Trick Roller

by Cordelia Kingsbridge

  “You haven’t said anything about the session itself,” Levi said, leaving Dominic the option to deliberately misinterpret the question.

  He didn’t take it. “It wasn’t fun,” he said, a hint of a shadow crossing his face. “But I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

  “I didn’t—I volunteered, remember? I know how important this is to you. I’d do anything to help.”

  Sighing, Levi folded his arms on the bar. “I wish you didn’t have to work tonight.” All he wanted to do was go to one of their apartments, have a satisfying orgasm or two, and fall asleep in Dominic’s arms.

  “Me too.” Dominic mirrored Levi and bent down so their faces were only inches apart. “I need the money, though. My internship at McBride pays shit and cuts into the time I’d use to bring in bounties, so I have to pick up extra shifts whenever I can.”

  Levi swayed closer. “You know, I might actually miss telling people I’m dating a bounty hunter.”

  “Bail enforcement agent,” said Dominic.

  Levi laughed, his breath gusting over Dominic’s lips. Dominic brushed his thumb along Levi’s cheekbone with sudden tenderness.

  “What?” Levi asked.

  “I love it when you laugh,” Dominic said, and kissed him.

  Moaning, Levi leaned forward into what became a full-fledged make-out session over the width of the bar. A few wolf whistles sounded nearby, but Levi couldn’t have cared less. Let them eat their jealous fucking hearts out.

  “Levi?” a familiar voice said behind him.

  Levi jerked away from Dominic so violently that his barstool pitched back on its rear legs; only Dominic lunging across the bar to grab his arm kept him from toppling to the floor. Once he’d steadied himself, he jumped off the stool and turned around.

  “Stanton,” he said.

  Standing a few feet from the bar and gaping incredulously was his ex-boyfriend Stanton Barclay. He was a gorgeous man with a face that recalled the Golden Age of Hollywood, from his dimpled chin to his piercing blue eyes. His exquisitely tailored suit fit the long, lean lines of his body like a second skin.

  The silence dragged out. Levi was just as shocked as Stanton seemed to be—in the three years they’d dated, he’d never seen Stanton in a place like this. Then again, Levi had never been one to frequent nightclubs himself.

  “What are you doing here?” Levi finally asked.

  “Some friends convinced me to come out tonight.” Stanton half turned and gestured to a table near the dance floor. A group of familiar, judgmental faces looked back at them—the wealthiest and most socially prominent members of Las Vegas’s LGBT community. They’d always been more Stanton’s friends than his.

  They’d all witnessed Levi’s extreme PDA with Dominic. God, why didn’t he just spit on the grave of his and Stanton’s relationship while he was at it?

  Behind him, Dominic cleared his throat.

  “Oh,” Levi said, startling. “Um, Stanton, this is Dominic Russo. Dominic, Stanton Barclay.”

  Dominic extended his hand across the bar. “Nice to meet you.”

  Ever the model of perfect courtesy, Stanton stepped forward and shook his hand. “Likewise.” His eyes darted down to where Dominic’s enormous hand engulfed his own, then traveled slowly back up Dominic’s chest to his face before he let go.

  The second silence was even more awkward than the first. “Well, I’ve got thirsty customers,” Dominic said after a few seconds. “Excuse me.”

  He moved down the bar. Levi caught Stanton’s elbow and led him further away, out of earshot. Stanton didn’t resist.

  “Wow,” he said, his gaze still lingering on Dominic. “I guess there really were things I couldn’t give you.”

  “Don’t do that,” Levi snapped. “You know I didn’t leave you for Dominic, and even if I had, it wouldn’t have been for some tawdry sexual reason. You’re cheapening my relationships with him and you by suggesting otherwise.”

  Shoulders slumping, Stanton said, “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s not every day you see your ex hanging off the lips of a man who could body double for Dwayne Johnson.”

  Levi shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down at his feet.

  “Don’t you miss me at all?” Stanton said quietly.

