One-Eyed Royals

by Cordelia Kingsbridge

  STOP, he thought. He shoved his anxious thoughts aside and concentrated instead on the image of a stop sign, picturing every detail. Stop it now.

  Thought-stopping was a technique his therapist Alana had taught him. His friend Natasha, also a clinical social worker, had referred him to Alana several months ago to try cognitive behavioral therapy for depression and anger management. It was helping, although it seemed to be a process of two steps forward and one step back.

  Travel mug in hand, he started across the street, but he halted when another car pulled up behind his. He gulped some coffee while he waited for Martine to get out. Though they usually drove to crime scenes together, they’d been called to this one so early that they’d come from their respective homes instead of the substation.

  “Beautiful day for a homicide,” she said as she joined him.

  He snorted. It was actually shaping up to be a gorgeous spring day—the sky clear and blue, the air pleasantly cool. Memories of weather like this were what he hung on to during the months Vegas became a suffocating hellscape and he wondered what had possessed him to move to the middle of the desert.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked, because it wasn’t enough for Levi to have one mother constantly badgering him about his lean frame.

  “Right before I walk into a crime scene? No.” They both knew that wasn’t why he’d skipped breakfast, but it made a good excuse.

  She took his mug, sipped from it, and pushed it back into his hand with a grimace. “I swear to God your heart runs on pure caffeine. One of these days it’s just going to explode.”

  Ordinarily he would have returned her banter with a snappy comeback, but he didn’t have it in him this morning. He shrugged and started across the street.

  Catching his elbow, she gave him a closer look and then said, “Shit. Nightmare again?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered.

  For most of his life, he’d been plagued by recurring nightmares about being trapped and helpless while pursued by a relentless, unseen enemy. A few months ago, however, the tone of those dreams had shifted. Now he was the hunter stalking the terrified prey, every single time.

  Martine and Alana were the only people who knew about the change in his nightmares. He’d never even told Dominic.

  “I’m fine,” he said, hating the concern he’d put on her face. He wiggled his mug. “Just sleep-deprived. Hence the triple Red Eye.”

  “Blech,” she said—and offered no further judgment or commentary, which was one of the many things he loved about her.

  They crossed the street and were approached by a uniformed officer named Daley while they were signing the crime scene log and pulling on gloves and booties. “Morning, Detectives,” he said.

  “Morning, Daley,” said Levi. “You’re the responding officer?”

  “Yep.” He held up the tape so Levi and Martine could duck underneath. “Victim was found about two hours ago by the people living in the house next door. They let their dog out in the morning like usual, and he ran straight for the body. Messed around with it a little before they pulled him off, but he didn’t do any physical damage.”

  Levi followed the direction of Daley’s pointing finger to a middle-aged couple at the far edge of the lot, deep in conversation with a pair of uniforms. A Golden Retriever paced around at the end of a leash, looking intrigued by all the activity. “We’ll need hair and saliva samples from the dog.”

  Martine nodded. “I’ll interview the witnesses, you check out the body?”

  “Sounds good.”

  She headed off, and Levi followed Daley across the sand.

  The victim was a white male in his late forties to early fifties, average height and build, lying on his back. He was dressed casually in a T-shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers, and there were no obvious injuries or immediately apparent cause of death. The only remarkable thing about the body was that his left eye was heavily bandaged.

  “Victim’s name is Joel Buckner,” Daley said. “Aged 51, Summerlin address.”

  “He had ID on him?”

  “Yeah. Wallet was full of cash and credit cards, too.”

  That ruled out robbery as a motive, and meant the killer wasn’t concerned about Buckner’s identity being discovered. Assuming, of course, that there was a killer at all.

  Levi was leaning toward homicide, though, because Buckner’s body had clearly been dumped here. This area was nothing but sand and gritty, dusty soil, but the soles of his sneakers were squeaky clean. In fact, the shoes looked like they’d never been worn before.

