by Robin Spano
“She resents people with money.” Noah stopped pacing and sat on his bed, facing Bert, who was in Noah’s desk chair. “She seems to hate them because they’ve never had to work for what they have. Doesn’t add up if she’s a trust fund kid.”
“People are complicated.” Bert took a long sip from his coffee. “We don’t always like ourselves, or what we come from.”
“And the other thing — when we were ordering beer, I said I’d have a Bud, and she got all precious, saying she doesn’t drink domestic beer. I mean, okay, you don’t drink domestic. So order what you do drink. You only make a point about something if you’re lying about it.”
Bert nodded. “Let’s say she’s lying. It could still be innocent. Sometimes people put on airs. They want to paint themselves as someone they wish they were, or wish people saw them as.”
Noah frowned. He wasn’t saying this right, maybe because he didn’t understand it himself. “The thing is, lying about her background doesn’t fit with the rest of her character, which is totally not phony. If she is lying, I think she has a solid reason.”
“What reason?”
“That’s what I fucking wish I knew.”
“Okay,” Bert said. “You think Tiffany’s cheating at poker?”
Noah didn’t want to ask that question. She hadn’t cashed in the Niagara game, but a careful cheater would throw a tournament here or there to deflect suspicion. “If she’s telling the truth about her identity, no. But if she isn’t, then yeah, maybe.”
Bert frowned. “Are you emotionally invested in this?”
Noah got up and walked to the window. He looked across the river at Vancouver. He imagined Tiffany at her hotel, lying on her bed listening to songs on her little pink phone while she tried to process Loni’s murder in her cute little head.
“Look, Walker. You can’t indulge real feelings here. Acknowledge that you’re into her. Then make yourself into a character who doesn’t feel the same way.”
Noah wrinkled his forehead. “I’m already in character. I’m Nate Wilkes. I can’t change my identity in the middle of an assignment.”
“You need to rewrite Nate Wilkes as someone who hasn’t fallen for this broad. Doesn’t matter what the real you feels — as long as you know it, you can master it. You can’t let a suspect manipulate you.”
Noah pulled a memory stick from his pocket. “Here’s that voice clip. The kid’s name is Oliver Doakes. I’m pretty sure it’s him on that other clip I gave you, the one that tells the hole cards during the game.”
“Good work.” Bert took the memory stick from Noah. “Here’s hoping that’s a match.”
“Even if it’s a match, it doesn’t tell me who’s behind Oliver pulling the strings. Maybe his boss, Fiona. Maybe a player.”
“What kind of kid is he?”
“British,” Noah said. “Disillusioned. Thinks the world should belong to him. Probably as annoying as me, ten years ago. We had a drink last night. I didn’t learn much, but it’s an in, right?”
“It’s a start. You’re going to have to become friends with this Oliver. Follow him. See who he’s talking to.”
“Yeah.” Noah groaned. He didn’t love Oliver’s company, but they couldn’t all be Tiffanys. At least if he had to bring Oliver down, he wouldn’t feel as much anguish.
FORTY-SEVEN
CLARE
Clare studied the menu. There were a lot of salads, some frilly-looking pasta dishes — nothing normal, like spaghetti and meatballs — and a bunch of so-called sandwiches with pompous ingredients like carpaccio and focaccia. The place was perfect for Amanda.
“What are you having?” Clare asked.
“Insalata Caprese.” What was that in normal language? “And a glass of Pinot Grigio. Unless you want to share a half-liter.”
“Don’t they have, like, burgers on the menu?”
Amanda laughed. “You want to get out of here and find somewhere that does?”
“No.” Clare realized she was being high-maintenance. “Just tell me what the closest thing is to a club sandwich.”
Amanda scanned the menu. “Maybe the pollo pancetta panini. Although it should say panino, since it’s only one sandwich.”
“Groovy.” Because Clare had missed her Italian lesson for the week and was shaky on her plurals. “And thanks for the wine offer, but Tiffany drinks beer.”
“Good.” Amanda nodded. “Most new operatives stick too close to what they think would be expected from their cover character. But it makes them come across as one-dimensional. Real people are complex, full of inconsistencies.”
“What are your inconsistencies?” Clare looked at her new handler, who seemed flawless right down to her bone marrow.
Amanda tilted her head to one side. “I’m addicted to Japanese animation, which most people who know me find surprising.”
Clare found this revelation weak, but didn’t say so. “Have you ever been in the field as an undercover?”
“No.”
The waitress came and took their order.
“Have you ever wanted to go undercover?” Clare asked when the waitress had left.
“Yes and no. The idea of working the field scares me more than it excites me.”
“So you let someone else take the risks.” Clare hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but whatever. “Did you call me here to talk about Loni?”
“Among other things. How are you holding up?”
“Fine.” Clare wasn’t about to share her insecurities with someone with such perfectly white teeth.
“You sure?”
“If I can’t handle murder, I’m in the wrong job, right?”
“You’re human,” Amanda said. “You can’t turn that off. You wouldn’t want to, actually.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Amanda lifted her eyebrows. “So fill me in on Loni. Had you met her? Where did she fit in the scene?”
