Death Plays Poker (22 page)

NOAH

Noah’s phone was vibrating in his pocket. He ignored it; it was most likely Bert, and he couldn’t speak freely on the boat. But the vibrating persisted, and Joe said, “You going to answer that, man?”

Noah shook his head, gave Joe a knowing glance.

“Ah,” Joe said. “You can use a stateroom if you want privacy.”

“How long do you figure we’ll be out here?” Noah asked. He and Joe were standing apart from the crowd, leaning on the port side rail while the main crowd was still seated at the poker table, but sound was funny on water; he didn’t want Tiffany to overhear.

Joe shrugged. “The guy at the towing company says he’ll be here sometime in the next hour or two. Then we have to get back to the dock. Another couple hours.” He nodded at Noah’s pocket where the phone was buzzing again. “That your girlfriend?”

“I think so.”

“Will she be pissed if you don’t call her back?”

Noah smirked. “Probably.”

“Seriously, man. You’re welcome to use a stateroom. Or is it you don’t want Tiffany to get curious?”

“Kind of.”

“I’ll keep her busy. You win that bet yet?”

Noah shook his head. “I bet you’ll keep her busy.”

Joe grinned. “You can trust me.”

“I don’t trust you at all,” Noah said. “But yeah, I’ll borrow a stateroom.”

Noah followed Joe down the short staircase to a room that looked like it wasn’t being used. There was a single bed, which Noah sat on, and a small, dirty porthole through which he could only see black.

Under the bed was a suitcase. It looked like a Louis Vuitton knockoff. Or maybe it was real.

Noah phoned Bert.

“I can’t really talk,” Noah said.

“Can you meet me in your lobby bar?”

“Nope. I’m on a boat and we’ve just broken down.”

“Who else is on the boat? Just you and the girl?”

“And a bunch of poker players. You going to tell me what you found?”

“Not on the phone.”

“But you have something.” Noah could feel the blood racing faster in his veins. And at the same time, he felt heavy. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Yes. I have something. I’ll fill you in when I see you.”

Noah clicked his phone off and swore under his breath. He got up to leave the room and remembered the suitcase under the bed. He should have a quick look inside.

ELIZABETH

The night was getting cold. They had the canvas tarp closed over the deck and the heaters going full blast, but Elizabeth wanted a warmer sweater. She went downstairs to the main stateroom and remembered she’d stowed her suitcase in a different room. Space was tight on boats. It was annoying.

In the hallway outside the door to the room where she’d left her bag, she paused. The door was closed. It sounded like someone was inside. There were no voices, but maybe someone — Nate and Tiffany? — had taken it up on themselves to borrow a room to get it on while they waited to be rescued. Elizabeth had no idea why the idea bothered her — it was only a rental boat; it wasn’t like she even had to change the sheets.

Should she give the interlopers privacy? Screw it — she was going in.

Elizabeth pushed open the door and saw Nate. His hand was on the door from the other side — presumably on his way out.

“Hi, Elizabeth.”

“Is Tiffany in there with you?”

“No. No one is. Joe gave me the room to make a phone call. I was just leaving.”

“Great. See you.” Elizabeth went in, grabbed a sweater, and was about to shove her suitcase back under the bed when she noticed the front zipper not fully done up. She was meticulous about closing things — traveling around all the time, she was conscious of not leaving things behind.

Who had been in the case? Was it Nate? That seemed unlikely — why would he risk being caught rifling through her things with so many people on board?

It had obviously been Joe. But why would Joe snoop through her things? Elizabeth opened the zipper and felt through the front section. She pulled out the folder where she kept her travel documents. Everything seemed intact: her passport, boarding passes from their last trip, printouts of the emails with the confirmation details of their upcoming flight to Winnipeg, along with hotel and rental car details. She would probably have to change the dates — because the Canadian Classic had been stopped for a day due to Loni’s death, it would probably run into overtime. But she could deal with that later. Nothing was missing, but why had Joe — or Nate — been through her bag?

She shoved the suitcase back under the bed and arrived upstairs just as the rescue boat pulled up beside
Last Tango
.

GEORGE

George tossed off the coarse comforter. Half of it fell on the floor and the other half lay crumpled on the lower end of the bed. He couldn’t tell if it was hot in the room or if Fiona’s sleeping body was heating him up.

George picked up the blanket and placed it gently back over Fiona. As quietly as he could, he slipped on some clothes, grabbed his laptop, and snuck out of the room.

