Death Plays Poker (11 page)

CLARE

“Vancouver, huh? That’s exciting.” Roberta stood up from her crouched position beside a motorcycle. She shook her head so hard that some dark red hair came loose from its ponytail. “Stupid bike isn’t making any sense.”

Clare bent down to peer at the motorcycle. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but the first step was to get acquainted with the machine. Clare didn’t work here anymore, but she loved hanging out in Roberta’s shop. From the sweet smell of gasoline to the double-wide workbench with tools scattered logically across it, it was like being at home — back when home was a place Clare had liked to spend time.

“Have you ever been out West?” Clare asked.

“Waaay back when.” Roberta’s eyes glassed over.

“Before Lance was born?” Clare figured she was making progress — it wasn’t painful to say Lance’s name anymore.

“Before I’d even met his father,” Roberta said.

Clare nodded at the motorcycle. “Mind if I take a crack at this?”

“Be my guest.”

Clare undid the screws that were holding the headlight onto the Virago. It was an old bike, from the late eighties, and Clare found the lines on it beautiful. Not quite as nice as her Triumph, of course. But it had character. Too bad for its owner that it didn’t want to start.

“What’s Vancouver like?” Clare took the headlight from its casing and set it, together with its screws, onto a corner of the workbench.

“Depends who you are.”

Clare picked up a flashlight and looked at the wires inside the plastic casing. “Do you want to answer that any more cryptically?”

Roberta smiled. “I was seventeen. I smoked pot and hung out on the nude beach. Since I don’t think that’s what you’ll be doing, I doubt I can describe the city as you’ll experience it.”

“You did what?” Clare had trouble picturing Roberta as anyone other than the single mother she’d been since Clare was twelve. “You’ve always seemed so serious and hard-working.”

“You’ve only known me when I’ve had responsibilities.”

“Fair enough,” Clare said. “So did you like smoking pot naked?”

“For a while. It got boring quick. Too many days strung into the next. The fantasy dries up and you realize your life has nothing in it.”

“So you came back East.”

“Came home, got pregnant, and that was that.”

The wires behind the headlight all looked fine. Clare reattached the cover. “You’ve checked the fuses, right?”

“Yup. But feel free to check again. So what are you afraid of, kid? You love adventures, and here you are shaking like a leaf at the thought of getting on a plane.”

Clare frowned. “I seem afraid?”

“So maybe you’re not shaking literally. But I’ve known you since you were twelve.”

Clare opened the auxiliary fuse panel. Roberta was right: the fuses looked good. She moved down to the main fuse by the battery. “The wire covers are frayed near the main fuse.”

“I saw that. The wires themselves are fine.”

“Oh.” Clare disconnected and reconnected the fuse. She turned the Virago’s key and the light went on. “I got the headlight on.”

“Try starting it.”

Clare pressed the starter, but nothing. A second later the headlight went out again. “Damn. I can see why this bike’s got you crazy.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

Clare shrugged. “My handler keeps telling me how dangerous this all is — the poker world, the murderer — but that doesn’t scare me.”

“Of course not.” Roberta snorted. “You’re twenty-three. You’re not smart enough to know what danger is yet.”

“I think I’m afraid I might suck at the job. My handler nearly pulled me because he thinks I don’t know enough. What if solving the politicians’ murders was a fluke, like he says it was, and I’m actually a terrible cop?”

“Then you’ll find that out,” Roberta said. “Wouldn’t you rather find out by doing what you love, instead of chasing after burglars on that beat you hated so much?”

“I guess,” Clare said. “But at least on the beat my screw-ups were relatively private. Now I feel like every mistake I make will get magnified. There are so many people watching what I’m doing.”

Roberta tilted her head. “Why are you still thinking about yourself?”

“Oh my god. Am I supposed to be a Buddhist? Because I’m not superhuman, or forty.”

“I’m not asking you to be either.” Roberta sat at her workbench. “I’m trying to help you turn a key, to live your life easier.”

“Maybe you could let me turn my own keys.” Clare didn’t mean to be unkind, but there was something intrusive about someone wanting to see inside your brain.

“Fair enough,” Roberta said. “So what do you think about that Virago?”

Clare stared at the battery, which seemed to have all its fluid levels in order. “I think it’s confusing us on purpose.”

ELIZABETH

Where the hell was Joe? It was almost ten p.m. and Elizabeth couldn’t find him anywhere. He was neither answering nor returning calls, and he hadn’t so much as texted her since they’d watched the final table footage. He’d Tweeted an hour ago — some nothing line about how the beer was stronger in Canada. Since Joe didn’t drink beer, Elizabeth was pretty sure it was the lead-in to some new promotional deal he’d signed.

She’d checked the players’ lounge and the high stakes poker room, but although people in both places had seen Joe, they all thought he’d left a lot earlier. Tiffany James had gone back to Toronto. Allegedly. Or was Joe in her room with his clothes off?

Elizabeth grabbed the phone from its cradle and pressed a button.

“Front desk,” the bored female voice answered.

“I’d like to connect to Tiffany James’ room.”

“James . . .” The sound of typing came through the line. “I have a Tiffany James who checked out this afternoon.”

“Thanks.”

Then who
was
he with? Elizabeth almost never drank, but at the moment she was tempted to raid the minibar of all its booze. Instead, she picked up the phone again.

