Death Plays Poker (25 page)

GEORGE

George watched Fiona leave the casino floor with Joe. She tossed her head back and giggled as if Joe was the mutant offspring of Chris Rock and Ricky Gervais. Looking at her, no one would know she should be terrified for her life.

“You ready?” Mickey said to George, patting the leather briefcase in his hand. “I got a lot of material for you. My mom’s so proud I’m having a book written about me. She mailed me hospital records from when I was a kid.”

“That should be helpful.” George lifted his eyebrows.

“I don’t expect you to write about my tonsils. But you gotta know where I come from. There’s nothing irrelevant about backstory.”

George followed Mickey as he headed for the exit. “Have you been taking writing classes?”

“I don’t need a class to teach me what’s obvious. I learned that bit about backstory online. For a while I thought I might have to write this book myself.” Mickey pulled out a small bag of peanuts and held it out to George.

George shook his head at the nuts. “Separate cabs again?”

“Nah, we can travel together. I realized that was overkill. People know we’re working on the book together — it don’t look so weird if we spend time together.”

They got into a cab and Mickey said to the driver, “Someone told me White Rock’s nice. You know a place we can grab a beer? Nothing with loud music. We need to talk business.”

The driver gave a lopsided nod and started the car.

On the long drive through ugly suburbs, George wondered if Mickey was being paranoid or sensible by not wanting to talk about the scam in a hotel room, or even in the taxi. By the time the cab left them on the beach front in White Rock, he’d concluded that when a killer was in play, paranoid and sensible were probably one and the same.

“It’s good here,” Mickey said, once they were seated with drinks by a large window overlooking the Georgia Strait. “Downtown, the waiters act like they should actually be driving a Bentley, but today they have to act lowly and serve you.”

George preferred downtown, maybe for its more active pulse, but he saw Mickey’s point. This bar they were in might be washed-out and run-down, but no one’s pretensions would survive long. “So what’s the news?”

“The news is this note I found.” Mickey pulled a crumpled sheet from his pocket. “Maybe I should try to keep this in nicer shape in case it turns into evidence. But have a look.”

George took the paper.

3rd Floor Ice Machine, half-price due to glitch today. Same time.

George passed back the page. “What the hell does that mean?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” Mickey tapped a finger to his head. “I was walking behind T-Bone, thinking how nice it would feel to yank the guy’s ponytail so hard he screamed like a girl, when this fell out of his pocket.”

George felt his eyes bug. “You think he received it, or he was planning to give it to someone?”

“That’s one of the questions,” Mickey said. “I think he killed Loni.”

“Because you hate his guts?”

Mickey crinkled his face up, presumably thinking. “Maybe.”

“Do you think he killed the others, too?”

“I don’t care about the others, to be frank. Everything changes when your ex-wife is found dead.”

George understood that. The scam and the murders had become stupidly real now that he knew Fiona was involved. “Do you still care about the book we’re writing?”

“Of course I care about our book. It’s been my dream since I was a kid. I just mean that the others — Josie, Jimmy, that clown Oppal —” Mickey ticked names off on his fingers. “— they’re like characters in a play. I feel for their families and all that. But Loni makes it real.”

“So what are we doing sitting here?” George said. “Shouldn’t we be staking out the third-floor ice machine?”

“You want to?” Mickey’s eyes shot open.

George shrugged. “Screw the sidelines. We’re sitting ducks until this killer is caught.”

CLARE

Clare pushed past Nate’s attempt at a hug. “Was I a prop bet?” His room had a nice view of the river, but she wasn’t about to say anything positive.

“Originally.” Nate seemed awfully calm for a man admitting he was an amoral loser. “How did you find out?”

“When you say, ‘originally,’” Clare said, sticking a hand on her hip and not having to pretend too hard to look angry, “does that mean you called the bet off when you realized we had a real connection?”

Nate frowned.

“No, I didn’t think so. Does it mean you’re not going to take the money if you win?”

Nate brushed his shaggy brown hair from his face.

