The first thing Dominic did when he reached his parked truck was retrieve a flashlight from the glove compartment. Ignoring the odd looks he got from a couple of passing cops, he stretched out on his back on the asphalt and scooted underneath the truck, shining the light up into the undercarriage.
Back in April, there’d been a night when Dominic had used Carlos’s car to pursue some leads in the Seven of Spades case. The killer themself had followed Dominic and left a calling card on the windshield at the end of the night—whether to scare him or just tease him, he still had no idea. He’d torn Carlos’s car and his own truck apart the next day looking for GPS trackers and come up empty, so he’d concluded that the killer had either followed him in person or used some other means.
After what Levi had said this morning and the weirdness of last night, however, he wouldn’t rest easy until he checked again.
He scanned the entire underside of the car, looking for odd wires or anything out of place. Finding nothing, he rolled out and searched all four wheel wells and the front and back bumpers before moving on to the cab. He ran his hands underneath the dashboard, emptied out the glove compartment, lifted the floor mats, and then pushed a hand beneath the front passenger’s seat.
His fingers nudged up against a hard, plastic shape. He got a better grip and gave it a tug, pulling out a black rectangular device smaller than a cell phone. It was discreetly stamped with the logo of an upscale personal security brand.
“Goddammit,” he said under his breath.
His faith in Levi wasn’t the only reason he believed the Seven of Spades was still alive, but he’d also believed—or he’d hoped—that the killer had moved on. Why stay in the city after successfully framing Keith Chapman? Why continue keeping tabs on Dominic and Levi at all, still less interfere with their respective cases? If the Seven of Spades couldn’t go public again, what was the point?
There was no telling how long this GPS tracker had been in his truck, and this could just be the tip of the iceberg. Dominic had extensive, if rusty, training in technical surveillance countermeasures, but he didn’t have the equipment he’d need for a thorough search.
He knew where to get some, though.
McBride Investigations wasn’t far from Levi’s substation. Less than twenty minutes later, Dominic walked into the tech department managed by Isaiah Miller, a cute young black guy with square-framed glasses and a shy smile.
Isaiah was elbow-deep in the guts of a disassembled computer, his head bobbing along to the music he was listening to through his earbuds. He didn’t look up at Dominic’s greeting, so Dominic lightly touched his arm.
Yelping like a scalded cat, Isaiah leapt to his feet, violently jostling his work table. A tray full of papers fell to the floor with a crash and were followed by a travel mug that sprayed coffee in a wide arc across the linoleum as it bounced and rolled. He yanked out his earbuds and stared up at Dominic with wide, round eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” Dominic said, trying not to laugh. He crouched to gather the scattered papers. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I said your name a couple times.”
“It’s cool. Sometimes I get lost in the zone.” Isaiah pulled his phone out of his pocket, turned off the music, and set it on the table before grabbing a handful of paper towels.
Once they’d put the work table back to rights, Dominic said, “So assuming you wouldn’t rather just tell me to go fuck myself now—”
“What do you need?” Isaiah said with a laugh.
“A spectrum analyzer and a non-linear junction detector.”
“No problem.” Isaiah gestured for Dominic to follow him to his main desk, where he sat behind a sleek computer monitor. “What’s the case number?”
“It’s not for a case.” When Isaiah blinked and opened his mouth, Dominic held up a hand. “Before you say anything, I promise that I’ll return the equipment to you within thirty-six hours, completely undamaged, with nobody aware that I had it other than you and me.”
“You need professional TSCM equipment for personal use?” Isaiah said dubiously.
“Yeah. It’s . . . Can I tell you something in confidence?”
“Sure.”
Hovering over Isaiah like this wouldn’t work to his advantage, so Dominic sat in the other chair. He leaned against the edge of the desk and lowered his voice to a more intimate tone.
“It’s my psycho ex-boyfriend,” he said. “We served together, and he was always jealous and controlling, but now that I’m seeing someone new he’s really freaking out. I think he’s been following me, maybe bugging my place—I wouldn’t even be surprised if he was using hidden cameras to spy on me.”
“Jesus,” Isaiah said, his mouth falling open.
“He’s a professional, so he wouldn’t be using the cheap crap you find at a strip mall. I need similar quality counter surveillance equipment to prove I’m right.”
“Dominic . . .” Isaiah’s face was full of empathetic concern, but he wasn’t quite sold. Dominic would have to push a little harder.
“Please,” he said, letting his voice break slightly. “I know this is a lot to ask, but I don’t feel safe in my own apartment. I’m afraid of what he might do next.”
Isaiah bit his lip, then nodded. “Okay. If you promise to get the equipment back as soon as possible in mint condition, I can help you out.”
“Thank you.” Dominic reached across the desk to squeeze his arm. “And if something does go wrong for any reason, I’ll take full responsibility. I’ll say I snuck in here and stole the stuff without your knowledge. You have my word this won’t fall back on you.”
Isaiah gave him a small smile and turned to his computer. “Let me just check the inventory.” He was quiet for a few seconds while he typed, and when he spoke again, it was with a too-casual air that caught Dominic’s attention immediately. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”
Dominic knew that Isaiah had a crush on him, and he’d used that to his advantage, but actually leading the guy on would be going too far. “His name’s Levi,” he said, letting everything he felt for Levi come through in his tone. “He’s a homicide detective.”
Isaiah looked at him sharply. “A cop? I’d think he’d be the first person you’d go to for help with something like this.”
“I don’t want to stir up too much trouble until I confirm my suspicions. I could still be wrong.”
God, I hope I’m wrong.
Isaiah retrieved the requested equipment and stashed it inside a nondescript duffel bag. “You know how to use this stuff, right?” he asked as he handed the bag over.
“It’s been a while, but it’ll come back to me,” said Dominic.