  “Cell phone?” he asked.

  “Not that we’ve been able to find.”

  “Thanks.” He broke away from Daley and moved closer to the body, kneeling on the opposite side from the coroner investigator, who was hard at work.

  After they exchanged pleasantries, she said, “I’d estimate he died within the past twelve hours. It’s impossible to determine cause of death without a full autopsy, but I suspect some kind of overdose or poisoning. I’d almost say it could even be natural causes, if not for the location and, well . . .” She pointed to the bandaged eye.

  “Yeah, I was going to ask about that. What’s going on there?”

  She grasped the edge of the bandage, hesitated, and said, “Did you eat breakfast?”

  She wasn’t asking for the same reason Martine had. “No,” he said warily.

  “Good idea.” She peeled back the thick bandage, revealing an eyeless socket containing nothing but a half-open eyelid that exposed the empty cavity beneath.

  “Ugh,” Levi said, recoiling. This was far from the worst thing he’d seen in his years as a cop, but there was just something about a hollowed-out eye socket that was deeply repugnant.

  “Enucleation.” The coroner investigator left the bandage pulled aside. “Total removal of the entire eyeball. Definitely done premortem, but very recent—within the past twenty-four to forty-eight hours, judging by the stage of the healing process.”

  “Torture?”

  “I doubt it. His eye wasn’t gouged out; it was surgically removed by someone who knew what they were doing. The wound’s been cleaned and bandaged properly too, and there are no signs of infection.”

  In someone who’d been tortured, Levi would also expect to see signs of a struggle, defensive wounds, and bruises and abrasions from being bound. There was no evidence of that on Buckner—Levi would have to get a closer look underneath the man’s clothing, but his bare arms were unmarked. There was just some minor irritation and slight bruising on the back of his right hand.

  “Have you seen this?” he asked.

  “Yeah. It’s almost certainly from an IV line. It could have been used to sedate the victim during the procedure, or to administer pain medication or antibiotics afterward. Or it could have been used to kill him.”

  This was just getting weirder and weirder. Levi thanked the coroner investigator for her time, stood up, and backed away from the body so he could take in the scene at large.

  The choice of dumping ground had been deliberate. This was an isolated spot with no cameras around; it would be easy for a vehicle to drive through and drop a body off undetected.

  But it wasn’t so isolated that the body wouldn’t be quickly discovered. The killer could have dumped Buckner in the adjacent desert; instead, they’d chosen to leave him in this neighborhood with his ID still on him. They’d wanted him found, which could have been a message for someone, or even a sign of respect for the deceased or his family.

  Why remove someone’s eye if you weren’t torturing them, though? Levi had never seen mutilation unaccompanied by other signs of rage or hatred toward the victim. What was the point in doing something like this so dispassionately? Organ theft, maybe, but that was unlikely with the rest of the body intact.

  The coroner investigator had suggested there was a gap of a day or two between the removal of the eye and Buckner’s death, so . . . maybe the threat had been used as leverage against a third party, or against Buckner hi
mself? If someone wanted something from Buckner they weren’t getting, slicing out an eye was a good way to prove they weren’t fucking around. If that were the case, though, things must have gone sideways for Buckner to end up dead.

  One thing was certain—this wasn’t a random act of violence. Somebody somewhere had a personal motive for killing Buckner. All Levi had to do was find out who that was.

  Hours later, Levi leaned back in his chair at the substation and rubbed his dry eyes. He’d finally made some progress—incremental, but progress nonetheless.

  Joel Buckner was the founder and managing partner of Buckner Partners LLC, a Las Vegas–based investment firm with multiple overseas enterprises. He had no criminal history and no known association with any criminal organizations, nor did any members of his immediate family. His company had also never fallen under any suspicion of wrongdoing; Levi had checked with Financial Crimes and the SEC to be sure.

  Despite his illustrious position, however, Buckner had been in debt up to his . . . well, eyeball. His firm, while operating within the bounds of law and ethics, was failing. He and his wife were months behind on their mortgage, and all their credit cards were maxed out.

