Death Plays Poker

by Robin Spano

  Amanda laughed. “Try stripping. Or prostitution. If you say web porn, people will want to see footage.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “It’s risky,” Amanda said. “I see your point — you don’t know if you’re made, and your progress so far has been excellent.”

  “It has?”

  “Sure. Or we would have pulled you immediately for talking to Roberta McGraw.”

  “Right.” Clare felt her posture slouch. She didn’t understand how she could try so hard to be good at this job and screw up so royally so often. It was like there were ten thousand things she had to be on top of all the time, and if she let even one slip for five seconds, it would turn into some major catastrophe.

  “Don’t get gloomy. It’s a compliment.” Amanda paused. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to whore yourself out for this job. I like your creative thinking, and it’s great that you called me with this, but you don’t need to sacrifice your body —”

  “It’s no sacrifice. It’s a tricky situation; I think it needs a creative solution. Hell, I might even enjoy it. I just want to make sure, before I go ahead and sleep with Joe, that you agree that my logic makes sense.”

  “Yes,” Amanda said. “I think the logic makes sense.”

  SEVENTY

  GEORGE

  George was beginning to think staking out the ice machine had been a harebrained idea at best. He and Mickey had been casually strolling the hallway all evening, using Mickey’s room on the third floor as a base. They hadn’t seen anyone even glance at the door of the ice room. “Maybe T-Bone didn’t get the message because he was about to give the note to someone else.”

  “Yeah,” Mickey said. “Or maybe T-Bone made the cash drop while we were knocking back beers in White Rock.”

  “Why don’t you think T-Bone’s the Dealer? Isn’t that the most likely explanation?”

  “No.” Mickey tossed a peanut in the air and caught it in his mouth.

  George hadn’t told Mickey about the notes Fiona had received. The one George had seen, the note calling off the scam, had been identical in font and format to this new half-price ice machine note.

  “The only game T-Bone likes is poker,” Mickey said. “I think he killed Loni, and I think he’s cheating. But he wouldn’t be the mastermind behind this. If he had a point to make, he’d make it without all this subterfuge.”

  George felt his eyebrows shoot up his face. “You think the Dealer has a point to make?” It’s what George had thought originally, but Fiona had convinced him that it was probably all about money.

  “’Course he does.” Mickey leaned back in his chair. “If it was only for money, he wouldn’t create all this drama. He likes to be the smart guy — the one in control.”

  “You never finished telling me what makes you think T-Bone killed Loni.”

  Mickey tilted his chair back so far that George thought gravity would soon pull him over. “You know the morning Loni was found?” Mickey said. “As I was leaving my room for breakfast, I saw T-Bone heading toward his room — the room where Loni was later found dead. That was after eight a.m. But T-Bone says he was playing poker from seven o’clock on and never went back upstairs. Why would he lie if he has nothing to hide?”

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

  “Who knows? It’s Loni I care about. But if you were going to kill someone now, what method would you use? Choking, right? Because it would get lumped in with the serial killer. And if you have an airtight alibi for just one of those other murders, then it’s not you, is it?”

  George thought that made sense. If nothing else, it could make a cool twist for his fiction. Shit, he had to stop thinking fictionally.

  Mickey crinkled up his forehead. “You think the note meant another hotel? T-Bone’s staying at the casino, but some of the others — Nate Wilkes, Oliver Doakes — are at the Delta. Maybe there’s a third-floor ice machine there that’s already been established as the drop point.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Eight thirty,” Mickey said. “That’s four hours we’ve been stalking this floor.”

  “Time to get some ice.” George stood up and took the now-familiar ice bucket with him. In the hall he saw Joe walking toward him with a bucket of his own.

  “Caught me.” Joe grinned, sheepishly holding up his bucket. “I’m stealing ice from the hotel, and I’m not even staying here. Though technically the marina is under the River Rock umbrella . . . so I guess it’s not outright theft.”

  George didn’t know what to say. He could ask why this machine, why the third floor and not the second or the fourth? But he didn’t want to tip Joe off that he was suspicious. “Planning a romantic night on the boat?”

  “I sure hope so. Lizzie’s out, though, so maybe don’t say anything if you see her.” Joe pushed open the door to the ice room and started filling up his bucket. “I know you and my girlfriend are newfound best friends and all that, but no need to hurt her, right?”

  George didn’t know whether to hate the guy or applaud him. “Fiona?”

  Joe shook his head. “Tiffany.”

  “But she’s — isn’t she dating Nate?”

  “Broke up. She found about the prop bet, and she’s damn mad. At Nate; not me. She sent me a text asking if I wanted to meet for a drink.”

  “So let me guess,” George said. “You suggested your boat.”

  “We have everything we need there.” Joe put one more scoop of ice into his bucket and moved aside to let George fill his. He didn’t seem concerned about looking through the machine for any cash drop, half-price or otherwise.

  “What if Elizabeth comes home?” George knew he sounded like a square.

  “She has to call me to let her onto the dock. We only have one gate key between us.”