He thanked Isaiah again and headed home. Inside his apartment, he acted normally, greeting Rebel with a playful tussle and turning on a Spotify playlist like he usually did when he was home alone. Then he unzipped the duffel bag and got to work.
The spectrum analyzer would capture, map, and analyze all spectrum activity within a small area to detect transmitting surveillance devices, while the non-linear junction detector could find electronic devices hidden inside walls, floors, or any other container, even if they were turned off. Dominic hadn’t used equipment like this for years, and technology had advanced since then—but even today’s civilian TSCM devices didn’t rival the classified military-grade ones he’d been accustomed to. It only took him a few minutes to get a handle on them.
He knew better than to rely on electronics to the exclusion of a physical inspection, so he utilized his eyes and hands just as much as the equipment as he commenced a thorough sweep of his apartment from top to bottom. He examined every door jamb, windowsill, and inch of baseboard, unscrewed every outlet plate and light switch, checked inside the smoke detectors, followed every electrical cord. Rebel followed him around, watching him with her ears pricked up and her head tilted to the side.
He didn’t hit pay dirt until he reached the desk in the living room, and even with the tools at his disposal, he didn’t figure it out right away.
It was the power strip.
Under other circumstances, he never would have noticed—because really, who ever looked at their power strip again after they’d set it up? He hadn’t touched his in years, except for the occasional halfhearted dusting of his computer. But this wasn’t the strip he’d originally bought. That had been swapped out for one with a bug built right into the internal wiring—which meant the Seven of Spades never had to come back for it, because it was plugged right into a continuous power source.
Dominic didn’t make any noise to indicate that he’d found it. He turned off all the electronics connected to the strip, unplugged everything, and tossed it into a shoebox with the GPS tracker from his truck. Then he kept going, because he knew he wasn’t finished yet.
This was just the beginning.
“I don’t know how she did it,” Levi said to Martine. “The person I spoke with at Johns Hopkins told me she was in the hospital on Monday. And I confirmed the flight manifest with Southwest—Clarissa Northridge was definitely on Flight 484 from Baltimore to Las Vegas on Tuesday morning.”
“Just because she wasn’t home when the local PD stopped by doesn’t mean she wasn’t in Baltimore,” said Martine.
“I know.” Levi clicked his mouse, intent on his computer screen. “But she wasn’t. I can feel it.”
Martine narrowed her eyes. “What exactly are you doing?”
“Reviewing the security footage from the Mirage. When I met Dr. Northridge, something about her struck me as familiar, and after Warner let slip that he’d seen her on Monday, I couldn’t shake the idea that I’d seen her somewhere too. This seemed like the likeliest place.”
He finished with one of the elevator cameras, made a frustrated noise, and moved on to the next. Martine wheeled her chair around to his desk.
“If you’d seen her in these recordings, don’t you think you would have recognized her when you met?” she asked, though she sounded intrigued.
“I don’t know.” Levi fast-forwarded through the footage, already growing bored—then sucked in a breath and hit the pause button. He rewound and replayed the last minute in slow motion. “Maybe not if she’d disguised herself.”
He tapped the image on the screen. The tall, trim woman standing alone in the elevator was wearing gloves, sunglasses, and a head scarf like she was about to drive a convertible in the 1950s.
The height and build were right, and the way she held herself struck the same chord of familiarity Levi had felt when he greeted Northridge in person. He couldn’t be one hundred percent certain it was the same woman though, still less convince a jury.
“Hmm.” Martine peered closer. “Could be her. She gets off at the right floor.”
Frowning at the timestamp, Levi said, “At 2:47 a.m. That’s near the later edge of the coroner’s window for time of death.”
“But still inside it.”
He fast-forwarded, looking for the point at which the woman got back on the elevator, but he reached the end of the footage without seeing her again. The cameras from the other elevators told the same story—if the woman had left the twenty-second floor before Hensley had been found dead, she’d done it by another route.
“Think she used the stairs when she left?” he asked.
“It’s possible. She’s in good shape—going down twenty-two flights probably wouldn’t faze her. Or maybe she just went to a different room.”
“I know in my gut that this is Clarissa Northridge. She saw her husband the night he died, and she’s been covering it up.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But calling our evidence circumstantial would be too generous. We can’t build a case on what we have.”
Martine drummed her fingers against the desk. “You got a warrant for her cell records last night, right?”
“Yeah. They haven’t come through yet, though, and we can’t count on them containing anything helpful. And Carmen still hasn’t been able to crack the security on Walsh’s computers.”
They sat in thoughtful silence for a few minutes. Levi clicked randomly though the security cameras, his mind running in circles. If Northridge had seen Hensley the night of his death and gone to such lengths to cover her tracks, she’d almost certainly been the one who killed him. And she’d get away with it if they couldn’t prove that.
The woman in the elevator didn’t have any luggage, only a purse. Had she just gone right up to Hensley’s door and knocked? Or . . .
Levi stiffened. “The lobby,” he said. “The Mirage sent us those security feeds with everything else—but we ended up not needing them once we’d identified Diana Kostas, so nobody ever looked at them. This woman must have walked through the lobby at some point. Maybe she even got a key to Hensley’s room.”
He hunted through the database where they logged electronic evidence until he found what he was looking for. The security cameras in the Mirage lobby covered a few different angles; he picked the one with the best view of the reception desk and skipped forward to around 2:30. Martine leaned in with him to watch.
At 2:36 a.m., the woman in the scarf and gloves approached the desk—and removed her sunglasses, leaving no doubt that she was indeed Clarissa Northridge. Levi and Martine both exhaled heavily.
“That’s Alan Walsh she’s talking to,” said Martine.
On the screen, Northridge and Walsh talked for a minute, and then she slid a small but thick envelope across the desk. He handed her a key card in return, and she put her sunglasses back on before walking away. Walsh stashed the envelope in his inner jacket pocket.
