The Devil's Own Game Read online

  Also by Annie Hogsett

  The Somebody’s Bound to Wind Up Dead Mysteries

  Too Lucky to Live

  Murder to the Metal

  Copyright © 2019 by Annie Hogsett

  Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Christian Fuenfhausen

  Cover images © Chjusman/Shutterstock, drnadig/Getty Images

  Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hogsett, Annie, author.

  Title: The devil’s own game : a somebody’s bound to wind up dead mystery/Annie Hogsett.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019023948 | (trade paperback)

  Subjects: LCSH: Man-woman relationships--Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.O4827 D48 2019 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019023948

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my Shore Acres Neighborhood.

  Inspiration, support,

  and the joy of your friendship.

  “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

  And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”

  —William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  Prologue

  Wednesday, February 28

  University Circle, Cleveland, Ohio

  7:45 p.m.

  Darkness was no threat to the blind man. Night was his second nature. He thrived in it. Was part of it. For him, navigation was a reflex. Without calculating, he knew how far he’d walked the path he’d been told to take.

  “Wait there ten minutes,” the man said. “Then walk along the water. There’s a bench. I’ll meet you. We need to be careful.”

  His feet knew the way. He wasn’t there yet, but he was right on time.

  Just now he was aware, without being diverted or even interested, night had fallen, turned colder, and spawned a rising wind. He smelled open water close by, felt the moisture of it on his face, noted muffled traffic sounds and a spatter of voices. Moved quickly.

  What seized the blind man’s attention in his final moments was an unanticipated buzz of panic. The tap of his cane, the crunch of the rubber soles of his Brunello Cucinellis on the recently salted sidewalk, the rattle of ice in the branches of the trees bordering the lagoon, all were amplified by the sudden, terrified clench in his chest. The hammer of his heart. The voice in his head.

  What have I done?

  “No. Think.” He urged himself. “This will work—I’m not—”

  The bullet found him. He died between one step and the next, without any idea of what was lost or why. Gone before the cane slipped from his hand and clattered onto stone, his body, young and fit, following it down with instinctive grace.

  He lay warm on the freezing sidewalk, his blood soaking into a patch of ice, glinting in shifts of light from a streetlamp. The trees shuddered in the wind. From a distance came the sound of sirens.

  Chapter One

  Wednesday, February 28

  7:00 p.m.

  A standoff between two tall, good-looking blind guys at the front door of a world-renowned art museum is a battle of the bands. I’m a peacemaker. Truly. I am. I prefer my people well-behaved, but right then I was rooting for Tom to clobber this guy. Figuratively speaking, of course. A small, hypothetical smackdown.

  Tom, Otis, and I were heading through the glass north entrance of the Cleveland Museum of Art. Tom, pushing his way in. Other blind guy pushing his way out. The standard two-step goes, “Oh, you first.”

  “No, no. You come right on ahead.”

  But this man barged forward, thrusting out his cane like a fencer, missing my ankle by centimeters. I jumped back.

  “You want to get out of my way, whoever you are?”

  Tom stepped aside and held the door open. “Kip? Kip Wade? It’s Tom Bennington. How’ve you been? You here for the Touch Tour?”

  A sneer and a snarl. “Tom Bennington? I’m leaving specifically so I don’t have to be anywhere near your damn tour.” A pause. “Or you.”

  Okay. Tall, handsome, blind, and an asshat.

  Tom abandoned the pleasantries. He held the door open wider and waited, silent, for this Kip to come on out. This Kip, however, stopped dead in the middle of the doorway and unleashed a blast of vitriol that sounded to me like a lifetime supply of pent-up rage.

  “What are you doing here, anyway, Bennington? Touch Tour? You loser. Why don’t you contribute something to the museum instead of using it for your playground? Make a damn difference for a change? How come you’re not a big philanthropist, you sorry son of a bitch? With your ridiculous Lotto win. How many people have you killed with your money so far? Why don’t you make some good come out of it? Ditch your Allie…cat and do something worthwhile for a change. Go back to work. Teach a few of your classes, even.”

 
Crap. The number of Tom’s sore spots in that tirade was at least three notches past his tipping point. “Allie-Cat” sounded cute and sassy to me, but I would never confuse it with an expression of esteem. Otis and I exchanged glances. Who is this jerk? I shivered. Icy wind and a dash of wintery mix were getting sucked in around us and in through the open door. Inside was grand, welcoming, and warm. This was no-man’s land, cross-hatched by white canes.