He rode the elevator down to the lobby. No idea where he planned to go. He just needed to write, and he couldn’t do it with Fiona in the room.

The casino noises were more jarring than usual. It felt like every slot machine, every inconsiderate person who pushed past George on the way to somewhere, was there to test his temper. When one man shoved him in an innocent, if inconsiderate, effort to move past him, George shoved back, harder.

The man turned around, scowled briefly at George, and kept moving. Not the reaction George had been going for, but maybe better than a fist-fight.

It was almost midnight — not really late, but he and Fiona had crashed into bed around eleven and Fiona had fallen right to sleep.

George found the door and pushed outside. It was cold out — he could feel that on his face — but he was boiling hot inside. He sat on a bench by the boats and opened his computer. He didn’t even zip up his fleece.

He had to start piecing things together.

Note One:
Do you want to save your mother’s house?

You stare at the note. Of course you want to save your mother’s house.

George had met Fiona’s mother once. She was a spandex-wearing chain-smoker. But Fiona saw her as a martyr; a hero just for waking up each day.

Even once you get her house paid off, she’ll find things she’d like, things she can’t afford on her own. And you’re willing to throw your life away to give hers more material comfort.

So you pocket the cash and say yes, you’d like to save her house.

Note Two:
We need to tap into the hole card audio feed live. It’s one wire; one encryption code. Can you do this alone, or do we need to involve your techie?

Ah, Oliver. The little scoundrel you loathe. Can’t fire him now, though. And since you know nothing about the wires that make your job function, you have to say yes, you need to involve your techie.

Note Three:
Give your techie this encryption code.

And more notes, more details that give you the mechanics of the scam. It doesn’t occur to you that now you’re redundant. The Dealer could go straight to Oliver and save a bundle on your middle management fee. He’d only have to tell you the scam was off, and you’d be none the wiser. You’d probably be next on his hit list, because why have extra people knowing what he’s up to?

George slammed his computer closed without shutting it down. Fiona was a sitting target. He ran through the casino, pushing all the people who didn’t immediately get out of his way. He raced up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.

When he arrived in his room, he saw that Fiona was still in bed. He ran to her. He checked her pulse. Still alive. Still breathing.

“George?” She woke up and smiled at him.

“Fiona,” he said, still shaking her. “We need to get out of here.”

She pushed hair from her face. “What do you mean?”

“Your life is in danger.”

“What are you talking about? The scam is over, remember? It’s a get out of jail free card.”

“This isn’t Monopoly. It’s a game of fucking . . .” He searched his head. “Clue.”

“Clue?” She gave him an amused glance. “That’s the most gruesome game you could come up with? Colonel Mustard with a rope in the hotel room?”

“Let’s grab a rental car and head to the States. We’re not far from the border.”

“Why do we need to cross the border?”

George wasn’t sure. “The killer has only operated in Canada so far. They might not cross a border to follow us.”

“Can we talk about this in the morning?” Fiona rolled over and tucked her hands under her pillow.

George spent the rest of the night awake, watching the door.

CLARE

Clare lit a cigarette as she got out of the cab at her hotel. Thank god that boat ride had ended. Clare had begun to feel like she’d be marooned out on the strait all night, before that rescue guy had come on board and done what she could have done in five seconds if she hadn’t been masquerading as a manicured bimbo.

She walked toward False Creek. It was almost one a.m. but the neighborhood was buzzing; she felt as safe as she would in broad daylight. Besides, her goons were probably following her — nothing kept you safe like being spied on.

She pulled out her stupid pink phone and called Roberta.

“Clare.” Roberta’s voice was groggy.

“How’s the shop? Do you miss my nimble fingers?”

“More than you know,” Roberta said. “This Virago is not getting any healthier. I fix one thing and two more get broken. But, uh, it’s nearly four in the morning. Is there something on your mind?”

Clare smacked her head. “Oops. Sorry. I calculated the time change in reverse; I thought it was ten p.m. there.”

Roberta laughed. “All right. I didn’t like the dream I was having anyway.”

“No, go back to sleep.”

“Why? I’m up now. This is me, padding into my kitchen and pressing Go on the coffee machine. Maybe in the middle of the night that damn bike will help me solve its problems.”

Clare smiled. She missed getting her hands grimy with engine grease. “Have you pulled apart the electrical system?”

“Yup, but everything looks like it’s in order. Which is lucky for the owner. You know electrics are my weak spot.”