“Not that you’ll win,” Clare said, “so I guess you can say anything you like if it will convince you that you’re a decent guy.” Clare couldn’t believe this guy had made her doubt her relationship with Kevin, all for a big money prop bet. She was tempted to go find Joe and make him win right then. Before leaving the scene, because Elizabeth had pretty much told her she’d been made. Fuck, her career was in a bad state.

“I mean,” Nate said, speaking slowly, “originally I’d had some drinks, I wanted to impress Joe, you looked amazing, so I made a bet.”

“Why would you want to impress Joe? He’s a womanizing douchebag.” Clare wasn’t going to let Nate’s excuses soften her.

“You’re right.” Nate cracked a grin. “But he’s been my poker hero for two years. Meeting him in real life was pretty cool.”

“Is that why you wanted do me in Stanley Park?” Clare’s blood was hot. She wanted to take off her jacket, but it would give the wrong impression, like she was staying.

“No,” Nate said. “I wanted to have sex with you because you turn me on. But I understand if it will take some time for you to trust me again.”

“Time?” Clare fished a cigarette from her pack. She didn’t offer one to Nate. “More like we’ll both have to die and I’ll come back as someone who doesn’t remember what you did to me for the sake of twenty grand. Anyway, fuck that. As soon as this game is over, I’m going home.”

“Coffee?” Nate took the empty pot from the machine and went into the bathroom. For some reason, the sound of water hitting the glass pot infuriated Clare further.

She stared out the window at the mountains. She heard Nate return and pour water into the coffee machine. She turned around. “Why would I stay and drink coffee with you? Do you have a bet with Joe Mangan about who can be the first to serve me coffee?”

“Ouch. Come on, Clarissa.”

“Who’s Clarissa?” What had just happened? This was way worse than Elizabeth’s suspicions.

“Shit.” Nate looked away. “I meant Tiffany.”

“Why did you call me Clarissa?”

“It was obviously a mistake.”

Clare felt paralyzed in place. Her career was clearly over; she just had to make it out of the room alive. “Okay,” she said.

“Okay?” Nate said.

Clare nodded. She couldn’t move her legs.

“Jesus,” Nate said under his breath.

“I thought you were Jewish.” Really? That was all she could say? “What’s the point of a Jewish person taking Jesus’s name in vain? You don’t even think he was anything special.”

“My ex-girlfriend’s name is Clarissa,” Nate said. “Our break-up was a lot like this one.”

“Fine,” Clare said. “I’m, um, going to go now.” Right. Just as soon as she could move.

“You don’t have to leave. The coffee’s almost ready. Stay and have one cup.”

One poisoned cup, probably. “No, thanks.” Clare studied Nate, who was pretending to watch the coffee percolate. How would he have discovered her identity?

Maybe he was another cop. Amanda had said none of the other
RCMP
undercovers were playing in the tournament, but maybe that’s what she was supposed to say. Maybe Amanda didn’t even know about Nate. But then why would Nate know Clare’s identity? And if he
was
a cop who knew she was a cop, why would he waste his time coming on to Clare instead of getting to know the other suspects? Nope — not a cop.

But since she couldn’t will her legs to move yet, Clare said, “If you tell me why you called me Clarissa, I’ll consider helping you win that bet with Joe.”

Nate peeled his eyes away from the coffee and glanced at her. “I don’t care about the bet with Joe.”

“You don’t care about twenty grand? Well, I wonder why that could be, Nate. Is Nate your real name?”

Nate made a feeble attempt at laughter. “Have you gone a bit crazy? I’m sorry I called you my ex-girlfriend’s name. I’m sorry I made a stupid bet with a poker player I was trying to impress. But I like you, for real. And yes, my name is Nate.”

There was no saving this. Clare had to leave. As much as the idea drove her insane, she had to tell Amanda her cover was blown from two different sides. Unless . . . “I’m leaving.” She was playing with fire.