“She fit everywhere. She used to be married to Mickey Mills — thus the last name — and she hated me because I’m taking lessons from him. When she died she was dating T-Bone Jones.”
“Who also hates you.”
Clare rolled her eyes. “I’m sure he’s over that.”
Amanda frowned.
“Why the disapproving look?”
“I think you’re too young for this case.”
Not again. “Because some old guy in a cowboy hat doesn’t want me to be his best friend? I’ve been over all this with Cloutier already. I’m here — I’m embedded in the scene — you might as well find a way to use me.”
The waitress arrived with their drinks. Clare picked up her bottle of Stella Artois. She knew Amanda wanted her to use the glass that had come with it.
Amanda touched the stem of her wine glass. “I think you’re too young to understand how serious the situation is. I think you like the mental challenge, and you see your job as an adventure. But I don’t think you quite get what death is.”
Clare sipped beer from the bottle. “That’s right, Amanda. I think all these dead poker players are hanging out on the sidelines, ready to pop back to life the instant I announce who the killer is. It’s a fun game — too bad you’re too scared to play it.”
“Then prove me wrong.” Amanda spoke quietly. “I’m on your side. I want you to do well.”
“Because it’s good for your career.”
“Because it gets a killer off the streets. Never forget that’s your first goal.”
“I never have.”
“Okay,” Amanda said. “So Loni was dating T-Bone, used to be married to Mickey. Do you know any of the fine print?”
“Only from Mickey’s side. I guess their divorce settlement left Loni richer than Mickey.”
“Was Mickey paying alimony? Or was it a one-time cash payment?”
“Still paying, I think.
” Clare tried to meet Amanda’s eyes, but Amanda was looking at the table.
“Have you seen them interact?”
“Loni and Mickey? Once.”
“What was the dynamic?”
“Tense, a bunch of not-so-hidden digs. They both seemed to get a charge out of it.”
“Fine line between love and hate, right?” Amanda said, smiling slightly. “Do you have plans for tonight?”
“I was invited to a game on a boat. It’s hosted by Joe Mangan, which means it’s co-hosted by Elizabeth Ng.”
“Who also hates you.”
“Elizabeth doesn’t hate me.” Clare should be more careful what she told Amanda in the future. “We’re friends now. It’s Fiona I’m worried about.”
“Fiona. Fill me in.”
“The anchor lady. She’s only ever been nice to me, but I get this sense — she says things — almost like she’s trying to scare me off the scene.”
“Why would she want you off the scene?”
Clare traced her finger down the bottle. She decided to be nice and pour the rest into the glass. “Elizabeth thinks Fiona has spotlight issues. As in, no one better take hers.”
“And Josie Carter — the first victim — she got a lot of attention, right?”
“I guess,” Clare said. “And Loni was Fiona’s co-anchor for both Niagara Falls and Vancouver. Maybe Loni was getting too much attention for Fiona’s liking. But victims two and three were old men — not exactly prime choices if the murder motive is narcissism.”
“This is complicated,” Amanda said. “I want to know more about Fiona, but I don’t want you to spend time with her alone.”
“How about alone in a bar?” Clare said. “She doesn’t know where I’m staying — the murder locations have at least been consistently hotel rooms.”
“Will she be on the boat tonight?”
“I doubt it. She doesn’t play poker.”
“Who will be there?”
Clare ticked people off on her fingers. “T-Bone normally would, but I’m not so sure now that his girlfriend’s just been murdered. Mickey was supposed to play, but again — Loni was his ex-wife. Joe, Elizabeth, Nate . . . they’ll probably still show up. I think two or three others.”
“Tell me more about Nate.”
Clare felt herself smile. “He’s from New York. He thinks he’s bad-ass, but he’s soft — he’s just hiding from something.”
“Hiding? You mean, like on the run?”
Clare hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t think it’s so concrete. I meant hiding from himself. From his emotions. You know how guys are.”
Their food arrived. Clare dug right in, but Amanda sat looking at hers for a half a minute before picking up her fork.
“Why is Tiffany having a relationship with Nate?”
“Because he’s hot.”
“Really? Because that’s a bad reason.”
Clare set down the French fry she’d been about to eat. She wasn’t in a rush for it anyway — it was stringy and precious, like the restaurant. “What’s a good reason?”
“Investigative. Do you think he’s the killer? Does he have information that could lead you to the killer? Can dating him bring you closer to the suspects?”
Clare shook her head. “I don’t know about any of that. I’m immersing myself in the scene, staying in character as best as I can considering this Tiffany person has nothing in common with me. That’s what Cloutier said my role is.”
“He’s right.” Amanda let the implicit dig slide. “That’s good basic advice to give a complete novice, which you were on your last case, and even the beginning of this one. But it’s time to start thinking more analytically.”
“The thought I’d like to leave you with is this: for every door you open — like being allowed into Nate’s world — you might close a door. Maybe you are better off cultivating a relationship with Joe Mangan — girlfriend or not. Maybe there’s someone else on the scene — a techie, or a dealer — who would give you access to something different. Nate’s a poker player, a novice like you. Hotness alone isn’t enough.”
