Death Plays Poker

by Robin Spano

  “Why would you want to impress Joe? He’s a womanizing douchebag.” Clare wasn’t going to let Nate’s excuses soften her.

  “You’re right.” Nate cracked a grin. “But he’s been my poker hero for two years. Meeting him in real life was pretty cool.”

  “Is that why you wanted do me in Stanley Park?” Clare’s blood was hot. She wanted to take off her jacket, but it would give the wrong impression, like she was staying.

  “No,” Nate said. “I wanted to have sex with you because you turn me on. But I understand if it will take some time for you to trust me again.”

  “Time?” Clare fished a cigarette from her pack. She didn’t offer one to Nate. “More like we’ll both have to die and I’ll come back as someone who doesn’t remember what you did to me for the sake of twenty grand. Anyway, fuck that. As soon as this game is over, I’m going home.”

  “Coffee?” Nate took the empty pot from the machine and went into the bathroom. For some reason, the sound of water hitting the glass pot infuriated Clare further.

  She stared out the window at the mountains. She heard Nate return and pour water into the coffee machine. She turned around. “Why would I stay and drink coffee with you? Do you have a bet with Joe Mangan about who can be the first to serve me coffee?”

  “Ouch. Come on, Clarissa.”

  “Who’s Clarissa?” What had just happened? This was way worse than Elizabeth’s suspicions.

  “Shit.” Nate looked away. “I meant Tiffany.”

  “Why did you call me Clarissa?”

  “It was obviously a mistake.”

  Clare felt paralyzed in place. Her career was clearly over; she just had to make it out of the room alive. “Okay,” she said.

  “Okay?” Nate said.

  Clare nodded. She couldn’t move her legs.

  “Jesus,” Nate said under his breath.

  “I thought you were Jewish.” Really? That was all she could say? “What’s the point of a Jewish person taking Jesus’s name in vain? You don’t even think he was anything special.”

  “My ex-girlfriend’s name is Clarissa,” Nate said. “Our break-up was a lot like this one.”

  “Fine,” Clare said. “I’m, um, going to go now.” Right. Just as soon as she could move.

  “You don’t have to leave. The coffee’s almost ready. Stay and have one cup.”

  One poisoned cup, probably. “No, thanks.” Clare studied Nate, who was pretending to watch the coffee percolate. How would he have discovered her identity?

  Maybe he was another cop. Amanda had said none of the other RCMP undercovers were playing in the tournament, but maybe that’s what she was supposed to say. Maybe Amanda didn’t even know about Nate. But then why would Nate know Clare’s identity? And if he was a cop who knew she was a cop, why would he waste his time coming on to Clare instead of getting to know the other suspects? Nope — not a cop.

  But since she couldn’t will her legs to move yet, Clare said, “If you tell me why you called me Clarissa, I’ll consider helping you win that bet with Joe.”

  Nate peeled his eyes away from the coffee and glanced at her. “I don’t care about the bet with Joe.”

  “You don’t care about twenty grand? Well, I wonder why that could be, Nate. Is Nate your real name?”

  Nate made a feeble attempt at laughter. “Have you gone a bit crazy? I’m sorry I called you my ex-girlfriend’s name. I’m sorry I made a stupid bet with a poker player I was trying to impress. But I like you, for real. And yes, my name is Nate.”

  There was no saving this. Clare had to leave. As much as the idea drove her insane, she had to tell Amanda her cover was blown from two different sides. Unless . . . “I’m leaving.” She was playing with fire.

  “What do you mean?” Nate’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’m going home. Screw the chips I still have in the game. What’s money when I could get killed if I stay?”

  Nate’s mouth fell open. “Is it because I said . . .” He looked like he wanted to finish the sentence.

  Clare stared at him, compelling him to continue. When he didn’t, she said, “Of course it is.”

  He bit his lip. “Do I need to say it out loud?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know you’re an undercover.”

  Clare felt the blood drain from her face. She sank into the closest chair. She knew she still had to lie for as long as she could. “Are you kidding?” she asked.

  Nate shook his head.

  Clare tried to laugh. “Undercover what?”

  “You want to do this?” Nate said. “We could just come out in the open here, make things a lot easier.” He set a coffee beside Clare. Yeah, right. She wasn’t drinking it.

  “Really,” Clare said. “Do you think I’m a cop? A hooker? I’m totally confused.”

  “It’s fine,” Nate said. “My handlers told me.”

  Clare inhaled deeply. “Are you RCMP?”

  Nate shook his head. “FBI. My name is Noah, by the way. It’s good to meet you.”

  Clare rolled her eyes. And exhaled.

  “You can’t tell anyone,” Noah said.

  “Duh.”

  “I mean no one.”

  “My job and my ass is just as important as yours.”

  “So, um, did you mean it about the prop bet?” Noah’s eyebrows arched.

