Nothing.
“Fuck!” he shouted. He smashed a vicious palm-heel strike into the door. It slammed against its lock hard enough to rattle the entire row of stalls.
The worst part was that he knew Wen was right. For God’s sake, this was the second time today he’d needed to hide in a bathroom to get his shit together. Maybe he was more of a liability than an asset at this point.
He stayed where he was until his breathing returned to normal and his thoughts were no longer locked in a violent spiral. Only then did he venture out to the bullpen.
It was evident right away that word had spread, because the room was unnaturally quiet and everyone was careful to not look at him. The fury he’d been wrestling with for the past twenty minutes surged back. His coworkers all thought he was a freak, a ticking time bomb who couldn’t be trusted. The Seven of Spades was ruining his professional reputation like they were ruining everything else in his life.
He sank into his desk chair and pressed both hands to his face. He was not going to lose it, not again—
“Levi?”
He dropped his hands, ready to snap at whoever’d had the audacity to approach him, only to find himself looking at perhaps the one person in the entire world he wouldn’t lash out at.
“Adriana,” he said, the flames of his rage banked for the moment. He stood and waited to see if she would initiate a hug. When she did, he wrapped his arms around her—very loosely, so she wouldn’t feel restrained—and hugged her back.
The hugging was new. When Levi had first found Adriana, she’d been able to tolerate very little physical contact, especially with men. But months of living with a supportive foster family, undergoing therapy, and training with Levi in Krav Maga had helped her make great strides in recovery. She’d hugged Levi spontaneously for the first time a few weeks ago.
“What are you doing here?” he asked once they separated.
“I was having counseling with Natasha.” Adriana nodded across the bullpen, to where Natasha Stone was standing outside the hallway that led to her office deeper within the substation. “She said you were having a bad day and you might want to do something to take your mind off it.”
Natasha smiled and gave him a small wave. He waved back, then turned to Adriana.
Fuck it. Right now he’d rather be anywhere but here, and he wasn’t scheduled to work today anyway. “You want to go to Counterstrike, do some training for your P1 test?”
Adriana grinned. “Sure.”
“Why don’t you call your foster parents and make sure it’s okay,” he said.
She bounced away happily, pulling out her cell phone. Thank you, Levi mouthed to Natasha.
Natasha nodded, winked, and headed back toward her office.
Levi and Adriana went to Counterstrike, his Krav Maga school—and hers as well, now that she was a registered member of the International Krav Maga Federation. In addition to coaching her in general self-defense, he was preparing her for the Level One Practitioner test next month.
They ran through the curriculum from start to finish. By the time he wrapped things up by sending her to work a heavy bag, he felt much steadier. Krav had always been one of the few things that could pull him out of his head.
He wanted to stay moving while observing her technique on the bag at the same time, so he grabbed a jump rope and fell into a rhythm next to her, switching up his pace and footwork every few seconds.
“Can I ask you something?” she asked about a minute later. She didn’t take her eyes off the bag.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Are you glad one of the men who hurt you is dead?”
He tripped over the rope and caught himself on the next bag over. She remained focused on her own bag, pummeling it with hammerfists, palm-heel strikes, and knees.
Levi hadn’t realized Natasha had told her the specific details of why he’d had a bad day. Though it wasn’t a big deal—he’d shared the full story of the assault with Adriana a long time ago—this was the first time she’d mentioned it all afternoon.
His stomach churned, but he couldn’t lie to her. Not about this.
“Yes,” he whispered.
She nodded. He waited, knowing she’d asked for a reason.
“Sometimes I wish my old foster father lived in Vegas instead of Reno.” She nailed the bag with a fierce elbow that would have broken an attacker’s jaw, and Levi felt a swell of pride despite the morbid conversation. “I think if he lived here, the Seven of Spades would kill him.”
“So do I,” said Levi. The Seven of Spades harbored a particular loathing for adults who harmed children. An abusive foster parent was right up their alley.
Adriana grabbed the bag to stop it from swinging; she was probably panting as much from emotional distress as exertion. “I wish a serial killer would murder him. Does that mean I’m a bad person?”
“No.” Levi took her hand and gave it a light squeeze so she met his eyes. “There’s a difference between fantasy and reality. It’s natural to want revenge against people who did terrible things to you, but just because you want to hurt someone doesn’t mean you would if given the opportunity.”
She mulled that over. “Would you have hurt those men if you’d run into them yourself?”
“Well, I might have taken a swing at them, if we’re being honest,” he said, pleased when she cracked a smile. “But I wouldn’t have killed them, no matter how many times I’ve fantasized about doing exactly that.”
“What if they hurt someone else, though?”
He stilled. “What?”
“You don’t know how many other people those men hurt the same way they hurt you. And my old foster father could have other kids living with him now, because nobody in Reno ever believed me. If people like that aren’t stopped, they’ll just keep doing the same bad things over and over.”
“I . . .” Levi was stuck for a response. She was right, of course, and how could he expect a traumatized young woman to accept the fact that her abuser would never be brought to justice?