  Levi’s head jerked up. “Of course I do.”

  “Really? Because I still wake up every morning feeling like my heart’s been through a meat grinder. It’s all I can do sometimes just to get through the day, and here you are having the time of your life with your hot new boyfriend. For God’s sake, Levi, it’s only been three months since you moved out.” Stanton hesitated and then shook his head. “You never would have kissed me like that in public.”

  “I . . .” Levi’s mouth worked open and shut. He couldn’t defend his actions, because everything Stanton had said was true. “I know the timing is terrible. I do miss you, Stanton. I think about you a lot. But I didn’t expect this thing with Dominic, and I can’t just put it on hold while I wait for the rest of my life to catch up. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you—I would never want that.”

  They stood there without speaking for a moment. The volume in the club had picked up as it got busier, and there was a dissonance in having this heart-wrenching conversation against a raucous backdrop of laughter, tipsy cheering, and Lady Gaga.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re handling the breakup better than I am,” said Stanton. “After all, you’re the one who left. I wanted you to stay.”

  “Our relationship wasn’t working.”

  “We could have made it work.”

  “I disagree.”

  Stanton closed his eyes, exhaled, and opened them again. “I’m gonna go home.”

  “No.” Levi reached out, but when Stanton shied away, he dropped his hand. “Stay. I was just about to leave anyway.”

  “I’m not really in a partying mood—”

  “Stanton, please. Don’t let me ruin your night. Stay and have fun with your friends.”

  Stanton wavered, looking torn. Then he nodded.

  “Take care of yourself,” Levi said, and returned to the bar. Dominic must have been watching from a distance, because he immediately waved Levi to the gap near the back where the bartenders entered and exited. Here, they could stand close enough to hear each other over the growing noise of the crowd without shouting.

  “Everything okay?” Dominic asked.

  “It’s fine,” Levi said automatically, and then sighed. “No, it’s not. He still thinks I left him for you.”

  “I know that bothers you, but honestly, I’m not sure there’s anything you could do or say that would convince him otherwise at this point. You may need to just let it go.”

  “Easier said than done.” Levi squeezed Dominic’s hand out of sight. “I’m going home. Call me tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  Levi went the long way around to avoid passing Stanton’s table on his way to the exit. He’d had just about enough uncomfortable emotional conversations for one day.

  Late Thursday morning, Levi was sitting at a corner table at The Roasted Bean, a vintage-chic bistro in the Mirage. He had his head propped dispiritedly on one hand and was sipping a cup of black coffee with two shots of espresso.

  He looked up when Martine joined him, holding an iced coffee of her own and setting a plate of quiche in the middle of the table. “I’ve never heard so many people try to find a diplomatic way of saying, ‘I didn’t kill him but I’m glad he’s dead,’” she said.

  “At least yours softened it up. Most of mine came right out and said that verbatim.”

  They’d spent the morning interviewing Hensley’s colleagues in-between panels at the hospice and palliative care conference. In Levi’s experience, after a person was murdered, everyone who’d known them went out of their way to gloss over their negative traits and glorify their positive ones—the sanctification of the dead, Martine called it. The fact that nobody h
ad reacted that way in the wake of Hensley’s murder was a stronger testament to his character than simple words.

  Martine pointedly pushed the quiche toward him.

  “I don’t want that,” Levi said, annoyed.

  “How about this? I won’t badger you about eating it if you can tell me that you’ve ingested anything other than coffee today.”

  He scowled at her.

  “You’re so over-caffeinated you’ve got the shakes,” she said, nodding to his hands. “Eat the goddamn quiche.”

  Heaving a groan, he dragged the plate closer and took a sarcastic, exaggerated bite. She just smiled sweetly.

  The quiche was good—a fluffy concoction of broccoli and cheddar with a perfect flaky crust—so he stowed his attitude and tucked in. It wasn’t like he deliberately avoided eating; it was just never his highest priority when he was distracted.

