take risks, and I like to win.” Flashing a self-deprecating grin, he added, “But who doesn’t, you know?”
“Sounds like it would be challenging to give up something you enjoyed so much.”
“Well, I only enjoyed it while it was happening,” he said. “Afterward I would feel sick and ashamed, especially if I’d lost a lot of money or if I’d had trouble stopping. And the things it did to the people I cared about—I know now that the consequences aren’t worth the pleasure I might feel in the moment. For whatever reason, I can’t gamble in a healthy way, so I shouldn’t gamble at all.”
She looked at him intently. “What do you think that reason is?”
Though he knew what she meant, he shrugged as if he didn’t understand the question. Unease crawled across his skin.
“Why do you think gambling became a compulsive behavior for you, rather than remaining a relatively harmless leisure activity?” she said, undeterred by his evasion.
“Why does anyone get addicted to anything?” He forced a laugh. “We have no idea, right?”
“That’s true. There’s an enormous amount of controversy about the causes of addiction even after decades of research. But I’m not asking what you think about the field as a whole. I’m asking how you perso
nally attribute the causes of your own addiction.”
Dominic didn’t answer; he couldn’t. He swallowed hard and looked at the diploma hanging on the wall. There was a clock ticking somewhere in the room that was incredibly loud all of a sudden.
The silence dragged out for about a minute before Tran said, “You’ve been abstinent for two years. That’s very impressive. But I have to wonder about your lack of support.”
“I have support. My family, my friends, they’ve done everything they can to help me.”
“That’s excellent, and I’m happy to hear it. I actually meant professional support, though.” She rifled through her papers. “In your own words, your attendance at Gamblers Anonymous is sporadic, and you don’t have a sponsor. You haven’t signed up for any of the voluntary self-exclusion bans offered by any of the casinos in the city. You ended your CBT counseling long before it could have had any measurable effect. You’ve created a debt repayment plan, which is commendable—but you haven’t made any actual changes to the way you handle your finances, which is one of the first steps any clinician would advise to someone with a gambling disorder.” Meeting his eyes, she said, “To me, this paints the picture of a man trying to white-knuckle his way through recovery.”
He felt like she’d knocked the wind out of him, and he had to take a couple of shallow breaths before he could respond. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” he said, more harshly than he’d intended.
She didn’t even blink, just sat there with an expression of infinite patience.
Briefly closing his eyes, he got a grip on himself. He was letting her throw him off-balance, and that wasn’t going to help Levi. “Look, I just—it’s difficult for me to talk about this stuff. Nobody likes to think of themselves as a loser.”
“A ‘loser’?” she said slowly. “That’s a particularly loaded term for a gambler, don’t you think?”
Dominic rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. He didn’t know why he’d said that at all.
“And I’d imagine a compulsive behavior that’s difficult to control would be very threatening to someone whose self-identity is strongly rooted in their sense of competency and physical strength.”
He stared at her, a faint ringing in his ears.
“You’re obviously well-motivated to abstain from gambling, but at the same time, you’ve chosen not to pursue the many treatment options available to you,” said Tran. “I have to wonder if maybe you view your compulsive gambling as an inherent weakness, a personality flaw that can be overcome with willpower, rather than an illness deserving of professional treatment and regular management.”
“It is a weakness,” Dominic whispered.
She nodded, though she seemed to be more acknowledging his opinion than agreeing with him. “Many people struggle to accept a medical model of addiction, especially with behavioral addictions as opposed to substance abuse. But the truth is that disordered gambling shares many features in common with addiction to drugs and alcohol—an inability to stop despite negative consequences, increasing tolerance, even withdrawal symptoms. You don’t have to try to beat this on your own, and it’s not a personal failing to admit that you need help. Coming here was a great first step.”
He said nothing. He’d completely lost track of why he was here, and try as he might, he couldn’t regain his equilibrium.
“I’m going to recommend a combination of CBT, psychodynamic therapy, and continued participation in GA.” Tran glanced at the clock. “We’re almost out of time, so we’ll put together a treatment plan during our next session. In the meantime . . .”
She retrieved her prescription pad from the back of her folio, scribbled on the top page, and ripped it off. Dominic snapped out of his stupor as she handed it to him.
“This is an SSRI,” he said. “I’m not depressed.”
“I’m not prescribing it for depression. There’s no FDA-approved pharmacotherapy for gambling disorder yet, but studies have shown promising results for off-label uses of SSRIs. The theory is that the brain activity involved in compulsive gambling has similarities to obsessive-compulsive disorders, so the dosage is similar to what I’d prescribe for that condition. It should help decrease cravings and mental preoccupation with gambling, though chances are it’ll take about ten to twelve weeks to really start working.”
“Trolexin—Solantia makes that, don’t they?”
“Mm-hmm,” Tran said, absorbed in her notes.
Dominic suppressed a snort as everything finally clicked into place.