“It’s dumb, but sometimes I’m afraid he’ll come after me. That he’ll find me again.” She took a shaky breath. “I know there’s no reason for him to do that. He probably forgot about me the second I ran away. But I still think about it a lot.”
Oh. Suddenly this conversation made a lot more sense.
“That’s why you’re learning how to protect yourself,” he said. “And I promise, I would never, ever let anyone hurt you. Anyone who came after you would have to go through me.”
This time, her smile reached her eyes. They looked at each other, sharing a moment of understanding that Levi could never have with Martine or even Dominic.
“I think we’ve had enough of a workout for one day. Why don’t we go get some ice cream?”
“Don’t you mean I’ll have ice cream and you’ll have coffee?” she said archly.
“Just go get changed,” he said, nudging her toward the bathroom with a laugh.
Dominic suppressed a groan as the dealer raked the pot toward a player on the opposite side of the poker table. Down another half a grand—he was seriously off his game tonight. At this rate, even Saturday night tips at Stingray wouldn’t cover his losses—
No, no. He’d had a run of bad luck, which only meant he was due for some good cards. He could feel the turn coming. All he had to do was chase it down.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and since they were between hands, he went ahead and checked it. He frowned when he saw Martine’s name on the screen. She wouldn’t call him at night—unless something was wrong with Levi.
He signaled the dealer that he would sit out the next hand and hurried away from the table, toward the door where reception was better. “What’s wrong?” he said by way of greeting.
Martine didn’t call him on his rudeness. “We have a big problem.”
He listened in growing dismay as she filled him in on the day’s events. “Is Levi okay?” he asked when she finished, already knowing the answer.
“I haven’t even gotten to the worst part,” she said grimly. “Wen took him off the Seven of Spades case altogether.”
Dominic’s breath stalled in his chest. “No. Christ, Martine, that’s gonna kill him! You have to talk Wen out of it.”
“I tried! I argued with him for over an hour. Even Leila gave it a shot, and you know what she’s like. His mind’s made up. The only reason he let Levi stay on the case this long was because Agent Chaudhary recommended it. But now that Levi has a personal connection to the victims . . .”
“Do you know where Levi is right now?”
“Natasha arranged for him to spend the rest of the day with Adriana.”
Dominic’s shoulders sagged with slight relief. No matter what his mental state, Levi would never let harm come to Adriana, who he loved like a little sister. Her presence would ensure he stayed in control of himself.
“You should call him,” said Martine.
“I’d only make things worse.”
“Dominic—”
“Levi doesn’t trust me anymore,” he bit out. “He wouldn’t want me to see him vulnerable like this.”
“I think you’re wrong,” she said, but she didn’t try to persuade him further. Once she promised to keep him updated, they hung up. As Dominic hit the button to end the call, his eyes fell on the phone’s clock.
“Oh, fuck,” he said, so loudly he startled several people nearby. He’d completely lost track of time, and now he was going to be late for work at Stingray.
He returned to the poker table to color up what was left of his chips, then proceeded to the cashier, tapping his foot anxiously as he waited in line.
“Dominic?”
He turned, startled by the approach of a statuesque Greek woman who was drawing double takes all across the casino—Diana Kostas, whom he’d met when she’d gotten tangled up in one of Levi’s homicide investigations last summer.
“Di—” He stopped as her eyes widened fractionally and she shook her head. “Pandora,” he said, using her work name instead. “Wow, it’s great to see you.”
“You too. It’s been a while.”
He had saved her life by administering CPR after she’d been strangled, but he’d broken several of her ribs in the process. He’d done some repairs around her house afterward while she was laid up, and they’d had a few good talks, though they’d lost touch after she’d recovered.
“How’s your son?” he asked.
She glowed at the mere mention of him. “He’s doing really well. The child psychologist Natasha recommended worked wonders for him after the attack. And you? How’s Levi?”
The person in front of him finished their business and stepped away. He handed his chips over to the cashier with a distracted smile before he said, “We, um . . . we broke up, actually.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Her eyes roamed over his chips, and he knew what she must be thinking—his gambling history was something they’d once talked about, though only briefly.
The hot sting of embarrassment brought forth his old friend, defensiveness. “It’s not what—”
“Hey, no explanation necessary.” She held up a hand. “I know what it’s like to have people judging you and telling you what to do with your life. You won’t get that from me.”
“Thanks.” He took the bills the cashier handed him, tucked them into his wallet, and moved out of the way. “Are you here for work? This doesn’t seem like your kind of place.”
Diana was a high-end escort with Sinful Secrets, one of Vegas’s top-tier agencies. The Railroad Pass, while not a total dive, wasn’t the classiest joint in the Valley.
She laughed. “For some clients, discretion is more important than atmosphere. Speaking of which . . .” She smiled at someone over his shoulder. “I need to get going.”
“Of course. Me too.”
She started moving around him, then paused and touched his elbow. “You helped me out a lot when I needed it. If I can ever return the favor, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
“Sure,” he said, puzzled yet touched by the offer. “Thank you.”