“Front desk.”

“I’d like to connect to Fiona Gallagher’s room.”

“One moment, please.”

How many times could a phone ring? Of course Joe was there. Why wouldn’t Fiona pick up, otherwise? After twelve or thirteen rings — or maybe twenty — Elizabeth slammed down the phone. She quickly picked it up once more.

“Front desk.”

“Sorry to keep bugging you. Can you tell me the room number for Fiona Gallagher so I can just dial her directly?”

“Six-o-three,” the bored voice told her.

“Thanks.”

Elizabeth threw on the clothes she’d been wearing before she’d changed into the plush hotel bathrobe, and she headed for the elevator. She patted her pocket to make sure she had her phone. She was going to catch her man.

CLARE

“How did you swing a night off?” Kevin was caressing Clare’s inner thigh in the tangle of sheets on his bed.

“It was a mistake,” Clare said, “caused by my handler assuming I was too stupid not to die on the job. Are you complaining?”

Kevin’s mouth pursed, making him look like a middle-aged woman. “Is your assignment dangerous?”

Clare traced her smooth new nails down his back and watched him smile in response. “Not if no one finds out I’m a cop.”

But despite his smile, Kevin’s eyes didn’t relax. “Has your cover character slept with anyone?”

“My cover character is disgusted with her options.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Want to go for a walk?” Clare asked.

“You kidding? I want to stay in bed with you.”

“Cool.” Clare slid down the bed, gripped his outer thighs, and licked lightly around the base of his cock. He felt warm and manly; she wanted to stay there forever. “I probably shouldn’t be seen outside anyway. Not in this neighborhood.”

“Mmm. Your cover character too good for the Junction?”

“Not too good. Maybe too snooty. Anyway, the Junction’s trendy now. My character’s just . . .” Clare didn’t want to think about Tiffany.

Kevin stroked her head, messing up her new hair. “I thought you looked more put-together than normal. It suits you.”

“No it doesn’t.” Clare took his hand off her head and moved away a few inches. “Take that back.”

“You want me to take back a compliment?” He laughed and reached for her head again. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re not complimenting me.” She moved back up the bed so she faced him. “You’re complimenting my stylist. Who, incidentally, thinks I have
no
personal style, and who I’m stuck with as a handler for the rest of the case.”

“You have a handler who’s also a stylist? I thought the
RCMP
was sparing no expense.”

“Believe me, it baffles me, too.” Cloutier was frustrating enough to work with, but Clare had no idea how she was going to get through the whole case with Amanda as her only source of counsel. “If I tell her I can’t get my mind around some clue, she’ll probably recommend a seaweed wrap followed by an afternoon of shoe shopping to clear my head.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad. Some days I wouldn’t mind packing in my tools and listening to nature music while my pores are gently exfoliated.”

“Very funny. How’s your electrical world?”

“Good,” Kevin said. “I’m thinking of striking out on my own. My dad’s retiring soon, so his clients would come my way eventually. But I’m ready to work for myself.”

“No more Findlay and Son? How’s your dad taking that?”

“We’ll still be affiliated; I’ll just go with an edgier name — maybe Findlay Wires & Things. I want to appeal to the younger crowd. You know how many people our age —” Kevin grinned; he was six years older than Clare, which sometimes felt like a completely different generation. “Okay,
my
age, and a bit older — are buying houses?”

“Um, no. I don’t have those statistics.”

“A lot. And most of them are yuppies. They don’t know the first thing about electrics, but they want to feel like a savvy consumer.”

“So you’re going to prey on that?”

Kevin laughed. “I’d prefer to see it as catering to that. I’m planning to create a YouTube channel to teach people how to fix their own basic problems, like fuse replacement, for free.”

“Aren’t basic problems the meat of your business?”

“Yeah,” Kevin said, “but I feel guilty taking someone’s eighty bucks for something they could do in five minutes.”

“That’s kind of genius,” Clare said. “If someone helped me change a fuse online, I’d trust him not to rip me off on a complicated job. Not that I’d need help changing a fuse.”

“No. You’re not a stupid yuppie.” Kevin moved his hand tentatively back toward Clare. He traced a finger along the side of her neck. “But this way, my dirty housewife could change her own light bulb, and she’d only call me in when her vibrator gets busted.”

“Not really, right?” Clare was suddenly insecure. “You’re not going to, like, go searching them out or anything, are you? As part of your new business plan?”

“Clare.”

“What?”

Kevin frowned. “You have no idea how much I like you, do you?”

Clare shook her head, hoping he’d tell her.

“Maybe one day it will be clear.” He held her hand. “But for now, if I take back the compliment about your new look, will you go back to what you were doing before?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“All right.” Kevin took a sip of water from the glass on the bedside table. “You’re ugly with makeup. You look so much better when you don’t brush your hair. And I prefer your baggy jeans with the real rips from real life than those designer things that hug your ass so perfectly.”

“I’m not sure that counts.” Did men not get it? All those time-consuming fashion things only masked a woman’s true appearance. Or did men want to be fooled into dating someone who was only attractive on the outside?

Kevin sighed. “Clare, you’re gorgeous to me no matter what you wear. I’m sorry I even looked at your external vestments. In my perfect world, you’d be naked all the time anyway.”

“All right. That counts.” She slid back down the bed and picked up where she’d left off.