“Oh my God, she bribed him for a room key.”
“I bet you the Mirage’s system records which key cards are programmed when,” Levi said, reaching for his phone.
One quick call later, and he had confirmation that the card coded under Walsh’s account at 2:39 a.m. on Sunday morning had been for room 2218. Levi hung up and turned to Martine in triumph.
“This is something we can build a case on,” he said.
“That shady son of a bitch,” she said, shaking her head. “I questioned him myself about whether he’d seen anything suspicious that night, and he straight-up lied to my face.”
“I guess he figured he’d rather use that information to blackmail Northridge than share it with us. His supervisor was mortified—after he died, they reviewed all of his recent work activity like we asked, but they didn’t double-check every key card he’d programmed. You should have heard how many times she apologized.”
Martine stood and wheeled her chair back to her desk. “We have enough for an arrest warrant. Do you know where Northridge might be now?”
He checked his watch. “I do, actually. Kapoor and Warner’s presentation started ten minutes ago, and she promised them she’d be there.”
“Guess we’re crashing the conference again.”
They drove to the Mirage, checked the room assignment, and entered quietly at the back. The space was packed; the hotel had crammed as many folding chairs as possible into the room, and there were still people standing all around the edges. Levi wondered if the high turnout could be attributed more to the research itself or the notoriety of Hensley’s murder.
A sheet of posterboard propped on an easel near the door bore the title of the paper being presented: Peripheral and central mechanisms of visceral pain. S. Hensley, MD; A. Kapoor, MD; C. Warner, MD.
Levi had read some of their research for background when the case first started. Most of the nitty-gritty science had gone over his head, but he’d gotten the gist of it. Pretty interesting stuff, though he couldn’t vouch for Kapoor’s statement that it was “groundbreaking.”
He and Martine stayed where they were, scanning the room. Warner had the mic at the dais up front, rambling on about inflamed internal organs. He seemed sober today—in fact, he was in the best mood Levi had seen him in so far. His face was animated, his hand gestures effusive, his voice thrumming with passion for his topic. Kapoor stood next to him with a faint yet proud smile on her face.
Martine nudged Levi’s shoulder and inclined her head. He looked in the direction she’d indicated and saw Clarissa Northridge sitting in the third row, hands clasped on her crossed legs, nodding along as she listened.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, paying no mind to the annoyed glances he received from a few people nearby.
“What is it?” Martine asked.
“A text from Carmen,” he murmured. “Northridge’s phone records came in. She received two calls from a number with a Las Vegas area code on Sunday and Monday. The number is associated with a burner phone, no legitimate billing information.”
“Walsh.”
“We can’t prove that unless we find the actual phone, but yeah, I’d put good money on it.”
They both looked back at Northridge. “We should wait until the presentation is over,” Martine said. “City officials won’t like the LVMPD arresting a respected physician in a room full of her peers during a huge money-making conference.”
Levi rolled his eyes, but he knew she was right. They hovered at the back while Warner and Kapoor took turns presenting their research. Once the doctors had finished, they wrapped things up with a touching tribute to Hensley’s memory that completely glossed over what a terrible human being he’d been, and received a thunderous standing ovation.
It took a while for the room to empty out afterward; half the people present seemed to want to speak to Kapoor and Warner in person. Levi and Martine waited until there were only a few people left milling around and Northridge, Kapoor, and Warner were standing together talking.
Northridge was the first to notice their approach; she went pale, her throat bobbing harshly, but she stood her ground. Kapoor and Warner fell silent at her reaction and turned around with puzzled expressions.
“Dr. Northridge,” Levi said, “we have a warrant for your arrest. Out of respect, I’m willing to forgo the cuffs until we reach the car if you’re willing to cooperate.”
“Arrest?” Kapoor exclaimed, stepping between them. “What for?”
“Stephen’s murder, I expect,” said Northridge. When Levi nodded, she took a shaky breath and put a hand on Kapoor’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Anika. Just a misunderstanding. I’ll get it straightened out.”
Ignoring her, Kapoor squared off against Levi and Martine. “You can’t be serious. Clarissa was in Baltimore when Stephen died.”
Warner ducked his head, his shoulders hunching as he shuffled his feet like a naughty schoolboy. Northridge closed her eyes briefly. Kapoor glanced between them, opened her mouth, and closed it without saying anything.
“If you’d come with us, please?” Martine said, gesturing for Northridge to precede her. Northridge nodded and joined them in their walk toward the door without protest.
“We’ll follow you to the station, Clarissa.” Kapoor turned to Warner for support, then jostled his shoulder when he didn’t respond.
“What?” he said, his head shooting up. “Oh, yeah, of course.”
Levi and Martine escorted Northridge to the waiting car without incident. As they helped her inside, she said, “I won’t speak without a lawyer present,” in a quiet, firm voice, and then didn’t utter another word.
Dominic finished sweeping his apartment without finding any more surveillance devices. Besides the power strip, there were no other bugs in evidence—nor, to his immense relief, did he find hidden cameras of any kind. He threw the equipment back in the duffel bag, grabbed a notebook and pen, and took Rebel with him next door to 2G.
“Hey, Dom,” Carlos said when he answered Dominic’s knock. His eyes were sleepy and his hair mussed like he’d just woken up; he’d worked a closing shift at Stingray last night. “What’s up?”
“I’m all out of beer. You got any?” Dominic held up the note he’d written as he spoke.
Don’t react to this out loud. I need to sweep your apartment for bugs.
No longer looking quite so sleepy, Carlos blinked at the note and stared at Dominic for a few seconds before saying, “Uh . . . sure. Come on in.”