  “So we have confirmation that Hensley was universally despised,” Martine said while Levi ate. “But as far as serious motives for murder go, only one jumped out at me—Dr. Helen Dumont. I heard from a few independent sources that she and Hensley were bitter enemies even by his standards; he sabotaged her grant funding, and she was determined to pay him back. Yet the good doctor herself didn’t mention anything about that to me when I spoke with her.”

  Levi swallowed his mouthful and said, “I heard about her too. And there was another name that kept popping up, a Dr. Arjun Bhatia. Apparently, Hensley ripped his research apart and dragged his professional reputation through the mud. His career still hasn’t recovered.”

  “Is he attending the conference?”

  “Supposedly. I haven’t been able to track him down yet, though.”

  “Then we’ll find him, grill them both a little harder, and check their alibis for Saturday night. Are you still meeting Dr. Kapoor during the lunch break?”

  Levi nodded.

  “This would be a lot simpler if Carmen could get the files we need from Walsh’s hard drive,” Martine said with a sigh.

  The day before, Walsh’s girlfriend had tearfully confessed her knowledge of his multiple ongoing blackmail schemes. He had never shared the details with her, and she’d never asked, content to enjoy the spoils of his dirty dealings without question. The only thing she’d known for sure was that he used burner phones to communicate with his targets. No such phones had been present at the crime scene, so it was a safe bet the killer had taken them if they existed.

  Levi and Martine had ensured the delivery of Walsh’s desktop computer and backup hard drive to the substation so Carmen Rivera could analyze them. That morning, she’d broken the bad news.

  “The security on these is insane,” she’d said. “Walsh must have hired someone to lock down his data, because this goes far beyond standard commercial protection. You got lucky that the system didn’t require reauthentication when returning from sleep mode, though even that’s probably just because Walsh turned that feature off. Most computer security problems stem from human laziness. But then the CSIs had to turn the computer off to transport it, and the system reset.”

  “Are you saying you can’t get in to either one?” Levi had asked.

  “I can, it’s just a matter of how and when. I’m worried that if I use a brute force approach, there may be a failsafe in place that corrupts the data. I’ll have to finesse my way in, and that’ll take longer.”

  So here they were, with the potential smoking gun that could solve their case locked up in a little black box they couldn’t access. It was beyond frustrating.

  “We know Walsh worked the front desk from midnight to 9 a.m. the night Hensley was murdered,” Levi said now. “He saw something that was worth killing him for. We just have to figure out what.”

  He and Martine finished their coffees and then split up again, returning to the conference that took up the entire Mirage Event Center. A couple more hours of canvassing Hensley’s erstwhile colleagues, and Levi was ready to pull his hair out. He’d never worked a case quite like this before, where the question wasn’t who wanted the victim dead, so much as who of those many people wanted it most.

  When the conference broke for lunch, Levi met up with Anika Kapoor on-site at Pantry, where they took a relatively quiet corner table.

  “Thank you for being so accommodating,” Kapoor said after they’d placed their order. “This schedule is running me off my feet.”

  “It’s no problem,” he said.

  She folded her hands on the table. “Clarissa Northridge told me you no longer believe Stephen was killed by the escort he hired.”

  “That’s correct. Our working theory is that someone attending the conference capitalized on the timing to murder him, knowing blame would fall in her direction first.” Levi paused. “This is going to be painfully frank, but I’m sure you understand the difficulty we’re facing in discerning motive. With your average murder victim, there’s maybe a couple of people who genuinely wanted them dead. With Dr. Hensley, that list numbers over a dozen and is still growing.”

  She said nothing, running her fingers along the edge of her napkin over and over.

  “The situation is complicated by the fact that because everyone’s rooms are clustered so closely together, each possible suspect had plenty of opportunity to get into Hensley’s room. And as for means—well, it can’t be that difficult for a doctor to get their hands on Rohypnol.”