  George thought Joe was pushing his luck. What if a guard let her in, or if another boater was coming through the gate at the same time Elizabeth arrived? But who was he to tell another man how to keep his woman? “Have fun,” George said. “And good luck, man.”

  SEVENTY-ONE

  CLARE

  “So you finally agreed to go out with me.” Joe leaned back in his deck chair and folded his arms in front of him.

  Clare sipped her beer. “This is not a date.”

  “No?” Joe said with a laugh. “What is it? A serious meeting between two industry professionals?”

  “This is a revenge drink.”

  “Revenge. I see. Who are you upset with?” Like he didn’t know the answer.

  “Nate. I found out at lunch that he had a prop bet with you about sleeping with me.” She decided not to tell Joe that Elizabeth knew, in case it would deter him from cheating. Clare’s head was starting to spin from all these stories she had to maintain for different people, but so far she had them all straight.

  Joe said, “Uh, not that I want to dissuade you from this revenge fuck in any way —”

  “Revenge drink.” Clare was glad Joe had made the leap, though.

  “Drink. That’s what I meant. But shouldn’t you be mad at me equally?”

  “Oh my god. Maybe technically.” Clare threw her hands in the air. “But I really liked Nate. I know it hasn’t even been a week, but I felt really strong chemistry. I thought he did, too. Maybe you’re right — maybe you’re not who I should be talking to right now.”

  “No, no,” Joe said. “It’s cool. I’m on your side. So you feel ripped off? Betrayed? Both?”

  “Yeah.” Clare pretended to calm down a bit. “Maybe I’m naive. I always let my heart get too involved too quickly.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Joe said. “And I think Nate actually does like you. For what it’s worth.”

  “It’s worth nothing. I can’t give him another chance — that would make me really naive. Onwards and upwards, right?” Clare gave Joe a s
mall hopeful smile.

  Joe’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Clare leaned forward. “We could really piss him off, you know?”

  Joe swirled the ice around in his half-full vodka seven and downed the rest of the drink. “You want to come into the stateroom?”

  Clare was surprisingly scared. She did want to go into the stateroom, but maybe not so fast. “What about Elizabeth?”

  Joe smirked. “You mean that like a conscience thing, or like a what-if-she-finds-out thing?”

  “Both,” Clare said.

  “Lizzie’s out with her family. She won’t be back until late.”

  Clare hoped this was true.

  “Come on. Everyone wants a famous guy in their little black book.”

  Clare lit a new cigarette. “Little black book implies I’d be calling you back.”

  “Ouch. Famous notch on your bedpost, then?”

  “Fame doesn’t impress me.” Clare at least had this in common with Tiffany. “Success does, though.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Success is earned.”

  “Not always.”

  “No,” Clare said. “In fact that’s — Joe, I have no idea who I can talk to about this. I was going to talk to Nate, but he turned into an asshole. Have you heard the rumors that are going around?”

  Joe rattled his ice. “What rumors? If you’re talking about my massive member, you’ll have to come into my stateroom to see for yourself.”

  “You like to take risks, huh?” Clare moved her chair closer to his, trying to feign fascination. “I think it turns you on that Elizabeth could come home anytime.”

  “I take risks for a living. I guess it turns me on.”

  “But that’s the rumor I heard. There’s someone — some people — who might not be taking risks. They might be cheating.”

  “I have heard that.” Joe’s voice lowered. The tarp was covering the boat, but someone on the dock could easily hear through it. “But since my win rate hasn’t gone down since this cheating supposedly started, I haven’t paid the theory much attention. Where’d you hear it from?”

  “I overheard people talking when I was in line for coffee. So I asked Mickey, and he said yeah, that rumor’s been around since the tour was in Calgary. Did some guy die there?”

  “Jimmy Streets,” Joe said. “An old-timer. A really good player.”

  “I was hoping to stay on this tour for a while — at least until I got my game not sucking enough that I could go home a winner. But I think this is too much for me. I wasn’t made for the dark side of life.”

  “Most of us aren’t.” Joe gave her a look of what seemed like genuine concern. “Hey, I’m sorry for always trying to get you in bed. I think you’re cool. I want to know you. We can hang out and talk if that’s more where your comfort zone is.”

  “That would be great.” Clare widened her eyes to show vulnerability.

  “You’re not going to bail while you still have money in the game, are you?”

  “No.” Clare shook her head. “I’m not worried that I’m the next victim or anything. I’m not part of the cheating ring. That’s what the rumors say, right? That the two are connected?”

  “Yeah.” Joe nodded. “That’s what Lizzie thinks, anyway.”

  “You’re not so sure?”

  Joe met her gaze gently. “On this scene, stories buzz around like black flies. If one person isn’t speculating about a cheating scam, someone else is. Yeah, you should be careful. But there’s no point worrying about something until you see direct evidence.”

  “But I think —” Clare paused intentionally. She was going out on a limb here, but something was keeping her from trusting Noah fully. “I think I might have seen something. And — oh my god, I hate this. I don’t know who to trust.”