  “I did . . .” Clare spoke slowly, realizing she couldn’t justify sleeping with Noah for pleasure. “But I don’t think I can help you win that bet after all.”

  “It sounded too good to be true. What’s the catch?”

  “I have a boyfriend. The deal is I can sleep around as Tiffany — if it’s, you know, relevant to the case. But Clare has to stay faithful.”

  “Clare?”

  “I hate Clarissa.”

  “I can see why.”

  “I think I like Nate better than Noah,” Clare said. “Both the person and the name.”

  “So call me Nate.” Noah shrugged. “You should do that in public, anyway. And since it’s okay to fuck around if you’re role-playing, if I call you Tiffany, will you help me win that bet?”

  “Forget it.” Clare was fighting her body’s annoying impulse to help him win the bet right there and then. “I’m not a cheater.”

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  NOAH

  “If you’re not going to sleep with me, maybe you’d consider working with me.” Noah wasn’t sure if Clare believed the whole FBI thing. She acted like she did, but then of course she would, if she wanted to make it out of the room alive. He hoped he hadn’t scared her into bolting — although bolting would clearly be the smart thing to do.

  Clare rested her chin in her hand. “You mean you want to collaborate to find the killer?”

  “My assignment is to figure out the cheating scam.” That was true.

  “Mine’s to find the killer,” Clare said. “So I guess there’s no conflict if we work together. But I have to talk to my handler to see if she even wants me to stay in the game.”

  “Because of me?” Noah didn’t want Clare going anywhere.

  “Partly. Elizabeth is sniffing close, too,” Clare said.

  “Tell your handler about Elizabeth. But not about me.”

  “Why?” Clare’s eyes darted up to meet his.

  “It’s stupid.” Noah tried to keep his voice soft, conspiratorial, devoid of any urgency. “It’s law enforcement politics. The RCMP will hate the FBI if they know we’re here.”

  Clare wrinkled her forehead. “You’re not even allowed to be here. I have to tell my handler, or I’m a traitor.”

  “Can you give it one more day?” Noah asked.

  “Why should I?”

  “It’s complicated.” Shit. That sounded condescending.

  Clare started to walk toward the door. “It’s okay. I’m s
ure I’m not supposed to be talking to you either. We’re probably better off working solo.”

  “We probably are,” Noah said. “But look — we know about each other now, we might as well pool resources. Otherwise we’re competition. It could hurt both of our games.”

  “Games?” Clare shot him a new glance.

  “Sorry. Jobs.”

  Clare unfastened the deadbolt.

  “Clare, wait.” Noah needed to secure her as a partner, if only to guarantee her silence to her handlers. “I’m not here to hurt your case. Really. The FBI sent me to get the cheating mechanics down. So casino bosses in the States can seal up any security loopholes and make sure it can’t happen on home turf.”

  Clare stopped. Her hand was on the door handle, but she didn’t open it.

  Noah said, “I’m also pretty sure that our targets are the same person. You’re after the Poker Choker. I’m after the Dealer. If we work together, we can nail him that much faster, and we can both chalk it up to a win.”

  “Dealer?” Clare frowned.

  “The ringleader of the cheating scam. He gave himself the name.” Noah paused. Was he truly going to share information, or was he better to pretend to share, and learn what he could from Clare?

  “So we know he has an ego.”

  “What do you mean?” Noah hadn’t seen it that way.

  “Please. The Dealer? The guy who determines what cards everyone holds? He might as well sign the notes ‘God.’”

  Noah nodded. “You have a point.”

  “Of course I have a point. Only a man wouldn’t see that.”

  “For someone so in love with your boyfriend, you don’t have a high opinion of men.”

  “Kevin’s different.” Clare’s eyes took on a dreaminess that Noah would prefer they didn’t.

  “Fine. Kevin’s different. Me and the rest of men are all assholes.”

  Clare tapped her fingers on the door handle. “I’m not convinced we’re after the same person. The killer could be some guy like Mickey. Pissed off at the cheaters; trying to keep the game pure for professionals.”

  Noah snorted. “No one kills for noble reasons.”

  “The killer on my last case kind of did.”

  “Nice that you can sympathize with evil. How about a theory that would fly in the real world?”

  “Like whatever brilliant thing you’re about to say?” Clare snapped.

  “I don’t have a specific theory. But I know a cracked one when I hear it.”

  “Good, then,” Clare said. “How about if I brainstorm — you know, keep an open mind about it all — and you can tell me why everything I say sucks. Until I say something that doesn’t suck. And then we’ll have our answer.”

  Noah couldn’t tell if she was being serious or sarcastic, so he asked.

  “Both,” Clare said. “I mean, it would be great if you could open your mind, too. But since you’re so reluctant to think anything that might be construed as stupid by a fly on the wall of your brain, keep your mind closed, and we’ll use our individual talents in combination.”

  “You want to see something my individual talent lifted from Fiona Gallagher’s hotel room?”

