A Chip and a Chair (Seven of Spades, #5)(55)
“And that’s a logical argument-unless we’ve had the cause-and-effect backward this whole time. Maybe the Seven of Spades’s obsession with old-school justice didn’t influence their choice of profession. What if the disillusionment of a particular profession created the Seven of Spades?”
Levi rocked back.
“If there’s any job in the world that would make you so disgusted with people you’d want to slit their throats, it’s being a criminal defense lawyer,” Martine said.
Even before Rohan’s profile, the Seven of Spades’s insider information and flawlessly executed crime scenes had made it obvious that they were involved with the criminal justice system in some way. The assumption had always been that the killer was attracted to such a career for the same reasons they’d ended up becoming a vigilante. Rohan’s theory that the killer had been the victim of a violent crime only solidified that belief-because as Montoya had pointed out, trauma often motivated people to take jobs in criminal justice. It was why Levi had become a cop, himself.
But what if Martine was right, and they’d been approaching it from the wrong angle? A person with the potential to become a vigilante serial killer could be pushed over the edge by a job that shoved human weakness and corruption in their face every day.
Plus, a traumatic event didn’t have to be experienced first-hand to wreak havoc on a person’s psyche. Secondary trauma from listening to victims’ stories burned out cops and people in helping professions all the time. Levi had experienced it himself, to an extent; the sense of helpless rage it created could be overwhelming. Defense attorneys must hear similar stories all the time, too, with the added stress of helping the perpetrators avoid punishment for their crimes.
“Levi.” Martine clapped her hands softly in front of his face.
He jumped, realizing he’d been zoned out for a while. “What?”
“What does your gut say? Do you think Sawyer could be the Seven of Spades?”
His brain shied away from the idea so violently that he cringed. “I don’t know. How am I supposed to answer a question like that? We don’t have any evidence besides a suspicious connection to a few of the killer’s early victims.”
“Maybe not,” Martine said slowly. Levi knew that tone, that expression; she was arriving at several rapid-fire conclusions, none of which he wanted to hear. “But Sawyer’s always had kind of a thing for you, hasn’t he? He’s smart as hell and he knows the system inside out. He’s got the Seven of Spades’s arrogance, but he’s still more than charming enough to set people at ease while he drugs their drinks. He could easily have the connections to hire a contract killer and keep tabs on the criminal underworld.”
Levi wanted to slap his hands over his ears like a child. La la la, I can’t hear you!
“Also, he was supposed to meet you at the substation for your hearing the day Carolyn Royce was murdered, and he was over an hour late.”
“He blew out a tire.”
“Can he prove that?”
Levi closed his eyes in an attempt to retain his slipping equilibrium, but the darkness only served to drag several previously unexamined thoughts to light.
Such as how Sawyer had always found their most antagonistic interactions amusing at worst.
Or how Sawyer had come to Levi’s rescue when he’d been interrogated by IA, offered to represent him pro bono, lied about how he’d learned of Levi’s suspension, and never provided the real explanation.
How the very next night, Sawyer had magically shown up at the bar where Levi was drinking alone.
How Sawyer almost never called Levi by his first name, and the Seven of Spades had done so only once, at the close of a particularly stressful encounter.
How the Seven of Spades had chosen Sawyer to deliver a message to Levi about Sergei Volkov’s poker tournament-a message that had been left on the dashboard of Sawyer’s locked car in a gated parking garage.
The day Stanton had been kidnapped, the Seven of Spades had sent Dominic several ambiguous text messages, trying to capture his interest. When Dominic had ignored them, their final text had read Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Levi remembered the night Sawyer had given him the invitation to Volkov’s tournament. Levi had made it clear that he intended to go in alone, and now he heard Sawyer’s response again, said with a smirk as Sawyer melted backward into the darkness of the parking lot.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
“Oh my God,” Levi whispered. He leapt out of his chair and bolted for the bathroom.
Martine called his name, and people gave him startled looks as he rushed through the substation, but he barely noticed. He reached the bathroom in the nick of time, collapsing on his knees in front of a toilet only a moment before his lurching stomach turned inside out.
He clenched the sides of the bowl, his body convulsing under the force with which he expelled what felt like everything he’d ever eaten. It was agonizing for his bruised chest and back, and tears of strain sprang to his eyes.
Behind him, he heard cries of alarm, concerned inquiries that didn’t quite sink in, and then several indignant exclamations at the tap of high heels on linoleum.
“Oh, get over it,” said Martine. “Levi, you okay?”
From the sound of her voice, he could tell she was outside the stall, facing away from him. Her near-phobia of vomiting was so intense that he was surprised she’d followed him into the bathroom. She probably wouldn’t have done it for anyone else besides her husband and kids.