Dominic entered the apartment, Rebel trotting at his heels, and set the duffel bag on the coffee table in the living room. When Carlos just stood in place as if frozen, he raised his eyebrows and jerked his head toward the kitchen.
Carlos startled, then clapped his hands. “Hey, Rebbie, you want a treat?”
Rebel spun around in an excited circle and raced after Carlos into the kitchen. Dominic unzipped the duffel bag, preparing to start the entire TSCM process from the beginning. This time, he checked the power strips first.
He was still crouched on the floor behind the TV when Rebel returned from the kitchen, settling down on the carpet with one of the crunchy organic dog treats Jasmine stocked. Carlos followed with two open bottles of Stella and handed one to Dominic.
“Thanks,” Dominic said, clinking his bottle against Carlos’s. He took a sip, got to his feet, and exchanged the beer for the spectrum analyzer.
Carlos hovered in the middle of the living room, his own beer hanging from one hand, and gaped at Dominic while he worked. After a couple minutes of that, Dominic sighed and set the spectrum analyzer down to grab his notebook.
ACT NORMAL!!! he scribbled.
Carlos glared at him.
“So are you all set for the proposal tomorrow?” Dominic asked. That was the only topic he could be sure would snap Carlos out of this awkward stupor.
It worked, though not the way he’d expected. Carlos cringed, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. He wandered over to the couch and flopped down.
Dominic retrieved a screwdriver from his bag and began unscrewing the plate from the light switch near the front door. “You don’t sound so sure. Are you having second thoughts?”
“No! It’s just . . .” Carlos waved his beer around. “I’m freaking out a little.”
“I thought you guys had talked about getting married before.”
“Of course we have. I wouldn’t even think about proposing if we hadn’t. It’s just a little earlier than we’d been planning, that’s all.”
Dominic shone a flashlight inside the light switch, searching for any suspicious wiring. “And you’re positive Jasmine’s the kind of girl who will enjoy being proposed to in front of her entire family?”
“Yep,” Carlos said with a grin. “You know how much she loves those YouTube proposal videos where the family and friends are in on it.”
“Then why are you so nervous?”
Carlos took a long, contemplative swallow of his beer. “I don’t know if I can explain it. She’ll love the ring, and I know she’ll say yes. But it’s still one of the most nerve-wracking things I’ve ever done.”
He trailed off into silence, though he didn’t seem finished. Dominic kept listening while he closed the light switch back up.
“I want everything to be perfect,” Carlos said. “I want Jasmine to have that great romantic proposal story she can tell all her friends, you know? This is . . . it’s one of the most important things a man does in his entire life. I have to get it right.”
Ah.
Carlos lifted a hand before Dominic could speak. “I know how heteronormative that sounds, okay? I hear it. But it doesn’t change anything.”
“You don’t have to justify the way you feel,” said Dominic. He returned to the spectrum analyzer. “Especially not to me. You’re still going with the idea we came up with?”
“Yeah. Mind if I bounce what I’m planning to say off you?”
Over the next hour, Carlos rehearsed his proposal speech and jotted down notes for himself while Dominic continued sweeping the apartment, offering his thoughts along the way. They’d moved into the kitchen when Dominic started getting iffy readings on the spectrum analyzer; a few minutes of concentrated searching revealed the source of the problem. He dragged over one of the dining chairs and stood on it to access the smoke detector.
The bug was wired into the device, once again supplying it with a constant power source. It was professional equipment—not military-grade, but on par with domestic law enforcement.
With a little time and focused concentration, Dominic managed to disengage the bug without compromising the smoke detector. Carlos had been watching silently, but when Dominic hopped off the chair with the bug in the palm of his hand, he said, “What—”
Dominic slashed his free hand by his throat and then held up one finger. He hurried back to his own apartment, where he tossed the bug into the shoebox.
Carlos was waiting for him in the exterior hallway, Rebel by his side. “What the fuck is going on, Dom? I didn’t ask any questions earlier, but you can’t tell me you’re sweeping my apartment for bugs and pull weird shit out of my smoke detector without some kind of explanation.”
Fair enough. “Do you remember the Seven of Spades?” Dominic asked.
“The serial killer? How could I forget?”
“They’re not dead.”
“What do you mean, they’re not dead?” Carlos said, giving him a bewildered look. “Didn’t Keith Chapman kill himself right in front of you?”
“He wasn’t the killer,” said Dominic. “Just a fall guy. Most people in the LVMPD don’t believe the real Seven of Spades is still out there, but Levi and I know the truth.”
Carlos’s jaw was hanging open, but he didn’t say anything. Rebel moved to sit on Dominic’s foot, leaning her considerable weight against his leg.
He reached down and smoothed a hand over her head. “The Seven of Spades had a weird fixation with the two of us during their spree in April, and now it seems like they never let go of it. I can’t go into details, but last night they set things up to give me what I needed for my investigation with McBride while also helping Levi with one of his cases. Then this morning I found a GPS tracker in my car and a bug in my apartment, plus the one I found in yours. I have no way of knowing how long any of that’s been in place. Could be a week, could be three months.”
“Holy shit,” Carlos breathed. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really believe you’re being monitored by a serial killer who everyone thinks is dead.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.”
Carlos raked a hand through his hair. “If it is true, are Jasmine and I in danger? Are you in danger?”
“No,” Dominic said firmly. “The Seven of Spades was—is—a self-righteous vigilante. They only kill people who have committed a serious breach of trust that they feel is unforgivable. They’re probably just keeping tabs on you and Jasmine because they know how much time I spend at your place.”
“And what if they decide to make an exception for the guy trying to bust them?” Carlos asked. “Because that’s what you and Levi are doing, isn’t it—trying to track down the real killer?”
Dominic shrugged.