“I see your point.” Clare picked up her sandwich, which was nothing like a club, but actually tasted pretty good.
FORTY-EIGHT
NOAH
Noah sat at the corner table in the downtown café, his plain black baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. The rest of his face was buried in Crime and Punishment. He was in an ironic mood.
Two tables away, Fiona sat sipping a latte. She was reading too — Shopoholic and Baby. Every now and then she’d giggle. Noah was tempted to ask to trade books.
A woman came into the café. She shook out her plain green umbrella, catching Fiona with a few drops of spray.
Fiona flicked hair from her face.
“Are you Fiona?” the umbrella lady said.
Fiona looked up from her book. She smiled at the lady. “Yeah. Do you watch a lot of poker?”
The woman shook her head. “This is for you.”
Fiona took the plain white envelope the woman handed her. “Have we met?”
“No. A man on the street asked me to give this to you.”
Fiona’s eyebrows lifted. “What did he look like?”
“He was wearing a hat.” The woman shrugged.
“A cowboy hat? A baseball cap?”
“I had my umbrella up. I don’t even think I saw his face.”
Perfect. Noah smiled behind his boring book.
“Thanks,” said Fiona.
The woman aimed her umbrella at the door and went back out into the rain. Fiona tugged the paper from the envelope and unfolded it.
Noah knew what the message said, because he’d written it:
Stop the broadcast.
Fiona set the note down, picked it up, and looked at it again. She seemed to smile. Was it possible she wasn’t cheating because she wanted to, but for some other reason? Maybe at this point, she was scared not to. Noah thought about the money that had been with the notes he’d taken from her suitcase. He’d left the cash in place — no need to take what wasn’t his until he won it fair and square by cheating. He wondered if she was saving up for something — maybe she wanted to hit the road and get the hell away from the scene.
Fiona slipped the note into her purse and stood up. She was definitely smiling.
Pity her good mood wouldn’t last.
FORTY-NINE
ELIZABETH
Elizabeth stood on the wooden deck of Last Tango. Rain pattered on the blue canvas above her head. “What are you saying, Joe? Of course we’re canceling tonight’s game.”
“Because Loni died?” Joe said. “You’re sweet to care, but we have to go on with our lives.”
Elizabeth frowned to see a scuff mark on one of her shoes. “Do you not care at all?”
“Who was Loni to us? I can see T-Bone being gutted. Maybe Mickey. That should give us an edge at the table.”
“Did you really just say that?” Elizabeth squinted at Joe, wondering what she was missing. First Fiona had tried to capitalize on the death; now Joe’s business-as-usual reaction. Was Elizabeth the crazy one?
“I’ll take a more bleeding heart position in public, if you’re worried. Like on Twitter, I said, ‘Grieving loss of 1 of poker world’s strongest female characters @Loni_Licious.’ But be honest with yourself: will you miss Loni in your everyday life? The interesting question to me is: do Mickey and T-Bone show up tonight?”
“That’s the interesting question? Not how are they handling it emotionally?”
Joe opened the compact fridge and grabbed a Coke. “When did you become everyone’s den mother?”
“I have a social conscience. That doesn’t make me a den mother.”
Joe cracked his Coke and took a long sip. “You’re trying to feel an emotion you don’t because
you think it’s appropriate. I’m willing to wear my sad face for the world because they expect it. But why should I pretend at home?”
Elizabeth wondered if Joe had a point, or if he was spinning rhetoric like usual. “Are you even curious who killed her?”
“That’s a different question,” Joe said. “I’m dying to know — hopefully not literally — who the Choker is. That’s why we should have the game tonight.”
Elizabeth laughed despite her confusion. “You think we can smoke out the killer at a poker game?” When Joe didn’t respond for a few seconds, she asked, “Is Tiffany coming?”
“I hope so,” Joe said. “I invited Nate, mostly because I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him and I want to find out what he’s about. Where Tiffany goes these past couple days, Nate is never far behind.”
Elizabeth was tempted to offer Joe her condolences about losing that prop bet. “You’re not suspicious of Tiffany?”
“Sure I am,” Joe said. “She shows up on the scene loud and clear after Oppal got done? You know Willard Oppal was a cop, right?”
Of course Elizabeth had known, but she found it a funny connection to draw between Oppal and Tiffany. “Tiffany can’t do anything unless it’s loud and clear. She could dress in all black Poker Stars gear and pull a hood over her face and she’d still stick out here. Just like T-Bone could cut his hair and lose the hat and he’d still get funny looks at any country club. If you’re looking for a cop, look at Nate.”
But Elizabeth’s mind had started churning. Her brother hadn’t found anything yet — no one called James who owned any furniture importing business in Canada, at least not large-scale enough to fund Tiffany’s long-shot attempt at becoming a professional gambler. Peter was checking into the U.S. and U.K. markets next.
“I don’t think Tiffany’s a cop,” Elizabeth said. “The FBI might get creative like that with a cover, but the RCMP is too boring.”
“Yeah, good point,” Joe said.
“But maybe her arrival right after Oppal’s death is uncoincidental for a different reason. Maybe the cheating ring is running a relay team — switching up the players so no one notices any one player’s win rate spiking.”