  “It’s not,” she said morosely. She lifted her eyes to meet his. “I’m well aware of how many people loathed Stephen with a passion. I can hear it in their voices when they express their so-called condolences—they’re pleased he’s dead. But there’s an enormous difference between wanting someone to die and actually murdering them. I can’t imagine anyone I know making that leap.”

  “Somebody did,” said Levi.

  Kapoor took an unhurried sip of water, her face clouded over. When she set down her glass, she said, “Do you think it was me?”

  “I’m keeping an open mind.”

  “My relationship with Stephen was more amicable than perhaps any other in his life. I had less reason than anyone to kill him.”

  “That might be true, if you hadn’t been sleeping with him.”

  That was a shot in the dark based on Martine’s hunch, but it landed hard. Kapoor’s eyes went wide, and she took a sharp breath. Then she swallowed and glanced furtively around the restaurant as if eavesdroppers might be lurking behind the nearby tables. “It’s not what you think.”

  “But you don’t deny it,” he said, making a mental note to thank Martine for her insight.

  “Stephen and I weren’t having an affair,” she said. “We slept together occasionally, but our relationship was never romantic. He respected me, as much as he could respect anyone, and that meant more to him than any kind of love.”

  “What about you?”

  “I . . .” Her expression turned wistful. “Stephen was a brilliant physician-scientist, a true genius. I know that doesn’t excuse his many flaws, or the way he treated people. I know that. I could never have loved him the way I love my husband. But there was always a spark of attraction there—a meeting of the minds as important as that of the flesh.”

  Her eyes were misting over, so Levi gave her a moment to pull herself together. Then he asked, “Does your husband know?”

  She shook her head.

  “Dr. Northridge?”

  “Yes,” Kapoor said, surprising him. “She’s always known. She and Stephen have lived apart for years; their marriage was just a formality.”

  Levi frowned. “Then why not get a divorce?”

  Shrugging, she said, “I don’t know all the details, but the Northridges are old money. Clarissa and Stephen didn’t have a prenup, so in a divorce, he might have been able to lay claim to some of her family’s assets. It was easier all around for them to stay married.”

  Well, that was one of the more depressing things he’d ever heard. He filed that away and continued his questioning. “When we spoke on Sunday, you said you we
re aware of Dr. Hensley’s habit of hiring escorts while on business trips. That didn’t make you jealous?”

  “Of course not. I told you, my relationship with Stephen wasn’t romantic. There was nothing to be jealous of.”

  He had no grounds to challenge that statement, so instead he pulled a photograph of Walsh from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. “Do you recognize this man?”

  “No,” she said, after giving it a cursory glance. “Should I?”

  Before he could respond, a server approached with their food in hand—a chicken Caesar salad and a plate of steak and fries. It wasn’t the same server who’d taken their order, and without asking, he began to set the salad in front of Kapoor.

  “It’s the other way around,” Levi said. The reprimand came out more rudely than he’d intended, but he hated when people made gendered assumptions.

  Mumbling an apology, the server switched the plates and scurried away. Levi poked the salad with his fork; he was still full from the quiche, but he’d felt like he had to order something.

  “I understand your suspicions, Detective,” Kapoor said. She picked up her own fork along with the steak knife that had been brought out on her plate. “But I also know that casinos are some of the most heavily surveilled places in the world, and I was at the Mirage’s when Stephen died. There must be plenty of—”

  She kept talking, but Levi was no longer listening. He stared at her hands as she cut into her steak, then reached across the table and snatched the knife away from her.

  Though she yelped in shock, he was too preoccupied to apologize. The steak knife had an intricately engraved pewter handle, an abstract pattern like vines twining up its length.

  This was exactly the same type of knife that had been used to kill Alan Walsh.

  “Obviously there’s no way for them to tell if a single knife is missing,” Martine said over the phone. “But the Food and Beverage Manager confirmed that the steak knife found at the Walsh scene is one of a design manufactured exclusively for the Mirage’s use in several of their restaurants as well as room service.”