Death Plays Poker (28 page)

ELIZABETH

Elizabeth had aces. Which would be great if she could concentrate on poker, but her mind was somewhere else — somewhere back in her old bedroom at her parents’ house, where she’d been coerced into spending the night. Her mother always wanted more. Give her a smile, she wanted a hug. Give her dinner, she wanted a goddamn sleepover. And she made Elizabeth feel like a cold, selfish bitch if she didn’t oblige. Elizabeth had vaguely heard of families who enjoyed spending time together, but she was pretty sure they were all on Prozac.

She looked at her opponents. A raise and a call from players she didn’t know. What was so difficult? She had aces. It was a clear re-raise, but she couldn’t summon the minimal brain power required to calculate how many chips to put in.

“Call,” Elizabeth said. Stupid move, but who cared? She was trying to ignore the imagined rumbling from her stomach, the tiny voice inside asking if she really knew she wanted to get rid of it. Fucking thing was only cells. Elizabeth fought the urge to punch it.

The sound of static came over the loudspeaker. It was followed by a voice: “Dealers and players, at the end of this hand, the Canadian Classic Vancouver will be on break for the rest of the day to mourn this morning’s death of Fiona Gallagher. Play will resume tomorrow at one p.m.”

Shock traveled fast through Elizabeth as she pictured Fiona lying dead on a hotel room floor. Bizarrely — though she and Fiona had squabbled more than they’d gotten along — Fiona’s was the first death since Josie’s that made Elizabeth feel a massive sense of loss. And fear — Fiona and Josie were also in their late twenties, also in the public spotlight, also in the same crowd, also . . . well, Elizabeth hoped that was all they’d had in common, but she suspected both had also slept with Joe.

The loudspeaker made it that much more surreal. She understood that players had to be looped in, but a loudspeaker? That’s how you announced sports scores and school assemblies, not the murder of someone you’ve been working with for years.

It seemed insane to even play the hand out. Elizabeth saw Joe two tables away. He frowned and put his magic wand down (today’s costume was the wand and a Merlin cap) before tapping the table to check.

She scanned the stands for George, who saw her looking and waved. It was a subdued wave — one hand opening and closing, then falling back into his lap — but of course George would be gutted. He stood up and slumped off the stands toward the exit. He looked like he had no idea where he was going.

The flop came and Elizabeth said, “All in.” She was out of turn, but who cared? The other players folded and she took the tiny pot.

She stood up and walked toward Joe.

“I’m going home,” Elizabeth told him. “I’m going to stay with my parents. This is crazy.” Because as awful as it was at home, with her mother fretting over her lifestyle and constantly trying to feed her Hong Kong delicacies she loathed, the alternative was to stay in this emotionally vacuous scene and hold her throat out for the killer if he decided she was next.

“You sure?” Joe gripped her shoulder in a light massaging motion. “Why don’t you come for a boat ride? We can stay out as long as we like. Drop anchor, chat, whatever.”

“Yeah?” Elizabeth liked the warmth of his touch. The massage felt nice, too. “No poker game?”

Joe shook his head. “You were right. I should have canceled the game when Loni died, too.”

Elizabeth didn’t want to go back to her parents’ house. And alone with Joe on the boat — away from the casino — she’d be just as safe, if not safer. “I’d love to hang out, just you and me.”

NOAH

Noah closed his eyes and held them shut so hard his jaw hurt. He opened them and said to Clare, “I fucking got her killed.”

“How can you say that?” Clare took Noah’s hand. They were at Clare’s hotel, sitting on her bed, getting the letters ready that they planned to deliver that day. They’d printed them on Noah’s sleek travel printer, and they’d divided the notes between them for delivery.

Noah felt like his head could explode. He wished it would. “I shouldn’t have taken all the letters from Fiona’s suitcase. I could have taken one, from the middle of the pack, one she wouldn’t have missed. I could have copied the font and format from that — I didn’t need them all.”

“They were evidence,” Clare said. “You couldn’t leave them behind.”

Noah looked at Clare, trying to figure her out. Sometimes she seemed beyond brilliant, and other times it was like she’d pressed Off on her brain. “The
FBI
didn’t send me here to gather evidence.”

Clare’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t get it.”

“No. Clearly.” Noah pulled his hand from hers, and wished he hadn’t.

Clare rolled over and pulled two smokes from her pack on the bedside table. “I’m going outside. Are you coming?”

Noah nodded. They rode the elevator down in silence and took the back door to the alley instead of the street. From the poker world’s perspective, they were supposed to be not talking to each other.

When they were outside, Clare said, “So where were we? Right. You were calling me a moron for not knowing the detailed specs of your assignment.”

Noah frowned. He didn’t like this alley. The walls were too close and large garbage bins made the exit route awkward. He stepped a few feet away from Clare while they lit their cigarettes separately.

“I don’t think you’re a moron,” he said. “I think — well, don’t you feel like you’re a bit over your head in this job?”

