by Robin Spano
Clare looked down at her tight hot pink T-shirt and very ripped jeans. Together they’d cost more than Clare’s treasured motorcycle jacket back home. “Why not?”
“It’s, you know, not very professional.”
Clare laughed. “It’s the definition of professional. I’m undercover, remember?”
ONE HUNDRED
ELIZABETH
Elizabeth looked at the chips stacked in front of her. The game of poker seemed as significant as the pimple she felt forming on her forehead. Whoever said pregnancy was good for your complexion was lying through their teeth.
The young reporter who had replaced Fiona moved through the room like she was terrified of knocking something over. She conducted interviews apologetically, as if she thought she was bothering the players. Elizabeth surprised herself by actually missing Fiona.
Elizabeth looked at the other players. It was a good final table: Mickey, Joe, Tiffany, Nate, T-Bone, herself, and four unknowns. Elizabeth ranked herself third in terms of raw skill, after Mickey and Joe. T-Bone might have been better once, but his recent track record made him a clear fourth. But poker was full of surprises. With all the books and online coaching sites available to any Joe Schmoe, any of those four unknowns could be a genius waiting to spring his first public trap. Hell, even Tiffany could luck out and win.
And then the room turned silent. Elizabeth looked up to see two uniformed policemen approaching the table. She couldn’t tell if it felt like slow motion or superspeed as they asked Joe to stand up, handcuffed him, and told him he was being arrested for the murders of Josie Carter, Jimmy Streets, Willard Oppal, and Loni Mills. All the Choker victims except Fiona. One cop explained that the only reason he wasn’t being arrested for Fiona’s murder was because it wasn’t RCMP jurisdiction. Like that mattered.
Of course Joe was the Dealer. Elizabeth had known it all along, and yet she hadn’t. How he always made the final table, but never came first. Of course he wouldn’t come first — why attract the attention? Consistently coming in third or seventh paid well enough to meet Joe’s needs. And knowing it was consistent would address that whole security thing.
Elizabeth looked at Joe, who was staring vacantly through her and everyone else at the table. He was still wearing the furry ears and dog nose he’d had on before he’d been handcuffed, and he said nothing as Elizabeth reached forward and took both off for him. He neither confirmed nor denied the charges as he listened to the cops and allowed them to lead him away.
Elizabeth picked up her purse and left Joe’s costume remains on the table. Nate and Tiffany both reached for the props simultaneously. She found that odd, but didn’t have the energy to care.
She followed the cops as they led Joe outside. She had tears on her face, but she couldn’t feel them falling. She watched as Joe’s head was pushed down into the police car, and stared as he was driven away.
She felt blood. She’d been cramping all morning, but she’d ignored it. She looked down; her beige pants were covered with red. She got into a taxi and asked the driver to take her to Richmond Hospital.
“Which entrance?” said the driver.
“Emergency. I’m in the middle of a fucking miscarriage.”
ONE HUNDRED AND ONE
NOAH
Noah sat stiffly in Clare’s armchair while she packed. “Joe’s not going to confess,” he said.
“No kidding.” Clare frowned at a pink sweater while she made a couple of unsuccessful attempts at folding it. “But Oliver will testify about being Snow White. George will testify about Fiona saying she received all the notes. And we’ll hopefully get some hotel surveillance footage of Joe dropping off those notes to Fiona’s rooms in different cities along the tour. I’m surprised Joe didn’t kill Oliver right afterwards.”
“He was probably next to die.” Noah fingered his cigarette pack. He should quit smoking soon. He was too old for the shit, and there were too many places you couldn’t light up. Like in this fucking Canadian hotel room. “But Joe wasn’t impulsive about any of the murders. He would have planned Oliver’s death for a time he’d get away with — maybe later in the afternoon — maybe once the tournament was over, so Oliver could keep up his end of the hole card scam.”
Clare got the sweater in line and placed it in the suitcase. “You don’t think he was ready to call it quits on the scam? I think he never meant to kill anyone, just the scam got out of hand and he felt he had to get rid of people for his own protection.”
Noah shrugged. “I have no idea what makes a guy like that tick. It’s scary how few tells he had. Everyone else was freaking out when we sent them their fake Dealer notes. Joe was the only guy who had an even reaction. He walked around like the same old guy, relaxed and cocky and like he owned the world. Not like his life was suddenly in danger.”
“Duh,” Clare said. “Why do you think it was so obvious that it was Joe?”
“That’s how you put it together? Because he didn’t react to his note?”
“Sure. That’s what I thought we were looking for in the first place — the one person who reacted differently from the rest.” Clare looked at Noah. “What were you looking for?”
Noah didn’t know the answer, so he asked another question. “You think Oliver knew it was Joe asking him to dress up as Snow White?”