  Museum-goers, now wisely choosing other, less obstructed, doors, started noticing and slowing up the in and out. Tom and Kip were an attention-grabbing traffic jam. For one thing they were both shockingly good-looking. Both well-dressed. Both lean and fit. But the planes of Tom’s face were gentle and relaxed most of the time. His mouth tended toward smiling. His signature dimple, always a heart-stopping surprise—Chill. Out. Allie Harper.

  Anyway. He was the charming, affable version of tall, blind, and handsome. Every single thing about him was irresistible. Chill. Out, Alice Jane.

  The other guy was the disagreeable and aggressively rude version. His smile was turned upside down and twisted into a glower. Obviously, his mom never told him his face would freeze like that. Too late now. I liked his shoes, though. They looked crazy expensive. Becoming suddenly, unexpectedly jackpot-rich raises one’s shoe-awareness quotient.

  I put what I hoped felt like a supportive hand on Tom’s shoulder. I was within shin-kicking distance of Kip, and in the mood. Booted up for it too. My new Louboutin “mad-spiked quilted leather ankle boots” cost more than a not-totally-junked used car. “Spiked” felt like the operative choice for this occasion.

  I raised half an eyebrow at Otis.

  C’mon, just this once?

  He shook his head. Slowly…side to side… No…

  Right. I got it.

  Butt out, Alice Jane.

  Tom valued his independence like nobody’s business. He’d be royally bent out of shape if I kicked the shins of this apparent archrival with my fancy boots. Besides, I figured the no-shin-kicking rule of museum decorum applied to the environs of the front door. With the jerk-quotient already so high, assault charges would no doubt be involved, and I had no time for that. Also, Tom might not bail me out. Otis either. I settled for giving Tom’s shoulder a small encouraging squeeze I hoped didn’t signal, “Go git’im.”

  Tom slipped out from under my hand and moved in on Kip Wade. Now they were almost touching, face-to-face, dark glasses to dark glasses. Formidable adversaries, radiating hostility. I couldn’t see Tom’s face, but I knew he was mad because his handsome neck was handsomely flushed. What he murmured was for Kip’s ears only, but I was right there, maintaining my proximity to this exchange. For solidarity’s sake. Also for soaking up the testosterone.

  I knew Otis would stop anybody from getting hurt. I might as well relax and enjoy the throwdown. I couldn’t hear all of what Tom said to Kip but it concluded with a two-word combo. Second word “you.” First word sounded like it maybe started with an “F.”

  I was watching Otis. Otis was watching Tom. Tom and Kip were linked into the Blind Vulcan Hate Meld. Authentic rubbernecking was happening among the patrons of the arts jamming their own doorways. Tension. Embarrassment. Curiosity. Checking out the escalation. Building, building more—

  Kip pulled the plug. Repeated back to Tom what Tom said to him, layering an extra smidgen of emphasis onto the “you.” Shrugged. Bullied his way past Tom and out the door into the dead dark of a last day of February in Cleveland, Ohio. Head down. Cane stabbing.

  Gone.

  It was 7:07 p.m.

  Chapter Two

  Not a minute too soon, the doors closed behind us and the welcome hush of the museum gathered us in. A short stroll and we’d shucked off the chilly night, the disagreeable company, and our coats. Inside the glass-and-marble elegance of the atrium, we collapsed onto a bench in the bamboo grove. Quiet. Sheltered. Adrenalin levels returning to high-normal.

  Time to move on.

  “You guys don’t hustle, you’re going to be late for that Touch Tour.”

  Otis Johnson, Voice of Reason. Shifting into bodyguard-standing-down mode but, as usual, scoping out everything around us. Otis and Tom shared a keen awareness of any space they entered. Otis had all the advantages of 20/20 vision and the full-complement of his military/cop/security/PI experience. Not to mention several decades of black guy self-preservation.

  Tom had all the advantages of his formidable intelligence, his Grade A PhD, and every one of his enhanced senses that were not sight. On top of those, he could access what he called his Blind Spidey Sense, which worked well for him. Sometimes not so much for me. My sneaky, self-serving side was always at risk of exposure by Blind Spidey intuition.

  Between Otis and Tom, not much got by.

  My own extra-fine-tuned Tom radar was telling me Tom was not quite done being mad. Sitting as close to him as museum decorum allowed, I felt the hum of his agitation. Kip Wade had ticked him off every which way. Ridiculed Tom’s blindness with his sneer about the Touch Tour. Stabbed him in the sensitive spot of his completely unintentional $550-million lottery win and the chaos it had unleashed all around town. The jackpot death toll over the past couple of years had totaled approximately sixteen. Bad guys, good guys, stupid guys, men, women, poison, gunshot, fall from high building, innocent bystanders, righteous self-defense—the works. The number was approximate because we hadn’t located bodies for all of them. The MondoMegaJackpot was a mashup of lucky/unlucky ticket meets death and destruction.