  Was it possible Buckner had gotten in too deep with a loan shark? Debt made people desperate, and desperate people made bad decisions. Vegas loan sharks weren’t above snatching people up and dishing out pain if they didn’t get their money, though Levi had never heard of one putting a guy’s eye out. In fact, he’d never seen this brand of mutilation in the Valley before. It also seemed unlikely that a loan shark would kill a man who could now never pay them back.

  One step at a time. As much as Levi hated dealing with the arrogant pricks in Organized Crime, they’d be more up-to-date with the rumblings among the local loan sharks. He heaved a sigh and reached for his desk phone.

  His cell phone rang, giving him a good excuse to put off the unpalatable call for another few minutes. Seeing Martine’s name on the screen, he said, “How’s it going over there?”

  Martine had spent the morning with Buckner’s family, breaking the news of his death and then interviewing them one by one. “They’re giving me nothing,” she said, her voice thrumming with frustration. “Stonewalling me at every turn. It’s obvious they’re hiding something.”

  “Really?” he said, his curiosity piqued. “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure. When I told them Buckner was dead, they seemed genuinely devastated, but . . . I don’t know. It’s like they already knew what I was going to say. They weren’t surprised at all.”

  “You think they were involved?”

  “Hmm . . .” Martine was a good detective, and she wouldn’t dismiss a theory out of hand no matter how implausible it seemed. “I doubt it. The kids are nine and seven, and they reacted the same way their mom did. I can’t imagine her pulling them into a plot to kill their dad.”

  Levi agreed. He told Martine about Buckner’s debts, and she made a soft sound of surprise.

  “Before I called you, I checked in with the kids’ school. They’ve been out for three days. Mom told the school they have the flu, but I didn’t see any evidence of that.”

  “Well, we know from the gap between Buckner’s death and his eye being removed that whoever killed him had him for at least twenty-four hours, maybe more.” Levi gazed blankly into space, his fingers tapping his desk. “His family had to have known he was gone, and maybe they also know why. If they know who killed him, they may be too afraid of retaliation to say anything.”

  “Could explain their jumpy behavior. Look, I’m not gonna get anything more out of these people today. I’ll head over to Buckner’s company and talk to his colleagues, see if they know anything helpful. If I push them on his debts, maybe something will pop up.”

  “Good thinking. I’m about to check in with OC about the loan shark angle. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  They ended their call just in time for Levi to hear a voice say, “This is Detective Abrams right here.”

  He looked up. A uniformed officer was approaching his desk, escorting a young, casually dressed Asian woman with a visitor’s badge pinned to her hoodie. Her long black hair was styled in a way that concealed the entire left side of her face; it was so clearly deliberate that Levi assumed it was an attempt to hide some kind of scarring.

  The officer nodded to Levi and went on his way. “I’m Detective Abrams,” Levi said, getting to his feet and extending his hand. “You needed to see me?”

  “Yes. Rose Nguyen.” She shook his hand briskly. “I’m sorry to just show up like this, but I didn’t know how else to contact you.”

  Martine’s desk adjoined Levi’s so the two were facing each other. Since she wasn’t here, Levi stole her chair and wheeled it around to the side for Nguyen. He gestured for her to take a seat, and sat down as well.

  “How can I help you?” he asked, bracing himself. If Nguyen had come here looking for him by name, it had to be related to the Seven of Spades.

  Which brand of nutjob would it be this time? Conspiracy theorist convinced that her boyfriend/coworker/neighbor was the Seven of Spades? Serial killer groupie hoping to learn more by pretending to have helpful information? Angry citizen who held Levi personally responsible for the Seven of Spades’s continued rampage?

  “I just read about Joel Buckner’s death online,” Nguyen said. “A blogger with a contact in the coroner’s office leaked the details.”