“I don’t know.” Clare tilted her head to one side. “I’m sure it was done with notes, or texts from a blocked number. Joe probably hid the costume in a bathroom and told Oliver when to put it on, then Joe made his exit from the same bathroom in his own clothes. Anyone watching sees Snow White Joe going in, Snow White Oliver coming out. In costume, they’d look damn near identical. No one thinks to question seeing regular Oliver going in and regular Joe coming out; they both belong to the scene.”
Noah watched her quick, lithe movements. When he’d met Clare as Tiffany, he’d seen her as too skinny. Now he thought her small size suited her; it matched her speedy mind and temper.
“But,” Clare said, “Oliver was no idiot. Who else would be playing dress-up, other than Joe? And people at the table would have called him Joe, naturally. So even if the exchange was anonymous, he must have known who he was impersonating. If Joe hadn’t have been arrested this morning, my guess is Oliver would have been dead by the end of today.”
Noah leaned forward in the chair. “Have you thought about Bert’s offer?”
Clare fastened one suitcase and set it on the floor. She still had one on the bed. “Yeah.”
“Um . . . have you made a decision?”
“Mm hmm.”
Noah’s insides were screaming. “Will you tell me what it is?”
Clare nodded. “I want to go to New York.”
ONE HUNDRED AND TWO
GEORGE
George walked out of the police station where he’d spent the past twenty-four hours. They hadn’t told him much; just that he was no longer under arrest, but he’d have to advise Canadian authorities of his travel plans and make himself available for questioning. Since he was American, he was allowed to return to the States without issue.
But George wondered if his New England writing cabin could as easily be here in B.C. The Sunshine Coast was isolated enough. The Gulf Islands were, too. New England was where he’d grown up; it could foster his old snobbery, make him write less freely, edit himself more harshly. And the story kind of belonged here, in the Pacific Northwest where Fiona had died.
He came to a coffee shop advertising wireless access and went inside.
The strong odor of coffee beans made him feel at home. He ordered a large dark roast and flipped on his computer.
He typed rental cabins British Columbia into Google.
ONE HUNDRED AND THREE
CLARE
I’m moving to New York.” Clare was wrapped around Kevin. She held on a little longer than she knew she should. His body felt warm and strong as he re
turned her embrace. She wondered if she was making a huge mistake.
“For how long?” Kevin’s voice was even, but Clare felt his muscles tense.
“For . . . a while. I guess. Until I move somewhere else.”
“I don’t understand.” Kevin eased himself out of her grasp. “Are you being sent on a permanent assignment?”
Clare shook her head. “I’m moving.”
His eyebrows lowered. “You mean it’s your choice?”
“The FBI offered me a job. I’m currently being scrutinized by their crazy security check, but assuming they don’t find out anything horrible about me, I’m going to take it.”
“Wow.” Kevin exhaled and stared at the ceiling. “Congratulations.”
“I’m sorry, Kevin. I really liked you. It isn’t —”
“Liked me?” Kevin rolled back onto his side and met her eyes. “We can make this work long distance.”
“It’s across a border. We’ve only been together for six months.” Clare didn’t want to tell him about Noah. She needed an out, in case she realized in a day or two that she was making a mistake.
“I could move, too,” Kevin said. “All I have is business cards. I can throw those out and start my company in New York.”
“What about the synergy with your dad?” Clare said. “Findlay and Son and all that . . . and you don’t have a green card.”
“Do you need one if you start your own business? Anyway, I can get that figured out.”
“I think anything to do with construction is run by the mob in New York. You’d have to pay them off. It might not be worth your time.”
“Clare!” Kevin laughed, but he looked confused.
Clare looked at the sheets, messy from their recent sex.
“You’re not telling me everything.”
Clare didn’t answer.
“Have you met someone?”
Clare chewed her lower lip.
“I guess I should have known.”
“Why should you have known?” Clare frowned.
Kevin shook his head. “It’s who you are.”
“A cheater?” That wasn’t fair.
“If the shoe fits.”
“It doesn’t fit.” Clare scrambled out of bed and began to collect her clothes from the floor. She found her cigarettes and lit one. “I’ve never been anything but honest with you. Except when I’ve had to lie for work.”
“Really? Why did you sleep with me just now if you came over here to break up with me?”
“Because I couldn’t say it.”
“If you’d wanted break-up sex, I would have obliged. It’s just nice when both parties know when it’s happening.”
“I didn’t want break-up sex. I’ve been awake for too many hours and my brain isn’t functioning normally. I woke up in Vancouver and sent a guy to jail this morning. It’s kind of surreal being here with you now. Breaking up.”
“So you wanted relationship sex because it’s more comforting after a long work day? How was it for you? I hope I could keep you awake.”
“Sex is always good between us.”
“You mean was.”
“Yeah. I guess I mean was.”
“Jesus, Clare.” Kevin’s eyes went wide. His anger seemed to leave all at once.
“I’m sorry.” Clare slid one leg through a lacy pair of underwear, then the other. Two weeks ago it would have been shapeless cotton, and definitely not a thong. She wondered briefly if Noah would have even liked the other Clare.
The real one?
No, the old one.
ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR
CLARE
“New York City.” Roberta looked blankly at the carburetor needle in her hand. “You excited?”
“No.”
“Why are you going?”
“Fine, so I’m a bit excited.” Clare took a sip of beer. It felt good to be openly drinking Bud again.
“Have you seen your parents yet?”
“I talked to my mom this morning. My dad’s off the transplant list, like you said, and they’re pretty sure he’s going to die soon. Am I being cold by moving so far from home?”
Roberta shook her head. A bunch of red hair came loose from its ponytail, and Clare thought she saw some gray in it for the first time. “Visit him. Tell him you love him. But go to New York. You’re living your life.”
“I do love him. That’s the stupid part. But every time I go up there, they both try to make me feel guilty.”
Roberta’s eyebrows lowered. “They’re unhappy. They don’t know how to be the people you want them to be.”
“So it’s my job to smile and make them think everything’s okay?”
“No. It’s your job to look after yourself. Because they won’t. And unfortunately, taking care of yourself includes sometimes visiting them.”
Clare breathed deeply. “What if I hate New York?”
“What if the moon turns blue? The FBI making you sign up for life?”
“No.” Clare felt herself smile.
“What if you love New York? Will we ever see you again?”
“Of course. I’ll be home for Dad’s funeral soon. God, that sounded terrible.”
“But true,” Roberta said. “How’s your mom?”
Clare wanted a cigarette, but there was, for obvious reasons, no smoking inside the shop. “I think she might be . . . you know . . . ready . . . for my dad to die.”
“She’ll never be ready.”
“She’s calling the disease by its name finally.”
“Emphysema? What was she calling it before?”
“Breathing trouble.” Clare rolled her eyes. “But I think you’re right. About seeing them for my sake. I have the weekend free. I’ll go up before I head south.”
“Can Noah go with you?”
Clare shook her head. “He’s going back to New York tomorrow. And it’s too soon to introduce him to my family.”
“You’re moving cities for a guy, and it’s too soon for him to know where you come from?” Roberta picked up a new-looking motorcycle battery from her workbench.
“He knows exactly where I come from. He was fascinated, actually — he made me describe the trailer park in detail until he said he felt like he could walk around it. It’s the depression I don’t want him exposed to. Maybe if I had a normal family I’d consider it.”
“Who has a normal family?” Roberta snorted. She opened the battery casing on the Virago and attached the battery to the bike.
“We’ve been dating for two weeks. One of which I thought his name was Nate.”
“But you’re moving to New York because of him.”
“I’m moving for the job. Toronto can’t even make my transfer to undercover official, and the FBI is handing me my dream job on a platter. I thought you said it wasn’t the battery.”
“It wasn’t,” Roberta said. “The old battery was weak, so it needed a new one. But that’s incidental. We’re about to find out if you were right about it being a starter solenoid.”
“You haven’t tested it?”
“I thought we could do that together.” Roberta turned the key. The light came on, and she grinned. “You want to press the start button?”
Clare walked over to the bike and pressed the electric start. The bike coughed a bit the first go, so Clare pressed it again. Success.
“I’m going to miss you.” Roberta’s eyes were glassy. She turned the bike off.
“You can visit,” Clare said. “It’s only an eight-hour drive.”
“If you drive like a maniac.”
“Which you do.”
Roberta grinned. “Maybe you’ll see Shauna and Lance on the weekend when you’re home.”
“Maybe the moon will turn blue.”
ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE
ELIZ
ABETH
Hey, can I ask you something?” Elizabeth spoke into the phone, though Joe was only a few feet away.
“Shoot.” Joe wouldn’t meet her eye.
“Um . . . this may seem really shallow. With everything you’re going through. But . . . well . . . have you ever cheated on me?”
Joe looked up at her. Maybe he’d been expecting a tougher question. Through the plastic his eyes said less than ever. “Yes.”
“With who? Josie? Fiona?”
Joe nodded.
“Tiffany?”
Joe twisted his mouth into a grim smile. “Yes.”
“I guess that shouldn’t bother me.” Elizabeth frowned. “Did you like killing people?”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
Same old fucking Joe. “Right.”
Joe smiled.
“So can we play What If?” Elizabeth said.
“Yeah. I like that game.”
“You like all games.”
Joe shrugged.
“What if you killed someone?” Elizabeth said. “Do you think you would have liked it?”
“That’s hard to imagine, since I’ve never wanted to kill anyone. But okay, let’s suppose, for the sake of the game, that I did want someone dead enough to kill them.” Joe tilted his head to one side. His dark roots were starting to show — for some reason, combined with his blond dye and frosted tips, it made him look more cheeseball to Elizabeth than the guys in Jersey Shore. He probably wouldn’t be treated to a hair stylist in jail. “Yeah. I might have liked it.”
Elizabeth forced herself to keep looking at him. “What might you have liked?”
“It might feel really powerful.” Joe made a wringing motion with his hands. “One minute, life. One minute, death. All because of me.”