“What do you mean?” Nate’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m going home. Screw the chips I still have in the game. What’s money when I could get killed if I stay?”

Nate’s mouth fell open. “Is it because I said . . .” He looked like he wanted to finish the sentence.

Clare stared at him, compelling him to continue. When he didn’t, she said, “Of course it is.”

He bit his lip. “Do I need to say it out loud?”

“Yes.”

“I know you’re an undercover.”

Clare felt the blood drain from her face. She sank into the closest chair. She knew she still had to lie for as long as she could. “Are you kidding?” she asked.

Nate shook his head.

Clare tried to laugh. “Undercover what?”

“You want to do this?” Nate said. “We could just come out in the open here, make things a lot easier.” He set a coffee beside Clare. Yeah, right. She wasn’t drinking it.

“Really,” Clare said. “Do you think I’m a cop? A hooker? I’m totally confused.”

“It’s fine,” Nate said. “My handlers told me.”

Clare inhaled deeply. “Are you
RCMP
?”

Nate shook his head. “
FBI
. My name is Noah, by the way. It’s good to meet you.”

Clare rolled her eyes. And exhaled.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Noah said.

“Duh.”

“I mean no one.”

“My job and my ass is just as important as yours.”

“So, um, did you mean it about the prop bet?” Noah’s eyebrows arched.

“I did . . .” Clare spoke slowly, realizing she couldn’t justify sleeping with Noah for pleasure. “But I don’t think I can help you win that bet after all.”

“It sounded too good to be true. What’s the catch?”

“I have a boyfriend. The deal is I can sleep around as Tiffany — if it’s, you know, relevant to the case. But Clare has to stay faithful.”

“Clare?”

“I hate Clarissa.”

“I can see why.”

“I think I like Nate better than Noah,” Clare said. “Both the person and the name.”

“So call me Nate.” Noah shrugged. “You should do that in public, anyway. And since it’s okay to fuck around if you’re role-playing, if I call you Tiffany, will you help me win that bet?”

“Forget it.” Clare was fighting her body’s annoying impulse to help him win the bet right there and then. “I’m not a cheater.”

NOAH

“If you’re not going to sleep with me, maybe you’d consider working with me.” Noah wasn’t sure if Clare believed the whole
FBI
thing. She acted like she did, but then of course she would, if she wanted to make it out of the room alive. He hoped he hadn’t scared her into bolting — although bolting would clearly be the smart thing to do.

Clare rested her chin in her hand. “You mean you want to collaborate to find the killer?”

“My assignment is to figure out the cheating scam.” That was true.

“Mine’s to find the killer,” Clare said. “So I guess there’s no conflict if we work together. But I have to talk to my handler to see if she even wants me to stay in the game.”

“Because of me?” Noah didn’t want Clare going anywhere.

“Partly. Elizabeth is sniffing close, too,” Clare said.

“Tell your handler about Elizabeth. But not about me.”

“Why?” Clare’s eyes darted up to meet his.

“It’s stupid.” Noah tried to keep his voice soft, conspiratorial, devoid of any urgency. “It’s law enforcement politics. The
RCMP
will hate the
FBI
if they know we’re here.”

Clare wrinkled her forehead. “You’re not even allowed to be here. I have to tell my handler, or I’m a traitor.”

“Can you give it one more day?” Noah asked.

“Why should I?”

“It’s complicated.” Shit. That sounded condescending.

Clare started to walk toward the door. “It’s okay. I’m sure I’m not supposed to be talking to you either. We’re probably better off working solo.”

“We probably are,” Noah said. “But look — we know about each other now, we might as well pool resources. Otherwise we’re competition. It could hurt both of our games.”

“Games?” Clare shot him a new glance.

“Sorry. Jobs.”

Clare unfastened the deadbolt.

“Clare, wait.” Noah needed to secure her as a partner, if only to guarantee her silence to her handlers. “I’m not here to hurt your case. Really. The
FBI
sent me to get the cheating mechanics down. So casino bosses in the States can seal up any security loopholes and make sure it can’t happen on home turf.”

