Death Plays Poker (23 page)

GEORGE

George rubbed his eyes and rolled over. He thought he was dreaming when he saw Fiona in bed beside him, moving her legs like she always did in the last couple hours of sleep. She reminded George of a dog dreaming — they always looked like they were running.

Had he panicked for nothing, wanting to run away with her? In the morning, with the sun beginning to rise, it didn’t feel as urgent to get Fiona away from the Canadian Classic. But when he recalled his logic from the night before, he worried again. Fiona knew a lot, and now she was redundant — until and unless the scam started running once more. He’d talk to her when she was awake.

He got up and threw on his jeans. Showering could wait. As he left the casino, Elizabeth fell into step with him.

“Starbucks?” she said.

George nodded. “What are you doing out? Don’t you have a coffee maker on your boat?”

“Yup. It’s actually a fairly fancy one with a built-in grinder. But it doesn’t work without coffee beans.”

“I’m jealous.”

“Of an espresso maker? Hey, can I ask you a bizarre question?”

“No, I’m not sleeping with Joe.”

“That wasn’t my question.” Elizabeth hit his arm. “It’s about the poison in my head. I think it’s neurochemical.”

“Have you been spending too much time online?” George said. “Internet self-diagnosis can be dangerous.”

“Which is why I want to talk to you. You have a history of depression, right?”

George stopped walking. “Who told you that? Fiona?”

“Never mind who told me. Do you think that’s what I have?”

“No,” George said.

“Why not?”

“You’re up early taking a walk. Depressed people stay in bed and wish they could take a walk.”

“Man. That must suck.” Elizabeth buttoned up the collar of her long leather coat. “But you’re up early. Are you over your depression?”

George smiled. “It comes and goes. But even when it comes, there are ways to fight it.”

“You can fight it? It must be different, then, because when these chemicals take hold, there is nothing I can do to stop hating myself.” Elizabeth pulled matching red leather gloves from her pocket and put them on. “It’s freezing this morning. I thought it was supposed to be spring.”

“I don’t find it cold. Does mental illness run in your family?”

“Very funny.”

“I wasn’t joking,” George said. “Well, maybe half. What about hormones? Is it possible you’re pregnant?”

“No. Well, maybe. But pregnancy is supposed to feel good, and glowy, and stuff.”

George shook his head. “When Fiona was pregnant, her emotions did all kinds of crazy things. She never called it poison, but it wasn’t good and glowy. Actually, it was more like hell and fury.”

“Fiona was pregnant?”

“Last year.”

“Sorry, George. I guess it ended badly.”

George shrugged. “Her decision, right? How was the poker game last night? Sorry I didn’t make it.”

“It was stupid,” Elizabeth said. “Joe won piles of money he doesn’t need, I broke the boat but someone fixed it in four seconds for four hundred dollars, and everyone hates each other.”

“Sounds like another day in the wonderful world of poker.”

“Right? I’m getting sick of this crap. After this leg I want to pack it in, maybe go back to school and do something normal.”

“You do?” George was surprised that it wasn’t just him who wanted out.

“Yeah. Some job where you won’t get strangled in your sleep would be nice. Hey, here’s Starbucks,” Elizabeth said brightly. “Now the world can be a friendly place again.”

“You sound like a commercial.”

“Ha. I don’t even like Starbucks — they pretend to be all environmental and fair trade, then you ask them for organic shade-grown coffee and they have, like, one kind on the shelf and it’s not the one they’re ever serving that day. But my brain is so fried I’d be as excited if we were coming up on Krispy Kreme.”

“That’s pretty fried.”

“Yeah.” Elizabeth pulled open the door. “That makes me feel like a donut. Something else I normally can’t stand the sight of. Weird, huh?”

George shrugged. “Not weird if you’re pregnant.”

“Or if I have a brain tumor.”

George stood with Elizabeth at the back of the line. “Have you gone for a scan?”

“When?” She held her palms in the air. “When would I have had time for a brain scan?”

“Sorry,” George said.

“I’m terrified.” Her voice went quiet. “Something’s wrong — I know that much. I’m not sure I’m ready to find out what.”

CLARE

“Why are you talking about the case with Roberta McGraw?” Amanda walked quickly, looking straight ahead. The sun had barely risen, but Clare guessed that Amanda was one of those annoying people who woke up at the crack of dawn and stayed perky until her six o’clock cocktail.

Clare struggled to keep up with Amanda’s longer legs. Without shoes, Amanda was probably around the same five-foot-four as Clare, but since Clare was in sneakers and sweats for this early morning walk, and Amanda was already dressed for business in three-inch pumps, Clare felt like a pre-teen shrimp in comparison. “Did you tap my cell phone?”

“I was clear that you were being monitored, so don’t even pretend to be surprised.”

“But tapping my phone? Am I a suspect?” Clare pulled out her cigarettes, a difficult feat at this pace.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We listen to your phone because we want transcripts of your conversations
with
suspects. Why were you talking to an outsider about the case?”

“Roberta helps me think. I was careful not to give her details, or even people’s first names.”