  “It’s okay.” Joe took her hand, stroked it. “You can trust me. You’re fine.”

  “But — what if it’s nothing? I don’t want to spread more rumors.”

  “If it’s nothing, we’ll forget about it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Of course,” Joe said. “You need to get this off your chest.”

  “It’s Nate.”

  “Nate?” Joe’s mouth dropped open.

  “I’m not saying this because I’m mad at him,” Clare said. “I mean, I’m sure I am, partly. But I’m also really scared. What if he’s the killer? I don’t think I’d be the next victim, because I don’t know anything about the scam. But what if he thinks I do? What if he comes after me?”

  “He won’t come after you.” Joe got up and stood behind Clare, kneading her shoulders in a way that actually felt great — Clare hadn’t realized how tense they’d been.

  Joe’s phone beeped. He picked it up and read a text. “Lizzie’s staying at her parents’ place overnight. We’ll have the boat to ourselves if you want to stay over.”

  “Said the spider to the fly.”

  “Hey, you called me.” Joe traced a finger along her neck and down under the top of her shirt. “Who’s the spider? Who’s the fly?”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  GEORGE

  Fiona was out. Good for her. It wasn’t like they were a couple and George had any right to know where she was.

  George sipped his Scotch. He told his fingers to do what they wanted with the keyboard. Trouble was, they wanted to go nowhere. George threw on his jeans and dialed Fiona’s cell again. This time she picked up.

  “George?” She sounded tiny.

  “Fiona? You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I took your advice.”

  “My advice?” George pulled a rake through his brain. “What did I suggest?”

  “I left. I rented a car and I got the hell out of there. Oliver can run the technical side of things. I’m sure the network can find another commentator. There’s no shortage of staffers who would kill for a turn in the spotlight.”

  “But . . .”

  “Ha ha. I guess I might even mean that literally. I got another note. The Dealer wants things back on. And — this is the fucked-up part — he seemed pissed off that I’d stopped the broadcast.”

  “Wasn’t it him who told you to stop?”

  “That’s why it freaked me out. If this guy is losing it, maybe I am next on his list.”

  “Do you think he’s bipolar?” George asked.

  Fiona snorted. “Bipolar is manic depressive. Are you talking about split personalities?”

  “I guess.” George laughed, though nothing was funny. “Or maybe there are two Dealers and their agendas have diverged.”

  “And thanks, George. I would never have got up the balls to leave if you hadn’t convinced me it was smart.”

  “I wanted to come, too.” George picked up the red T-shirt he’d slung on the back of his chair. He thought of putting it on while he was talking, but he didn’t want to pull the phone away from his ear for even a second. “I didn’t mean for you to take off on your own.”

  “I don’t want you here.”

  George’s head felt weird. He pushed his Scotch aside.

  “That sounded harsh,” Fiona said. “I didn’t mean it to. You’ve been awesome to me these past few days — these past few years, really. But I don’t even want to trust you right now.”

  George crunched his phone between his shoulder and ear and moved to put the shirt on anyway. He needed to be dressed. He needed to take action. “Are you at the airport?”

  “I’m not saying.”

  George opened Safari on his computer. He could at least find out where the nearest Zipcar location was. “Fiona, please. Think about it. I can write a book from anywhere. I can help keep you safe. We’ll run together.”

  “God, that sounds so tempting.”

  “We’ll go somewhere
tropical. Somewhere they don’t extradite.”

  “You really love me, don’t you?”

  George closed his eyes. “I really do.”

  SEVENTY-THREE

  CLARE

  Clare opened her hotel room door to let Noah in. He looked scruffier than usual — at three a.m., his morning facial hair was already starting to surface. “No one followed you, right?”

  “Right.” Noah sank into the armchair. “Our cover characters are sworn enemies. What did you tell your handler?”

  “Nothing about you,” Clare said. “And by the way, you owe Joe Mangan twenty grand.”

  Noah’s jaw fell.

  “Joe knows what he’s doing. Got me off in record time, and now he’s playing poker dressed as Snow White. Twenty grand’s a bargain. You want a coffee? Something from the minibar? It’s on me — actually, it’s on the RCMP. To say thanks.”

  “Are you mad at me?” Noah unzipped his navy blue hoodie. “Did you call me here to gloat?”

  “No.” Clare opened the minibar and pulled out a beer. Bud, because she wasn’t pretending. “I called because I have a plan. I think you were right earlier. I think we should work together.”

  “I’ll have one of those, too.”

  Clare passed the first beer to Noah and grabbed another for herself.

  “What’s your idea?”

  Clare still wasn’t sure if she was playing this the right way. She should be running this by Amanda — including telling her she’d officially been made. In a perfect world, Amanda would then check to make sure Noah was for real, and Clare could go ahead with her collaboration.

  But Amanda might not react that way. Her most likely reaction would be to pull Clare — there were too many doubts surrounding her role already. In fact, if Clare were in Amanda’s place, she’d think the safest thing would be to pull her.