After giving his arm a squeeze, she walked across the casino floor to greet an older man gazing at her like an awestruck tourist in the Sistine Chapel. Dominic checked his phone again, cringed at the time, and all but ran for the parking lot.
Stingray, an extravagant nightclub in the LGBT neighborhood east of the Strip known as the Fruit Loop, was a three-story affair with several bars, multiple dance floors, and an underwater theme enhanced by cool blue uplighting and massive aquariums. Getting there from Henderson on a Saturday night was a clusterfuck, and in the end, he was over an hour late.
He’d texted his manager a story about having car trouble, but he could tell she didn’t believe him. She chewed him out and then exiled him with an assignment to one of the more remote bars in the club, where he’d make half as much in tips as he would at a bar on the dance floors. That was an unexpected blow to his income, and especially troubling in light of his run of bad luck.
Carlos, his best friend and fellow bartender, accosted him in the locker room while he was changing. The Stingray uniform of black trousers and a tight black T-shirt clung to Carlos’s lanky frame, and his floppy brown hair was mussed like he’d been running his hands through it.
“I can’t believe you’re late again,” Carlos said.
Dominic stripped off the button-down he’d been wearing all day and tossed it into his locker. “I had car trouble.”
“Don’t feed me that bullshit. You were gambling.”
Dominic stiffened and glared at him. Carlos raised his eyebrows in challenge.
“I tried to cover for you,” he said. “I told them you’d gotten wrapped up in a case and couldn’t get free.”
That explained why his manager hadn’t bought his story. “I didn’t ask you to do that,” Dominic snapped.
“What are you gonna do when you lose this job?”
Dominic froze with his T-shirt in one hand.
“I know you couldn’t afford that,” Carlos went on. “I doubt the two jobs you have now are enough to keep you afloat for much longer.”
“They wouldn’t fire me. I bring in too many regulars.” Unnerved, Dominic yanked his shirt over his head.
“Please. This is Las Vegas. You don’t think there are fifty hot, buff guys lining up behind you to take your job? Nobody’s irreplaceable.”
This flew in the face of their unspoken agreement to not discuss Dominic’s gambling. He slammed his locker shut and folded his arms across his chest as he faced Carlos, his biceps straining against the tight sleeves of his T-shirt.
Carlos wasn’t fazed in the least. “I know that nothing I say or do can really convince you to accept help before you’re ready. I just want you to remember how much you lost the last time this happened, and think about whether you’re willing to go through all that again.”
Rubbing a hand over his scruffy jaw, Carlos turned and walked out. Dominic’s nostrils flared.
He was so fucking sick of people offering to help him like was some kind of invalid. He was fucking fine.
Carlos did have one good point, though, which was that Dominic’s current income couldn’t quite keep up with his previous debts and recent losses. But that was easily solved. He still had his bail enforcement license; he could pick up a bounty or two and use the extra cash to tide him over until his luck turned around and he started winning big again.
Everything was fine.
Dominic cracked his neck from side to side, put his game face on, and headed out to sweet-talk horny tourists into padding his wallet.
Levi sat in his car on Monday evening, not wanting to go home but not knowing what else to do with himself. Wen had cut him out of the Seven of Spades investigation entirely, so while he knew the missing men hadn’t been found—dead or alive—he had no idea what progress had been made. He hadn’t tried to get Martine to share details on the sly; he knew she would if he asked
, and he didn’t want to get her in trouble.
To distract himself, he’d thrown all his energies into the Buckner homicide—now officially confirmed to be caused by a massive overdose of pentobarbital— and its associated kidnappings. He hadn’t been surprised by the fact that Dominic had gotten to all the victims and their families first, or by the subterfuge Dominic had used. As long as private investigators and bounty hunters didn’t misrepresent themselves as law enforcement, they were allowed to lie about their identities—a technique called pretexting.
Not having the same advantage, Levi had probably been able to glean less information. Besides Nguyen, every witness in the case had been reluctant to speak with him, as they’d all received the same parting threats from their kidnappers. But he’d still learned enough to establish a clear timeline and MO for the crimes.
The traffic camera footage had been helpful as well, since all the victims had been snatched in transit. Though the kidnappers had been careful not to take or return the victims anywhere under direct surveillance, Levi had figured out which cameras surrounded the areas in question and reviewed the footage from the given time windows, searching for large black SUVs. Comparing his notes from each event had enabled him to spot a pattern and identify two cars—a Chevrolet Suburban and a Toyota Sequoia—as the kidnappers’ likely vehicles.
Every time he noted those SUVs, they had different license plates; each plate turned out to have been reported stolen from cars in the northwest region of the Valley. He’d issued department-wide instructions for all officers to run the plates of any car they saw matching the descriptions he’d provided.
Now, though, he was stuck in a holding pattern. He was waiting to see if the LVMDP’s forensic accountant could trace the ransom payments, waiting to hear back from his and Martine’s CIs, waiting for the vehicle lead to pan out, waiting for the court to finish battling KIG’s lawyers for their client list. And, as much as he hated to admit it, he was waiting for another kidnapping.
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