  Tom was obsessed with his commitment to give away a major chunk of the money. Which now, after taxes and savvy investing, added up to $250 million. And growing like a weed.

  “Like kudzu,” Tom said. Spoken like a man from Georgia, where coiling kudzu vines overran and choked out any growing thing within their reach. The money had strangled Tom’s career as an associate professor of English literature at Case Western Reserve University. Another sore point Kip had skewered.

  The “Allie-Cat” rudeness splashed gasoline on the fire. Smoldering, I could tell.

  Otis cleared his throat to communicate, Let’s buck up and move along.

  In the Tom/Allie/Otis Alliance, Tom was the brilliant one, I was the unpredictable one, and Otis was the glue that held our whole enterprise together. At the moment he was working at getting the night back on track.

  “Touch Tour? Tom? Allie?”

  Tom shook his head and pressed the face of his watch. Mickey Mouse chirped, “It’s seven-twenty-eight. Have a great night!” He exhaled his pent-up aggravation. “No. It’s too late to wander in there now. I’m going for a walk.”

  A walk. Terrific. I knew that walk. It circled the long way around the museum’s gardens, offered steps down to a path alongside its deep, wide lagoon—a site so picturesque it was featured in wedding albums all over town. No happy brides and grooms were getting their photos shot out there tonight. Sure, it was lovely, even in darkest February, but the operative word would be “darkest.” Likewise, “spookiest.”

  I avoided the ridicule I’d invite by whining “But it’s dark out there” to Tom. The first time I’d said that he’d dismissed me with a grin. “In here too.”

  Tonight, I paused for two seconds, recalculating, before I went ahead and whined, “But it’s horrible out there. It’s Cleveland out there, Tom. February. Raining. Sleeting. Snowing. All at the same time. Let me check my app—um. Yeah. Uh huh. I thought so. Wind rising too.”

  Tom smiled for real now. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Would you like me to come along?”

  “Out into horrible Cleveland? February. Raining, sleeting, snowing. And, the ever-popular ‘rising wind’? Why ever would you want to?”

  Some things don’t have to get spoken out loud.

  To keep you safe. To bear witness to your continued safety and the well-being of my—everything.

  He read my min
d. “I’ll be fine, Allie. You were planning to skip the tour anyway. Go sit on your favorite bench in your favorite gallery with that Buddha you love so much. Practice mindfulness.” A grin. “Meditate on nonviolence, while you’re at it.”

  Tom Bennington, you know me too well.

  He stood up, flipped open his white cane, a practiced gesture that dismissed all protest. “I’ll be back in a half hour. I’ll come find you. Besides, we both know—although he has considerately made no comment at all—Otis will be a discreet distance behind me the whole way. The usual five yards, Otis?”

  “That’s about right, Tom. Don’t mind me.”

  “Or me either,” I sulked. “I just hope you don’t run into that Kip again.”

  Tom was over it now, I could tell. “I’m not afraid of R. Kipling Wade. I think I could take him. If Otis helps.”

  “Does the R. stand for Rudyard? That explains a lot.”

  Otis stood up. “Let us make a point of never asking him. You ready, Tom?”

  “Yep. Let’s get going.” He leaned in close to me and murmured so only I could hear, “See you later, Allie Cat.”

  All was decided. I walked them to coat check, followed them to the entrance, and watched them go out the door. Peered after them until they vanished out of my sight. Tom walking briskly, his cane a confident sweep. Otis following at the measured distance he could cover in seconds if anything went wrong. Anything that wasn’t a tree branch falling or a motorcycle jumping the curb—Cut it out, Allie.

  I peered some more at the empty sidewalk. As promised, the night was despicable. Naked trees across the street in the Oval quaked in the gusts of wind. Floodlights all along the walkway freeze-framed individual raindrops into long filaments of silver. It made my neck cringe to look at them. Outside those perimeters of light, darkness ruled. I stopped myself from peering. Went back inside.

  It was 7:35 p.m.

  Chapter Three

  I herded my worried, twitchy self up to Gallery 241-B, “Arts of Ancient China.” My favorite gallery. My favorite bench. My favorite Buddha. Serenity guaranteed.