“Mine, too. They’re so fiddly. Is the owner getting antsy?”

“She started out antsy. She’s a spoiled little housewife who doesn’t understand why everything doesn’t go her way.”

Clare smiled. “I know the type.”

“How could you possibly know that type?”

“From my break and enter days,” Clare said. “You answer the call, you’re taking their statement, and they suddenly interrupt themselves to ask why you’re not already out catching the thief and getting back their diamond tennis bracelet.”

“You must miss that job.”

“It reminds me to be grateful for my current one.”

“So can you talk now?” Roberta asked. “You alone?”

“I’m walking down a crowded street. But I’ll chance it.” The danger was more in being heard by whoever was following her — Clare would lose her job in ten seconds if anyone overheard her talking about the case with an outsider. But she needed the outlet. “I’m going crazy for someone to be real with.”

“I hear you.”

“No you don’t.” Clare laughed. “You’re yourself no matter who’s around, and you don’t give a damn who thinks badly of you.”

“I wasn’t so confident when I was in my twenties.”

“So you say.” Clare still had trouble picturing Roberta as a younger, less wholly formed person.

“What’s bugging you, kid?”

“I’m —” Clare took a drag of her smoke. She didn’t know where to begin. “I’m falling for a guy who isn’t Kevin.”

“Falling for him? What’s it been, three days?”

“A week if you count Niagara Falls. But it’s fine, because when the case is over I’m leaving him — not like I could tell him who I am, if I happen to get lucky and find out he isn’t the killer.”

“Do you think he might be?”

Clare hesitated. She was moving into classified territory even mentioning Nate. She’d have to keep the details vague. “There’s something off about him. I don’t always believe things he says.”

“Well, he is a man.”

“I just — I think he’s lying about who he is. Not, like, his name or anything. But — I don’t know, maybe it is just a guy thing. I’m lucky with Kevin — he wears his heart on his sleeve, and not in some creepy emo-boy way. God, I wish he was here.”

“You wish he was there because you miss him, or because then you wouldn’t be falling for this other guy?”

“I don’t know. Both. I’m also bummed because . . .” Clare had been about to tell Roberta about Loni, but even without giving her name, that would be pushing confidentiality too far. “The case is more complicated than it originally seemed.”

Roberta clucked sympathetically. “I hear you on complicated. That’s the same way I feel about this Virago. You getting pressure from above?”

Clare shook her head, then realized Roberta couldn’t see her, and said, “Not as bad as on my last case. But no one’s my friend. They’re all cold and professional. At least Cloutier was emotional about hating my guts.”

“You know you don’t make sense, right?”

Clare smiled despite herself. “I guess.”

“Your dad’s not doing well, Clare.”

“This is news?” Just the mention of her father conjured up the image of him sitting around the trailer in his sweats, playing Solitaire on the fold-out table with the oxygen beside him, going outside only when he thought he could sneak a cigarette without Clare’s mother noticing.

“It could be any day now.”

“So I heard six months ago. He could also live two more years.”

“You know he won’t.”

“Have you checked the carburetor?” Clare didn’t want to picture her mother walking over with a tray of tea, setting a plate of cookies beside her father that he’d make a huge display of not having the appetite for because all he wanted was sympathy for a condition he’d brought on himself. “A spoiled housewife might not know she’s supposed to drain the gas over the winter.”

“The carb was gunked up and needed rebuilding. Which I’ve done, but the bike still won’t start.”

“What about the main fuse? I know you think it’s fine, but the wire casing was frayed. Changing it might be worth a shot.”

“Hmm,” Roberta said. “Yeah, I’ll look into that.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Clare said, “Anyway, what would I say to them? Should I lie and say I’ll be sad when my dad dies, when really I think death will end his pain and make him happier? Should I agree with the whole fucking trailer park that my mother’s a martyr for quitting her job and living on welfare to take care of my dad, when she hated cleaning motel rooms anyway, and all she does is drink vodka all night and turn a blind eye to the cigarettes we all know my dad is still smoking?”

“You’re still smoking,” Roberta said.

“I’m not fucking dying of emphysema. I hate going home because I don’t know the right way to be. Sympathetic feels false, and anything else feels cruel.”

“Tell them that,” Roberta said.

“I’d be telling deaf ears. Anyway, I’m going to bed. I want to be well rested for the game tomorrow.”

“You sound committed.”

“I know it’s only make-believe, but I really like winning.”