“Jesus Christ, Dominic. Have you considered that’s the reason for the Seven of Spades’s ‘fixation’? Maybe they’re watching you and Levi to make sure they can stop you before you get too close to the truth.”
“Of course I’ve thought about it. But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to stop, and neither will Levi.” He gripped Carlos’s shoulders with both hands. “If you and Jasmine were in genuine danger, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you. I’d never do anything to put you guys at risk.”
Carlos studied Dominic’s face for a long moment, then breathed out and nodded. Dominic released him.
“How’d this person break into our apartments without us ever realizing?” Carlos said.
“I have no idea,” said Dominic. For all he knew, the Seven of Spades could have keys. “I’ll talk to building management about installing more serious security measures. In the meantime, let’s go back inside. I still need to look for bugs in your bedroom.”
Carlos blanched.
Levi heard the commotion in the bullpen from the front doors of the substation. He shot a worried glance at Martine, who was escorting Northridge, and broke away from them to hurry toward the source of the noise.
Diana Kostas stood in the center of the bullpen in a towering rage as she confronted her erstwhile friend. Julie was half cowering behind the uniformed officer who must have come to transport her back to the CCDC.
“You treacherous fucking bitch!” Kostas shouted. “How could you do this to me?”
Julie’s tearful apologies were lost under the continuing tirade. Everyone else in the room had stopped what they were doing to watch avidly, and nobody seemed intent on intervening. To Levi’s surprise, Leila Rashid stood nearby with her arms crossed, looking bored.
“I’m so sorry, Diana,” Julie said, lifting her cuffed hands in a gesture of appeasement. “Please believe me, I never meant for you to get hurt—”
“But you were happy to stand by and keep your mouth shut while I was arrested for murder!”
“What the hell is going on?” Levi hissed at Rashid.
“It’s probably my fault,” she said, though she didn’t sound guilty in the slightest. “I called Kostas about dropping the charges, and when I told her why, she cursed up a storm and then hung up on me. I knew she would come here.”
“How?”
She snorted. “It’s what I would do.”
“How far were you planning to let this go, Julie?” said Kostas. She stood with her hands on her hips, her face flushed, her large dark eyes snapping with furious hurt. “Would you have said anything when the case went to trial? How about when I went to prison?”
A sob burst out of Julie. “That never would have happened! I knew you didn’t kill that guy, everything would have been fine!”
“Oh, you’re such a moron—”
Levi turned to see Martine and Northridge entering the bullpen. Kapoor and Warner followed a few seconds later, though they stopped in their tracks when they saw the showdown.
“I let you into my home,” Kostas said, breathing hard. “I trusted you with my son. And you were ready to throw me under the bus to protect yourself and your scumbag boyfriend.”
“Don’t talk about him like that!”
Kostas’s face twisted and her hand swung back. Levi started moving, but Rashid was faster—she darted forward and grabbed Kostas’s arm even as the uniformed officer yanked Julie out of reach.
“You’re in a police station,” said Rashid, her tone one of mild irritation. “Don’t be an idiot.”
Kostas didn’t move, her raised forearm still caught in Rashid’s grip. She glared daggers at Julie as her chest heaved with barely contained emotion.
The spectators all seemed to be holding their breath. Levi was sure that if they’d been anywhere else, half these people would have their phones out to record every moment.
Then Kostas’s shoulders relaxed, and she nodded. Rashid let go of her arm, but she didn’t move away. Julie and her escort both eyed Kostas warily.
“I hope you go to prison for a long time,” Kostas said. Her voice shook. “And when you get out, don’t ever come near me or my son again.”
She whirled around and stalked away with her head held high, leaving Julie breaking down in tears behind her. Her stride faltered as she passed Martine and the three doctors near the exit, a frown creasing her brow, and she glanced at them one more time over her shoulder as she left.
Rashid heaved a put-upon sigh. “I’ll go with her, make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.” When she walked by Levi, she smiled and added, “Why don’t you give me a call when you find the actual murderer?”
Levi scowled after her retreating back. The uniformed officer led a sobbing Julie away—in the opposite direction—and conversation and movement resumed around the bullpen as everyone returned to their previous activities. In less than a minute, the mood in the room had gone back to normal.
“That was some serious drama,” Martine said, joining him with Northridge in tow. Kapoor and Warner trailed behind.
“Can you blame her?”
“Who was that woman?” Warner asked.
“Our original suspect in Dr. Hensley’s death.” Turning to their newest suspect, Levi said, “I’ll arrange for you to contact a defense attorney.”
“I already have one on the way,” said Kapoor.
They settled Northridge in an interrogation room and showed Kapoor and Warner to a room where they could wait. Thanks no doubt to the two women’s combined wealth and influence, the attorney Kapoor had contacted arrived within half an hour.
Levi and Martine both groaned aloud when they saw Jay Sawyer. A member of Hatfield, Park, and McKenzie, a prestigious local law firm, he was genuinely one of the best defense attorneys in Las Vegas. He was also quite handsome in an old New England, came-over-on-the-Mayflower kind of way, but the real problem was that he knew how competent and good-looking he was, and it only fed his monstrous ego.
“Detective Valcourt, Detective Abrams,” Sawyer said, stopping by their desks. His voice deepened as he looked at Levi. “Always a pleasure.”
“For you, maybe,” Levi muttered. Sawyer was bisexual, and had never made a secret of how much he’d like to get Levi on his back.
Sawyer favored him with a slow, annoyingly attractive smile. “Would you mind showing me to my client?”
Shoving himself back from his desk with poor grace, Levi stood and gestured for Sawyer to follow him. Martine wrinkled her nose sympathetically as they passed.
Levi tried not to hate defense attorneys on principle. There were people who were falsely accused of crimes, and he truly believed that even the guilty deserved a strong defense. It was a necessary job. But nine years as a cop had ingrained the prejudice too deeply in him to root out.
