by Robin Spano
“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.”
SEVENTY-EIGHT
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.
SEVENTY-NINE
CLARE
“We’re being shut out.” Amanda fingered through a rack of dresses at Holt Renfrew. “The FBI isn’t letting us anywhere near that Washington motel room.”
“That’s not fair.” Clare pulled a T-shirt from a different rack and pretended not to be shocked by the price. “Fiona’s death is part of our investigation. Why wouldn’t they pool information?”
“Maybe they don’t trust our professionalism.”
Clare glowered. “Is that a dig? I thought we’d moved past that stupid phone call I made to Roberta.”
“Nope; wasn’t personal. Cute shirt. Why’d you put it back?”
“Because it’s $400.” Then Clare ventured, “I have an in with the FBI.”
Amanda narrowed her eyes toward Clare. “You what?”
Clare took a deep breath. She was probably saying goodbye to her cover role. Still, to not say it was worse. “It’s Nate. I should have said something earlier. But things have been so intense — with Elizabeth and Joe yesterday, and Fiona’s death this morning.”
“Nate’s FBI?”
Clare nodded. “He told me yesterday afternoon.”
“He told you?” Amanda shook her head. Her hand fell from the rack of dresses she’d been flicking through. “Why would you believe him?”
Clare tried to cop a casual smile. “It was a comedy of errors. He let it slip that he knew my real name, and I guess he saw that he’d spooked me, so he told me who he really is: an FBI agent named Noah Walker.”
“Clare, you have the capacity to astound me constantly.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s not a compliment.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Maybe Nate’s story is true. But maybe not. What if he’s mob? What if you’re made?”
Clare turned away and looked at a wall full of folded jeans. “I thought this was a good thing.”
“I know.” Amanda moved beside Clare and pulled some Sevens from the shelf. “That’s kind of the whole problem.”
“Is there any way we can find out?” Clare asked. “If Noah is FBI, things are fine, right?”
“Fine? No, I’d say not. Your cover might be compromised and you’ve been handling yourself like an eight-year-old playing spy games in her grandparents’ farmhouse.”
Clare shook her head as Amanda held the jeans in front of her. “Too generic. If you’re going to spend $250 on jeans, they should look like they cost it.”
Amanda gave her a small smile as if she was pleased Clare was learning. She folded the Sevens and replaced them on the shelf.
“So you don’t want me collaborating with Noah, even if it gives me access to FBI information?”
Amanda curved her mouth into a frown.
“I have a point, right?” Clare said. “I may have stumbled, however stupidly, into something very useful.”
“We’ll talk about your future once we’ve confirmed your new friend’s identity.”
“What about in the meantime?”
Amanda began walking toward the exit. “My first job is to protect you. My official advice has to be for you to return to Toronto and stay with friends where you’re unlikely to be found.”
“But . . .”
“But that would end this case for you,” Amanda confirmed. “They’d debrief you and send someone in to take your place.”
“Even if Noah’s legit? I’m sure people leave all the time for family emergencies.”
“Not when they still have chips in the game,” Amanda said. Apparently she suddenly knew something about poker
.
“I think I could pull it off.” Clare wasn’t trying to seem arrogant, but she felt so close to solving this case. To go home now would be awful.
“I’m telling you it’s not an option. The RCMP would sub in a new undercover and hand someone their ass in Washington.”
“Especially given my screw-ups, you mean.”
Amanda nodded.
“Okay, so as my handler you advise me to bail on the case. Since you don’t seem to be making that an absolute call, what’s your other idea?”
“You could lay low, show up for the game — make an excuse to get out of your coaching session with Mickey and your date with Nate; definitely don’t spend time with Nate — and stay the night at my apartment. It’ll take us a day or two at most to find out who this guy is — it’s ridiculous that it even takes that long, but you get my drift about the FBI and their cooperative nature.”
Clare smiled slightly.
“Would you like some time to think about this?”
Clare shook her head. “I’ll take Option Two.”
“Of course you will.” Amanda pushed open the door and they walked into the sunny street.
EIGHTY
ELIZABETH
Elizabeth threw her purse onto the bed. Joe was making drinks upstairs on deck; she could hear him clinking glasses and slamming cupboard doors.
She peeled off the blouse she’d been wearing for the tournament. She found a clean shirt — black and low-cut for an evening alone with Joe. When she glanced back at her bed, she saw an envelope half-in and half-out of her purse. She didn’t remember putting it there. It was sealed, but the outside was blank. She opened it:
Are you my Dealer?
Elizabeth smiled. Joe must have slipped it into her purse in the casino. Some kind of game he wanted to play; an evening of mystery sex with Elizabeth in control. Mild nausea aside, she could go for that.
She jogged up the short staircase. “So you want me to deal for us tonight?”
Joe looked at her oddly. “What are you talking about? We canceled the card game. Here. I made you a Long Island.”
“I don’t want booze.” She waved the page. “I found your note. Sounds fun.”
“What note?” Joe took the sheet from Elizabeth’s hand and peered at it closely. “Where did you find this?”
“In my purse. Where you left it.”
“Liz — I —” Joe took a large gulp of his own drink before setting down his glass. “I didn’t leave you that note.”
“What are you talking about?” Elizabeth’s laughed, wondering if playing innocent was part of Joe’s game. “You’re saying someone else stuck this note into my purse and I never noticed? I guess I should go find someone else who wants mystery sex with me. Who do you think that could be?”
“I don’t know. Maybe your new best friend George. You just found the note now?”
“Yup.” Elizabeth was pretty sure Joe was messing with her. “So if you didn’t leave it, who did?”