  Wait. What? Levi gave his head a slight shake to clear it. “Did you know Mr. Buckner?”

  “Not at all, but I think I may know what happened to him.”

  “How?” Levi said, nonplussed.

  She shifted her hair aside, displaying an unscarred face and a bandaged left eye. “Because the same thing happened to me.”

  “Can I get you anything?” Levi asked as he shut the door to the more comfortable—and private—interview room adjacent to the bullpen. “Water, coffee?”

  “No, thanks,” said Nguyen, who had settled onto the same overstuffed couch that had graced this room since the early 1990s.

  Levi sat across from her, pulling out a notepad and pen. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  “It happened almost a month ago, on February 20th,” she said. “I was the last one at the office, like usual, and I left work pretty late. On my way home, I got funneled into some kind of detour for road work. I ended up on this little side street. There was a stretch where huge construction equipment was parked on either side, and as soon as my car was between those machines, large black SUVs pulled up in front of and behind me and boxed me in.”

  A standard kidnapping technique, though one requiring strategy and precision. He nodded for her to continue.

  “Masked men jumped out of the SUVs, dragged me from my car, and injected me with something that knocked me unconscious. It all happened so fast I didn’t even have time to process it. When I woke up, I was blindfolded and tied to a bed.” She stopped to take an unsteady breath.

  “Were you harmed in any way besides your eye?” Levi asked as gently as he could.

  “No. I mean, I was terrified that they were going to . . . well, I’m sure you have an idea. But once they’d taken me, they barely touched me. They mostly left me alone, and when they did talk to me, they were . . . polite. Businesslike, I’d say.”

  Professionals, then, with no stake in Nguyen beyond their payday.

  “As soon as I was awake, they told me I was being held for ransom and would be safely released once it was paid,” she went on. “Then they removed the restraints and let me have free rein of the room I was locked in.”

  Levi frowned. Kidnapping an adult and holding them without torture or sexual assault for a straightforward ransom? While that was an everyday occurrence in some parts of the world, it was unusual in the United States. “Did you take off the blindfold?”

  “I couldn’t. It was locked somehow; if I had to guess, I’d say it was some kind of fetish gear.” She cracked her neck from side to
side and said, “You know, I think I will take a water, please.”

  He got up to fetch a bottle of water from the fridge in the corner. She took a few shallow sips before soldiering on.

  “I’ve had kidnapping safety training, so I knew to stay calm and follow directions. But I also did what I could to learn the layout of the room and listen at the door as much as possible. So I heard right away when they found out my company had refused to negotiate.”

  “Your company?”

  “Aphelion Innovations. We’re still pretty small, but we recently signed a huge contract with the Department of Defense. I’m the CEO and chief engineer. The kidnappers went straight to my board of directors for the ransom.”

  “But they refused to pay?”

  “Yeah. I found out later they thought it was a hoax and cut off all contact with the kidnappers. After that, I heard a lot of tense whispering and discussion through the door, but I couldn’t make out most of it. Then the kidnappers got a phone call. A few minutes later, they came into my room and told me they needed to sedate me. I was afraid they’d do something worse if I refused, so I cooperated. They injected something in my arm, and when I regained consciousness . . .” She swallowed hard, her breathing speeding up. “My . . . my eye was gone. I guess they wanted to send a message that couldn’t be ignored.”

  She sucked in a shuddering breath, and tears trickled from her remaining eye. Levi handed her a box of tissues and waited quietly while she collected herself.

  He knew what it was like to be victimized—not just the pain and fear, but the shame, the deep sense of helplessness and all the bitter self-blame that accompanied it. Those things left behind a gritty slime that couldn’t be scrubbed away by other people’s platitudes, no matter how many times they said, It’s not your fault or There’s nothing you could have done.

  Words like that had never helped Levi, so he didn’t say them now.

  Eventually, her tears stopped and she seemed calmer. “Sorry about that.”

  “No need to apologize. It was brave for you to come here and tell me this at all.”