Plus, Sawyer was just a dick.
Fortunately, they made it to the interrogation room before Sawyer’s innuendos could cross the line into harassment, which spared Levi the trouble of having to break his nose. He felt little relief as he left Sawyer with Northridge, though, because he knew he’d be called back in no time.
Sure enough, he was informed an hour later that they were ready to speak to him. After an unsuccessful attempt to convince Martine to do the interrogation instead—she couldn’t stand Sawyer—he returned to the room and sat at the table with his notepad at the ready.
“For the record,” Sawyer said, “I’ve advised my client not to say anything to you at all. But she insists on telling you ‘her side of the story.’”
Between Sawyer’s clear exasperation and Northridge’s set, determined face, Levi could imagine how long that argument had gone on. There was nothing predatory or flirtatious about Sawyer’s demeanor now—he was all business.
“Then let’s hear it,” said Levi.
Northridge took a deep breath and folded her hands on top of the table. “I’d wanted a divorce for some time; I’m sure you’re familiar enough with Stephen’s life by now to understand why. But Stephen refused to consent to one—not because he wanted to stay married, but simply to spite me. My family’s assets are considerable, including extensive property holdings throughout the Northeast, and in a messy, contested divorce, Stephen may have been able to lay claim to portions of them because we didn’t have a prenup.” Her mouth tilted wryly. “You can’t imagine how much I hate knowing my mother was right all those years ago.”
Levi nodded for her to continue.
“I knew Stephen was in the habit of hiring call girls on his business trips. Catching him in the act of infidelity—and committing a crime, no less—would have given me leverage to pressure him into accepting a clean divorce, or swayed the court in my favor if he remained obstinate.”
“You wanted to walk in on him in a compromising position with a sex worker?”
“Yes,” Northridge said, and then sighed. “I made discreet arrangements to fly into Las Vegas on Saturday night. But my first plane had mechanical problems, and I ended up on a different flight. I arrived in the city much later than I’d planned. I knew there was little chance Stephen was still with the woman he’d hired, but I was determined to confront him anyway. I couldn’t bear another day of our farce of a marriage.”
Sawyer made a displeased noise, and it was no surprise—Northridge had just spoken to her own motive for Hensley’s murder.
“What time did you arrive at the Mirage?” Levi asked.
“Around 2.30 a.m. I was worried someone from the conference might recognize me and interfere, so I covered my face as best I could. I told the clerk at the front desk I was Stephen’s wife and I’d come to surprise him.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “I’d expected to have to do some convincing, but he was quick to accept a small bribe. In retrospect, that should have been a warning sign.”
Levi hummed agreement.
“I got a key card for Stephen’s room and went upstairs. The whole elevator ride, I was planning what I would say, how I would demand that we end things. I opened the door . . .” She gazed into the distance. Then she shook herself, leaned forward, and looked Levi right in the eye. “I swear to you, Detective, Stephen was already dead when I got there. He’d been dead for at least an hour. I didn’t kill him.”
He was reserving judgment on that for now. “What did you do then?” he said, keeping his tone neutral.
“I must have stood there frozen for a good five minutes. I was shocked, of course, and I didn’t know what to do. It took some time to process the fact that my husband was dead and I felt nothing.”
“God, Dr. Northridge, you’re killing me here,” Sawyer said with a pained expression.
She ignored him. “Once reality had sunk in, I realized the position I’d put myself in. Flying into the city without telling anyone, disguising myself, bribing a clerk for a key to the room—I knew it would look like I’d killed Stephen. So I ran. I thought there were probably security cameras in the elevators, so I took the stairs and left through a different exit. I went to a motel that accepted cash and didn’t require ID.”
Quick thinking, if it were true—not unexpected for a surgeon. “You were listed on the manifest for Flight 484 on Tuesday,” Levi said. “How did you manage that?”
Northridge opened her mouth, but Sawyer lifted a hand to cut her off. “Ah, ah,” he said. “No. The truth about this matter would implicate somebody my client cares for in a criminal act.”
Levi tapped his pen against the table, considering. “A violent one?”
“Not at all.”
Sawyer’s face was an impassive mask—Levi would never get the truth without some kind of deal. The guy was such an arrogant lothario that it was easy to forget he was actually good at his job.
“Give me a minute,” Levi said, pushing back his chair.
A couple of phone calls later, he had paperwork in hand to guarantee immunity to the person Northridge had drawn into her cover-up. Once everything was signed, Northridge said, “The first thing I did when I got to the motel was call my sister. I told her everything and asked her to fly to Las Vegas using my identity.”
“Are you twins?”
“No, but we look enough alike that with a wig and the right makeup, she could pass for the photo on my ID. I overnighted her my driver’s license, and she took the flight on Tuesday.”
Clever. “And how does Alan Walsh figure into this?” Levi asked. “We know he called your cell phone twice earlier this week.”
They didn’t actually know that, not for a fact, but who else would have been calling Northridge from a burner phone with a Las Vegas area code?
She sighed. “I spent all day Sunday worried that Mr. Walsh would tell the police he’d seen me. I didn’t think he would, because it would mean admitting he’d accepted a bribe for a room key, and he’d doubtlessly lose his job for that and perhaps even be considered an accomplice to the murder. So I hoped he’d just keep his mouth shut.”
“And instead?”
“Instead, he called me Sunday night and threatened to expose my presence in Las Vegas if I didn’t pay him off. I agreed to his terms and had my sister wire me the cash. Mr. Walsh and I met on Monday night at a diner near my motel, and I gave him what he’d asked for.”
The second call on Monday must have been to confirm the details of the meet-up, then. Levi looked at Sawyer’s pinched, sour expression. “I can’t believe you’re letting her tell me all this.”