“You told her what time zone you’re in.”

“Big deal,” Clare said. “She’s not going to alert saboteurs to come looking for me all through the Pacific Standard zone.”

Amanda’s mouth twitched like she was suppressing a smile. “When you’re undercover, you don’t have the luxury of confiding in friends and family. That’s what you have a handler for. What have you told your boyfriend?”

“You don’t already know that, too?” Clare racked her brain trying to remember what she’d told Kevin. She’d hinted about Nate, but again, without revealing details. She didn’t think it was anything that would get her in serious trouble.

“They’re going over old recordings now.”

“So am I fired?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who’s it up to?” Clare hoped the decision didn’t rest with Amanda. She was having no luck finding a handler who had any confidence in her.

“The final call is the superintendent’s.”

“Great. He didn’t even want me on the case to start with.” Clare stopped walking to light her smoke. “Come to think of it, I don’t think there’s anyone who wanted me for this case. Why am I here again?”

“Don’t be defeatist.” Amanda stopped a few paces ahead to wait for Clare.

“Why not? I’m being spied on by the people who are supposedly on my side. I have nothing but the right intentions, and that’s not good enough. Give me a reason
not
to feel defeated.”

“Because you’re the one who screwed up. No one did this to you. Did you think it was okay to breach confidentiality?”

“I guess not technically.” Clare exhaled and began to walk again, setting the pace more slowly this time. Amanda could fucking slow down if she wanted to talk. “I haven’t told Kevin anything. I did mention that I was dating for the case. But that was just so I wouldn’t be cheating on him.” The words sounded really stupid to Clare when she said them out loud. “Is that a big deal?”

“We’ll see once we have the transcripts, I guess. What day was this phone call?”

“You hate me, don’t you?” Why had Clare said that out loud? Now Amanda would think she was a needy, pathetic loser.

Amanda looked surprised. “I don’t hate you.”

“Well, you don’t like me.”

“I’m not paid to like or dislike you. Nothing’s personal about this.”

It would be, when Amanda heard what Clare had said about her to Roberta. If she hadn’t already heard.

“It’s personal to you, though,” Amanda said. “I can see that.”

Was there something wrong with taking her job to heart? Did most people walk through life separating their emotions from their careers? Maybe it was optimal, but it hardly seemed human.

“Should I be colder?” Clare asked.

“I’m not sure. You have talent for this job; you let your whole self get involved and the suspects trust you fast. But you seem to have an equal talent for making giant mistakes.”

“Meaning . . .”

“Your strength is your downfall. You think you’re a character in the drama; you forget to keep a layer of separation.”

“So what should I do differently?” Clare asked. She meant it. “I want to be great at this job.”

Amanda put a finger to her chin. “Keep me in the loop more. Keep me posted on your emotions.”

That wasn’t going to work. “I don’t know you well enough. That’s why I called Roberta; I can trust her with those things.”

“I understand it’s not ideal.” Did Amanda actually look hurt? “But you’re undercover. If you need to confide in someone, that someone has to be me.”

“I’ll remember that. If I’m not pulled from the case.”

“I’ll get an answer on that by tomorrow,” Amanda said. “Until then, carry on as if you’re staying.”

“What’s your guess? Do you think I’ll be pulled?”

“I’m not paid to guess.”

“No,” Clare said. “Of course you’re not.”

NOAH

Noah sat in the lobby with the newspaper. Peering past the edge of the paper, he watched Oliver swirl through the revolving doors and board the shuttle bus for the casino. When the bus pulled away, Noah strode quickly to the elevator and rode up to Oliver’s floor.

He got into the room with little difficulty. Noah wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but when he found the suitcase with the inside zipper — the same so-called hidden compartment where he’d found all Fiona’s notes — he thought it might be a good place to start.

Noah slipped in his hand and felt paper. He pulled out a wad of American hundreds. He reached his other hand in and pulled out another wad. Noah eyed the door — dumb reflex, because what was he going to do if someone came in? — and he counted the bills. There was just over ten thousand dollars. It was a lot given Oliver’s low-level job, but a trifling amount for someone involved in such a huge scam.

Noah left the cash where he’d found it and continued searching for notes. There were none in the compartment with the cash — at least the kid was smarter than his boss. But after what Noah considered an exhaustive search — drawers, suitcase compartments — he found no notes. Conclusion: either Fiona was the link between the Dealer and the scam and Oliver was being paid peanuts for doing the bulk of the work,
or
Oliver was smarter than his boss, and was disposing of the notes as soon as he’d internalized them.

Did Oliver know enough to resent his meager wage? Or was he happy with a wad of cash to flip a wire and look innocent? Bert had confirmed that Oliver’s was the voice of the scam. Noah was pretty sure he’d also just confirmed Oliver as a willing — or at the very least, aware — participant. Was it as simple a cast as that? Mystery Man as the Dealer and Poker Choker, Fiona the overpaid go-between, Oliver the underpaid lackey?

Noah shook his head. That wasn’t quite it. It was close, but he couldn’t light the final cigar.

And he still didn’t know what line he should take with “Tiffany.”