Clare stopped. Her hand was on the door handle, but she didn’t open it.

Noah said, “I’m also pretty sure that our targets are the same person. You’re after the Poker Choker. I’m after the Dealer. If we work together, we can nail him that much faster, and we can both chalk it up to a win.”

“Dealer?” Clare frowned.

“The ringleader of the cheating scam. He gave himself the name.” Noah paused. Was he truly going to share information, or was he better to pretend to share, and learn what he could from Clare?

“So we know he has an ego.”

“What do you mean?” Noah hadn’t seen it that way.

“Please. The Dealer? The guy who determines what cards everyone holds? He might as well sign the notes ‘God.’”

Noah nodded. “You have a point.”

“Of course I have a point. Only a man wouldn’t see that.”

“For someone so in love with your boyfriend, you don’t have a high opinion of men.”

“Kevin’s different.” Clare’s eyes took on a dreaminess that Noah would prefer they didn’t.

“Fine. Kevin’s different. Me and the rest of men are all assholes.”

Clare tapped her fingers on the door handle. “I’m not convinced we’re after the same person. The killer could be some guy like Mickey. Pissed off at the cheaters; trying to keep the game pure for professionals.”

Noah snorted. “No one kills for noble reasons.”

“The killer on my last case kind of did.”

“Nice that you can sympathize with evil. How about a theory that would fly in the real world?”

“Like whatever brilliant thing you’re about to say?” Clare snapped.

“I don’t have a specific theory. But I know a cracked one when I hear it.”

“Good, then,” Clare said. “How about if I brainstorm — you know, keep an open mind about it all — and you can tell me why everything I say sucks. Until I say something that doesn’t suck. And then we’ll have our answer.”

Noah couldn’t tell if she was being serious or sarcastic, so he asked.

“Both,” Clare said. “I mean, it would be great if you could open your mind, too. But since you’re so reluctant to think anything that might be construed as stupid by a fly on the wall of your brain, keep your mind closed, and we’ll use our individual talents in combination.”

“You want to see something my individual talent lifted from Fiona Gallagher’s hotel room?”

Clare took her hand off the door handle.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Noah went to the safe, punched in his code, and retrieved several single sheets of paper. He set them on the desk, which Clare walked over to.

Clare picked up the first one. “
Do you want to save your mother’s house?
What’s this?”

“Keep reading. I’m pretty sure they’re in order.”

Clare flipped to the next page. “
Do we need to involve your techie? If you can do it without his knowing, order orange juice and coffee on your room service card. If he needs to be involved, order grapefruit juice.
What the fuck, Nate? Noah. Whatever.”

“I found them in Fiona’s suitcase. My guess is she ordered grapefruit juice. Keep reading.”

Noah watched as Clare read one page, then another. When she’d finished with them all, she looked up and said, “What do you want to do with all this?”

“I’ve started already. I mimicked the style and gave Fiona a note to cancel the cheating broadcast. It stopped today.”

Clare’s eyes narrowed. “You could get Fiona killed.”

“I have surveillance on her room. Anyone drops off a new note — or shows up with a piece of rope — the game is up.” Noah didn’t mention that Fiona hadn’t been staying in her room, or that he had a camera on George’s room, too.

Clare frowned. “You seem to have everything taken care of. What do you need me for?”

“I like you.” That, and he didn’t want her spilling any beans to her handler.

“Spare me,” Clare said. “I was a bet so you could get in with Joe Mangan. What’s your next genius plan?”

Noah didn’t have a next plan. He’d hoped pausing the scam would have given him more information. So he put it on Clare: “Isn’t now when you start your brainstorming?”

“No,” Clare said, heading back toward the door. “Now’s when I run this by my handler.”

Noah grabbed her arm more forcefully than he meant to. Her bicep was small, but it felt strong — Clare had more muscle than it looked like. “Don’t breathe a word about me.”

“I meant about Elizabeth,” Clare said. “And let go of me.”