She showed him to the door and shook his hand goodbye. In the waiting room, he politely declined to schedule another session with the receptionist and walked straight outside. Back in the bright sun and blazing heat, he caught himself on the bed of his truck and stood there for several minutes, breathing deeply.
Tran’s words echoed through his head, bouncing around his skull like an out-of-control pinball. He had her number now, and he could tell Levi to scratch her off the list—but he wasn’t sure it had been worth the cost.
Levi groaned in gratitude and relief as Dominic set a Boulevardier on the bar. He took a sip, savoring the blend of bourbon, sweet vermouth, and Campari. God bless Dominic for introducing him to this drink.
“That rough, huh?” Dominic said, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Long day,” said Levi, though Dominic already knew that. They’d been texting back and forth all afternoon, and it was Dominic who had suggested Levi visit him at Stingray, the LGBT club where he bartended part-time.
There was really no such thing as a slow night in Vegas, but it was early enough that they could converse at a normal volume in-between Dominic serving his other customers. He was working one of the second-story bars tonight, overlooking the dance floor below. Blue uplighting flickered off the glossy black and silver décor and gave the entire place an underwater feel.
“I was so busy working the Walsh case that I had to postpone my meeting with Dr. Kapoor until tomorrow.” Levi rattled the ice in his glass and drank another sip. “Martine and I are running out of time. In a couple of days, the conference will be over, and if we haven’t caught Hensley’s killer by then, we probably never will.”
Dominic squeezed his free hand. “You’ll get them.”
Levi laced their fingers together, but Dominic was called away moments later by patrons further down the bar. By the time he returned, Levi had finished half his drink and was studiously ignoring the leering man cruising him from a nearby table.
“You were going to tell me about Dr. Tran,” Levi said.
“Oh, yeah. She’s getting paid to prescribe Solantia products.”
Levi almost dropped his glass. “What? That’s illegal!”
“Sure, but you’d never be able to prove it,” Dominic said with a shrug. “Pharmaceutical companies can pay doctors consulting fees. I’m guessing she gets a kickback for each prescription, disguised as something legitimate. That’s why she never adjusted Chapman’s meds.”
“Shit. Are you sure?”
“I’m as positive as I can be without seeing her bank accounts.” Dominic paused. “Which I would never do, because that would also be illegal.”
“Yes,” Levi said, holding his gaze. “You should definitely not do that.”
Dominic winked, then moved away to greet some new customers. Levi only felt guilty for a second; he’d never be able to obtain Tran’s financials through legal channels, but Dominic had plenty of ways around the system and no compunctions about using them. He could make his peace with the ethics violation in the interests of catching a serial killer.
Levi tossed back the last of his Boulevardier. Mere seconds later, his creepy admirer sidled up to him at the bar.
“Looks like you could use another drink,” the man said.
“No, thank you,” said Levi, his voice cool and prim. He didn’t even look at the man.
“Come on. It’ll loosen you up a little.”
“I said no.”
“Hey, I’m just trying
to be friendly.” The man put his hand on Levi’s knee and slowly slid it up his thigh. “You could at least—”
Levi grabbed the man’s hand with both of his and twisted his wrist around, bending the man’s fingers toward his body while pressing his arm down and to the side. Yelping in pain, the man collapsed against the bar, half-hunched over Levi’s lap.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” Levi said.
“Shit!” The man was already sweating, his body quivering like Jell-O. “Let go of me, you crazy asshole—”
Levi dug his thumbs harder into the back of the man’s hand, drawing forth a sobbing moan. He knew how much it hurt to be on the receiving end of this kind of joint lock. A dark, secret part of him was viciously thrilled, pleased to see a man like this at his mercy—
“Problem?” Dominic said in a mild tone.
Levi and the man both looked up. With his build, Dominic could come off as intimidating even with the casual body language and amiable expression he was displaying now. His work uniform consisted of a black T-shirt so tight it could have been painted on; his biceps were all but busting out of the short sleeves, and the material clung to every thick muscle in his chest and abdomen.
The man shook his head somewhat frantically, and Levi released him. He yanked his arm against his chest as he backed away, hissing, “Fucking psycho,” before he fled.
Dominic raised his eyebrows. Removed from the heat of the moment, Levi felt a little foolish.
“Sorry about that.”
“Hey, he had no right to put his hands on you.”
“And I could have communicated that without putting him in a cavalier,” Levi said wryly.
Smiling, Dominic said, “Your words, not mine. Do you want another drink?”
“I’m good, thanks.” Levi handed him his empty glass. “Is it terrible that I’m kind of disappointed Dr. Tran isn’t the Seven of Spades?”
“Of course not. That would have meant this whole thing was over. Now you have to keep searching.”
Levi watched him dump the ice and set the glass with the others to be washed. Dominic had been his usual cheerful self all evening, and his texts that afternoon had been as lighthearted and flirtatious as ever. Still, Levi knew what he must have spoken to Tran about; that couldn’t have been easy, especially after his close call two days earlier.
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