“I have no idea.” Joe set his drink down and embraced her in a warm, flirtatious hug. “But let’s forget about it and get the hell out of here.”
“I’m pregnant.” The words were out before Elizabeth even knew she planned to say them.
“You are?” Joe pulled away so he could look at her, but he took both of her hands in his. A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Wait — are you messing with me because you think I gave you that note?”
Elizabeth shook her head. She sank into a deck chair.
Joe didn’t let go of her hands. “How long have you known?”
“A few days. Don’t worry, I’m not keeping it.”
“I don’t understand. Is it — shit, please tell me it’s mine.”
“It’s yours.” She squeezed his left hand. “But Joe, we both know you don’t want it.”
“I’ll admit I never thought I wanted kids. But hearing you say this . . .” Joe stared at Elizabeth, uncharacteristically grasping for words. “It’s like . . . something’s alive in me.”
“Something’s definitely alive in me. Let’s get out on the water and drop anchor somewhere less industrial. I’ll be able to think more clearly if we’re looking at something other than a casino.”
“It might rain.” Joe turned the key in the ignition.
“We have the tarp. And there’s the entire cabin.”
“Yeah, true. Tell me more about this baby.”
“It’s not a baby, it’s a fetus.” Elizabeth stared out the windshield as Joe left the dock and eased the boat into the river.
“Let’s get married,” Joe said. “We’ll bring the baby town to town. We’ll be great together.”
“Sure,” Elizabeth said. “Until something distracts you.”
Joe shook his head. “No more distractions.” He looked over at her. His grin was from ear to ear. And it was dorky — not his famous grin; his real one. “We’re having a baby. Shit, I have to put this on Twitter.”
“No! It’s too early.” Elizabeth took Joe’s phone from his hand and stuck it in her back pocket. “It’s only six weeks. Something could still go wrong.”
“Nothing’s going wrong. Give me my phone back. If not Twitter, then at least Facebook. Not my fan page; just my profile only friends can see.”
“We’re not telling friends.” Elizabeth didn’t mention that George already knew. “I don’t even know if I’m keeping it.”
“Please stop saying that.” Joe’s expression grew dark. “I’ve never wanted anything this much.”
Right, Elizabeth thought. Like a kid in a toy store who sees something bright and shiny. Sure, he wanted it on impact. But when he got the toy home, he would have already forgotten what had been so exciting about it.
EIGHTY-ONE
CLARE
“This is fun, right?” Amanda said from the open kitchen of her condo. “I haven’t had a sleepover since high school.”
Clare rolled her eyes. Maybe she hadn’t been direct enough about not wanting to be there. “I’d rather be with Noah.”
“Not with Kevin?”
Clare shot a quick glance at Amanda, who was mixing some weird fruity wine drink.
“You might not believe me, but I like this assignment. I’d rather be working than lounging over vacation cocktails.”
“Have some sangria.” Amanda pushed a glass across the counter to where Clare was sitting on an über-modern stool that looked like it belonged in a lobby bar in Berlin. “Nothing’s going to be decided tonight.”
“That’s the problem.” Clare sniffed the drink. She didn’t love wine, but this smelled good, more like juice. “Noah’s continuing to work without me. Our plan involves both of us. I’m supposed to have his back.”
“He may not be who he says he is.”
“I trust him.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
Clare sipped the drink. It was okay; good, even. “If I’m wrong, you’re right: I should pack it in and go home. Because it will mean that my instincts are shot.” Clare’s Tiffany phone beeped. “This is him.”
“A text?” Amanda pulled some vegetables from the fridge and started chopping.
Clare nodded. “He’s at my hotel. He wants to know where I am. What do I say?”
“Say you’re busy with your handler.”
Clare texted back and asked Amanda, “When will we know?”
“Hopefully by morning. Not before then; the east coast has shut down for the day and no one out here will confirm anything without consent from head office.”
“Law enforcement runs on office hours?”
“No one considers this an emergency,” Amanda said.
“I hope the FBI’s lack of urgency doesn’t cost their agent his life.” Clare’s phone beeped again. “Noah wants to know when I’ll be free.”
Amanda
frowned. “Ignore it.”
“He’ll call.”
“Ignore that too.”
Clare got up from her stool and stood by the floor-to-ceiling window. She could see her hotel from here, though Amanda’s condo was too high up to distinguish Noah from any other random person standing outside it.
“I think you’re wrong,” Clare said. “I think this is unfair to him, to keep him waiting without telling him why.”
“Unfair is if the FBI sent an operative onto our turf without letting us know.”
“It’s not Noah’s fault his agency sucks.” Clare moved slowly back to the bar, and took her seat again on the trendy-looking stool that was way more comfortable than it looked. She texted I’m sorry to Noah — hopefully if there was any fallout on his end he’d know she hadn’t meant him any harm. “I guess let’s have a sangria party.”
EIGHTY-TWO
NOAH
Noah looked at his phone dumbly as he walked away from Clare’s hotel to grab the SkyTrain back to the casino. Clare was busy with her handler, fine. But why wouldn’t she say when she thought she’d be free?
His phone rang in his hand, startling him. Bert.
“What is it?” Noah said.
“No wonder you don’t have an office job. Your telephone manners don’t exist.”
“Good evening, Mr. Bertoli. This is Noah Walker. How may I help you?”
“Nah, stick with what you know. That second way sounds forced. I got a call about you.”
“From who?”
“Head office. RCMP wants to know if we have an operative in the Canadian Classic.”
“Shit. What are we telling them?”
“We’re telling them the office is closed. They asked for you by name.”
“Nate or Noah?”
“Both.”
Noah said nothing.