“If you believe there’s any way I could stop her, I’d love to hear your thoughts on how,” he said.
“Gentlemen, please,” said Northridge. “I did things that were wrong, yes, but I didn’t kill my husband. I’m not afraid to take responsibility for my actions and accept the consequences, especially if it means I won’t be accused of a crime I didn’t commit.”
“You realize that by admitting that Walsh was blackmailing you, you’re telling me you had motive to kill him, too,” Levi said.
“That’s the thing.” She spread her hands. “I didn’t. I recorded both of my phone calls with Mr. Walsh, as well as our meeting on Monday. After the money had exchanged hands, I backed the recordings up to the Cloud and then played them for him. I had him on tape talking about how he blackmailed not only me, but other guests of the Mirage as well. I told him that if he ever tried to obtain more money from me, I’d bring the recordings to the police and take him down with me. Mutually assured destruction.”
Levi blinked.
“Mr. Walsh and I had an understanding. I didn’t mind giving him a one-time payout, and he accepted that it would end there. We parted on amicable terms. Then I read about his murder in the paper a couple of days later . . .” She swallowed hard, shaking her head. “Detective, Mr. Walsh told me that he knew I wasn’t the one who killed Stephen.”
Levi narrowed his eyes. “The only way he could know that is if he knew who the real killer was.”
“He did. And that person killed him for it.”
“Uh-huh. Any ideas who that person might be?”
She snorted. “If I knew, that would have been the first thing I told you.”
Levi was quiet for a few moments while he reviewed his dense notes. Then he exhaled one long breath and looked up. “This is a great story, Dr. Northridge. You account for everything, answer every doubt.” He flipped his notepad shut. “But let me tell you what this looks like from a law enforcement perspective. You have the strongest motivation to kill both Hensley and Walsh of anyone we’ve encountered. You went to extreme lengths to conceal your arrival and presence in Las Vegas. You bribed a hotel employee for access to the first crime scene, which by your own admission you then fled. The man who was blackmailing you turned up dead a few days later. You have the medical knowledge to measure out an overdose of Rohypnol and precisely target a man’s carotid artery. And while you may have an explanation for all of that, at the end of the day, you can’t prove any of it.”
“A jury will decide that,” Sawyer said.
“Yes, that is the way the legal system works, thank you,” Levi said. “You think a jury is going to buy a story this full of suspicious coincidences?”
Smirking, Sawyer said, “They will when I’m through with them.”
“Really.” Levi smiled. “Have you met Leila Rashid yet?”
Sawyer’s smirk faltered. “She’s the DDA on the case?”
Levi nodded. Sawyer’s lips thinned out, his eyes darkening, and Levi took some petty satisfaction at the crack in his composure.
“Well, we’ll have plenty of time to strategize once my client is released on bail.”
“Oh, come on,” said Levi, taken aback by the depth of Sawyer’s confidence. “A judge isn’t going to set bail for a wealthy tourist charged with a high-profile murder. She’s got flight risk written all over her.”
“We’ll see about that. Alternatively, you could find the actual killer and spare us all the trouble.”
“I think we’re done here.” Levi got to his feet and straightened his jacket. “Dr. Northridge, you’ll be transported to the Clark County Detention Center later to await your hearing.”
“Don’t worry, Doctor,” Sawyer said, as he stood as well. “I’ll expedite the process and get this all worked out in no time.”
Though paler and grimmer than before, Northridge thanked them both gracefully. Sawyer followed Levi out of the interrogation room.
Expecting further blustering about the case, Levi was caught off guard when Sawyer said, “So I heard you’re dating that giant bounty hunter now. Russo, right?”
Levi opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Sawyer’s eyes traveled slowly down the length of Levi’s body. “He must be an incredible fuck to tempt you out of a billionaire’s bed.”
White-hot rage coursed through Levi, tightening every muscle and setting his pulse racing. He clenched his right hand into a fist. “If you think I wouldn’t risk the consequences of beating the shit out of you, you’re in for a rude awakening.”
“Careful,” Sawyer murmured. He leaned in close to Levi as he brushed past. “I might enjoy that.”
He walked away with a light, cheerful stride. Levi’s nostrils flared while he watched him go, and he had to take a couple of minutes to calm himself down before returning to the bullpen.
After he’d discussed the interrogation with Martine, she said, “I don’t know. Something about this still doesn’t feel right. Do you really think she did it?”
“I don’t know what to think.” Levi rubbed his tired eyes. “All the evidence points in her direction.”
“True, but let me ask you this—do you see Clarissa Northridge as the kind of person who’d lose her shit and throw up after stabbing a man?”
“No,” Levi said pensively. “I don’t.”
“Hey, Abrams!” Gibbs shouted across the bullpen, startling people throughout the room. “Wen wants to see you in his office pronto. What’d you do now?”
Dominic arrived at his childhood home in North Las Vegas in the early afternoon. It had been a packed house when he’d grown up here with his parents, four siblings, and paternal grandmother, but now that the kids were all adults and his father had passed away, his mother and grandmother were the only residents.
As he let himself in and unsnapped Rebel’s leash, he called out, “Nonna, it’s me!” His mother would be at work, and his grandmother hadn’t been expecting him.
Silvia ambled in from the kitchen, a frown on her face. She was by far the shortest person in their family, and he had to stoop to kiss her wrinkled cheek.
“You didn’t call,” she said sternly.
“Sorry about that. I was in the area and thought I’d stop by.” While he spoke, he unzipped his duffel bag and withdrew his notebook, in which he’d written a similar message to the one he’d shown Carlos.
Unlike Carlos, Silvia reacted with equanimity, seeming neither surprised nor much concerned. She read the message, nodded, and eyed him critically before saying, “You’re hungry.” It wasn’t a question.
“I could eat.”