“No.”

“Fuck. I do.”

“Thanks a lot.” Clare walked a few paces further away. She turned her back on him and faced the narrow entrance to the street.

Noah squeezed around to her other side to face her. He tried to ignore the claustrophobic feeling. “I feel like
I’m
over my head. And then I look at you, and you’re so much younger. And newer. Look, what I’m saying is, okay, so my dumb actions made Fiona bolt — which is probably what got her killed.”

Clare didn’t say anything. But she didn’t turn away again.

“I don’t like that she’s dead, but Fiona knew what she was playing with — or she should have. But you look like you’re barely out of high school. How can I justify including you in some harebrained disinformation scheme that may or may not work? I could get killed, fine — I’m old enough; I’m trained for this. But you? I couldn’t live with myself if our antics got you killed.”

“First,” she said, “these aren’t antics; they’re a strategy to do our job. Second, I do not need another fucking watchdog. Third, I am so trained — a year in the police academy and a year on the job have taught me a hell of a lot. Fourth, you’re only five years older than me. Fifth, I’ve chosen this life. And I love it. Sixth, this so-called harebrained disinformation scheme was my idea. I’m the one including you. Not vice versa.”

Noah studied her face and decided she was telling the truth: she might be scared, but Clare was exactly where she wanted to be.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Clare asked.

“I was waiting for number seven,” Noah said. “That was a pretty good streak you had going.”

“Seventh, fuck off,” Clare said, but with a smile. “So what are you here for, if it’s not to gather evidence or arrest anyone?”

“To learn how the scam is operating.”

“Why?”

“I told you already. So it can’t be run the same way in the States.”

Clare’s eyes were on fire. “You’re not even planning to expose the cheating ring once you figure it out? Just use Canada as your exploration ground. Like Area Fifty-one — any human casualties are incidental to the higher cause?”

Noah kicked at a pop can on the concrete ground. He used more force than he realized, and the can went clanking loudly to almost the end of the alley. “I’ll tell my boss what I learn. That’s my job. But no, I don’t think we’ll officially break it to Canadian authorities.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Come on, Clare. Are you forgetting that you’re Canadian authorities? The message will reach the right ears. I want to find the killer as much as you do. It might not be my assignment, but I want to see this resolved.”

“Those are words. You’ll get pulled as soon as the scam is solved. I’m surprised you haven’t been pulled already.”

“My boss wants me to stay in until the end of this leg — I think for appearances, in case they want me for more poker stuff in the States. It’s the same player pool.”

Clare tossed her smoked-out cigarette to the ground, and stepped on it. “I have a meeting with my handler. I’ll text you when I’m done and we can meet back here in a few hours.”

GEORGE

The sky outside was gray. George had drunk too many coffees to count, and his head felt like it was closing in on itself. He’d taken a walk by the river; he’d poked at his lunch alone in the bar. Now he sat in the glow of his computer because he had no idea what to do. This project wasn’t any more fictitious than
The Da Vinci Code
was literature. But maybe it would sell half as well.

He’d just deleted a page and a half of backstory detailing Willard Oppal’s career as a cop — because really, who cared? Backstory was for creative writing grads. He looked at his keyboard. It was time to bring this story forward, to what was happening now.

He fished his iPod from his carry-on bag and set Michael Buble’s “Hollywood” on repeat. The song could have been written for Fiona.

Mount Baker Highway, Washington State

March 2011

Fiona Gallagher. Take a look around you. No, I don’t mean at all the people staring back at you. The world is not your fucking mirror. I mean take a look outside yourself and get a fucking clue.

You’re alone in your motel room. You should know by now that this is about the least safe place to be. You’re on the run — but, well, you’re pretty fucking dumb ’cause you’ve admitted it. You’re drinking wine — cheap wine from a gas station, which wouldn’t meet your snob test in a cocktail setting, but it fits this scene perfectly, and you’re into the romance of the run. The TV’s on but you’re not paying attention.

You’re pretty sure you’re safe. Mostly because you’ve suddenly turned into an idiot. There’s a knock on the door. Should you answer?

George rolled his eyes. He should have been writing bad suspense novels, where the hero or heroine always walked into danger that was obvious to even the most obtuse reader. But who was he to knock genre writers? He was only a poker writer aspiring to genre.

Your shoes are off and you silently creep toward the peephole. You’re relieved when you see who it is. No way this guy’s the Choker.

But just in case he is, you step away from the door.

You sit in the armchair. The fabric is torn in a couple of places, but it fits the rustic atmosphere. As you’re contemplating what to do — open the door, phone the police, or do nothing — your cell phone rings. It’s the person at the door.

You click to answer.

“Fiona? I can hear you’re inside. If you don’t want to let me in, no problem.”

You say nothing.

“I’m here for you. No one should have to run alone. I’ll sit in my car. Take your time. I know why you’re scared.”

You click Off on your phone. You sit in your chair for some time before you open the door and bring your killer into your room.