“I’ve been preparing arancini for dinner—I’ll fry some up for you now.” She nudged him, indicating he should get on with his business, and headed back to the kitchen. Rebel gazed after her longingly but stuck by Dominic’s side.
While not large, his family’s house was bigger than his and Carlos’s apartments, and it took him much longer to sweep it thoroughly. He broke halfway through to indulge in his grandmother’s arancini—stuffed, deep-fried risotto balls—and finished a few hours later.
The house was clean. He hadn’t really expected the Seven of Spades to go so far as to bug his mother’s house, but he wouldn’t have been able to rest easy until he knew for sure.
Returning to the kitchen, where Silvia was still puttering around, he said, “Everything’s fine. We can speak freely now.”
“Are you in Trouble?” she asked, the capital letter coming through in her tone.
He knew what she meant. “Not that kind,” he said. “I haven’t been gambling, though there is something you and Ma should know. But before that, I was wondering if I could get your caponata recipe? I’m making dinner for Levi tonight and I think he’d really like it.”
With a broad smile, she fetched her antique carved wooden recipe box from a cabinet and rifled through it. Withdrawing the recipe in question, she pulled a blank card from the back of the box as well and settled down at the table with a pen.
“Nonna, I can just take a picture of it with my phone—”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “An authentic recipe should be handwritten. Sit down.”
He obeyed immediately and without argument.
“Now,” she said, uncapping her pen, “there was something you wanted to tell me?”
While she copied the recipe out in her elegant, old-school handwriting, he detailed his and Levi’s history with the Seven of Spades from beginning to end. Rebel sat beside his chair with her head on his knee, her eyes half-closed in bliss as he scratched her ears and the scruff of her neck.
Once he’d told the full story, Silvia asked, “Are you sure this killer wouldn’t hurt you?”
He opened his mouth to give an unqualified yes, hesitated, and instead said, “Not physically, at least. I know they like to play mind games, though, and I can’t guarantee they wouldn’t do something to mess with my mind or sabotage me in some way.”
“But that isn’t going to stop you, is it?”
“No.”
“Nor Levi, I’m assuming.”
He laughed. “Definitely not. He’s even more stubborn than I am.”
“That’s hard to imagine.” She gave him a measuring look. “And why haven’t we seen Levi since that one day in April he came to the house? You could bring him to Sunday lunch, you know.”
“I don’t think we’re ready for that,” Dominic said, flustered by the sudden change of topic.
“Why not?”
He was stuck for a response. If he was being honest, the idea freaked him out a little. Bringing Levi to a friend’s big family party was one thing; bringing him to his own intimate family meal was another. He’d never done that with any other guy before, and he couldn’t take that step until he was sure it meant as much to Levi as it would to him.
“I’ll ask him about it,” he said. “Anyway, I should get going—I still have stuff to do today, and I have to stop by the grocery store too.” He tucked the card she handed him into his pocket, got up from the table, and kissed her goodbye. “Thanks for everything, Nonna.”
She smacked his cheek affectionately. “Make sure you use good olive oil for the caponata,” she said. “None of that cheap stuff.”
Levi knocked on the half-open door to Wen’s office and poked his head inside. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes, Abrams, come in and have a seat. Shut the door behind you.” Wen looked tired and stressed-out, the lines around his eyes and mouth more pronounced than usual.
Levi did as he was told, curious as to what this was all about. He’d mentally run through all his cases, but he couldn’t think of any reason Wen would need to speak with him privately.
“I’m not going to beat around the bush,” Wen said, meeting Levi’s gaze across his desk. “Are you still investigating the Seven of Spades?”
On the list of subjects Levi had guessed Wen might broach, that hadn’t even cracked the top twenty. His eyes widened, and he stared at Wen, at a damning loss for words.
“Goddammit, Abrams, that case is closed. You were specifically ordered not to pursue it!”
“Why are you even asking me about this?” Levi said, though he knew he’d already given himself away.
“Dominic Russo was seen at Dr. Angela Tran’s office.”
That knocked Levi even further off-balance. “He’s seeing a psychiatrist, so what?”
Scowling, Wen said, “Don’t insult me. You want me to believe it’s a coincidence that your boyfriend just happened to choose the same shrink who treated Keith Chapman?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Levi said faintly.
“So you were kissing somebody else in the bullpen this morning, then?”
“I . . .” Levi shook his head, bewildered by how everything had fallen apart so quickly.
“You’ve always been honest, Abrams—sometimes too honest. So be straight with me now.” Wen leveled him with a somber look. “Did you send Russo to see Dr. Tran as part of an independent investigation into the Seven of Spades?”
“Yes,” Levi said.
“Christ.” Wen leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. “You’re suspended for a week without pay for gross insubordination. Check in your service weapon before you leave the building.”
Levi clenched his jaw, breathing through his reflexive anger. He had disobeyed a direct and very firm order from his superior officer, and he’d done that with full awareness of what the consequences would be if he were found out. He wouldn’t try to weasel his way out of them now.
“Out of curiosity,” he said as he rose to his feet, “how did you know about Dominic going to see Dr. Tran?”
A hint of discomfort crossed Wen’s face. “I received an anonymous tip.”
“An anonymous tip?” Levi huffed out a humorless laugh. “You realize that was from the Seven of Spades themself, right? They want me to back off. I must have gotten too close for comfort.”
“For God’s sake—”
“Did you know Tina Chapman has received five thousand dollars in cash from an unidentified source every month since Keith died? Who do you think is giving her that money?”
“Don’t start this shit again unless you want your suspension doubled,” Wen snapped.
Levi shook his head and headed for the door. As he was leaving, however, he couldn’t resist having the last word. “The Seven of Spades won’t be content lurking in the background forever,” he said. “And if we’re not prepared when they return, we’ll all be screwed.”