  Clare took her hand off the door handle.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Noah went to the safe, punched in his code, and retrieved several single sheets of paper. He set them on the desk, which Clare walked over to.

  Clare picked up the first one. “Do you want to save your mother’s house? What’s this?”

  “Keep reading. I’m pretty sure they’re in order.”

  Clare flipped to the next page. “Do we need to involve your techie? If you can do it without his knowing, order orange juice and coffee on your room service card. If he needs to be involved, order grapefruit juice. What the fuck, Nate? Noah. Whatever.”

  “I found them in Fiona’s suitcase. My guess is she ordered grapefruit juice. Keep reading.”

  Noah watched as Clare read one page, then another. When she’d finished with them all, she looked up and said, “What do you want to do with all this?”

  “I’ve started already. I mimicked the style and gave Fiona a note to cancel the cheating broadcast. It stopped today.”

  Clare’s eyes narrowed. “You could get Fiona killed.”

  “I have surveillance on her room. Anyone drops off a new note — or shows up with a piece of rope — the game is up.” Noah didn’t mention that Fiona hadn’t been staying in her room, or that he had a camera on George’s room, too.

  Clare frowned. “You seem to have everything taken care of. What do you need me for?”

  “I like you.” That, and he didn’t want her spilling any beans to her handler.

  “Spare me,” Clare said. “I was a bet so you could get in with Joe Mangan. What’s your next genius plan?”

  Noah didn’t have a next plan. He’d hoped pausing the scam would have given him more information. So he put it on Clare: “Isn’t now when you start your brainstorming?”

  “No,” Clare said, heading back toward the door. “Now’s when I run this by my handler.”

  Noah grabbed her arm more forcefully than he meant to. Her bicep was small, but it felt strong — Clare had more muscle than it looked like. “Don’t breathe a word about me.”

  “I meant about Elizabeth,” Clare said. “And let go of me.”

  SIXTY-NINE

  CLARE

  Clare’s grip tightened around her phone. She was nervous calling Amanda. It was what Amanda said she wanted, but Clare wasn’t used to sharing brainwaves with someone so perfect and prissy.

  “Hello.” Amanda’s voice was crisp.

  “It’s Clare. Um, I have a question.”

  “Shoot.” Like Amanda had so many other operatives working undercover in the world of competitive poker, and didn’t have time for what she naturally assumed would be Clare’s minor issue.

  “It’s . . . um.” Clare kicked a pebble. She looked around to make sure no one was listening. But she was alone by the river outside Noah’s hotel. Safe for talking.

  “Are you okay?” Amanda asked.

  “Yeah. I think so. I have a problem. And I think I have a solution. But I don’t know if the solution is the best course of action. And I thought maybe . . .” Clare didn’t know whether to tell Amanda about Noah or not. But she knew she had to talk about Elizabeth.

  “Are you downtown? Can you come to my apartment?”

  “I’m still in Richmond. I could come downtown, but I kind of have to act fast.”

  “Okay. What’s the problem?”

  “I might be made.” She told Amanda what Elizabeth had said at lunch.

  “Do you think Elizabeth suspects you’re a cop?”

  “No,” Clare said. “I think she thinks I’m part of this cheating ring. But regardless, I don’t want my identity under scrutiny. She definitely doesn’t like me. If she finds out for sure that there’s no James who’s a big shot in furniture importing — which I think she’s pretty close to concluding — she’s likely to tell the whole scene. And then — okay fine, they don’t put it together that I’m a cop — but any social inroads I’ve made would get barricaded fast.”

  “So what’s your solution?”

  “I could sleep with Joe.” She filled Amanda in on the prop bet.

  “Busy day. What would sleeping with Joe accomplish, besides getting crabs?”

  “It would buy time.” Clare shuddered at the crabs reference. Anyway, she disagreed. Joe seemed clean enough to her. “If Elizabeth blows my cover and I’ve slept with her boyfriend, it makes her look like she’s grasping at straws to discredit me. I might lose my inroad with Fiona — women sometimes stick together — but for some reason, I don’t think Fiona cares about the nobility of friendship too much.”

  “But you wouldn’t lose the men? Mickey Mills is you
r biggest asset at the moment. And you don’t think Nate would disown you for sleeping with Joe?”

  Now was Clare’s chance if she wanted to be honest about Noah. “Nate thinks I’m mad about the prop bet. I’m sure I could go crawling back to him afterward. Mickey — I don’t think it would bother him enough to stop coaching me. Don’t know. I think he’d be more bothered if he thought I’d been lying about my identity.”

  Amanda was quiet for a moment. “I’m still trying to understand your logic. If you sleep with Joe, you’re giving Elizabeth more incentive to blow your cover, not less.”

  “Which is why I make sure she only finds out if she’s blown my cover. You see what I’m saying? I sleep with Joe tonight for insurance. I overheard Elizabeth say she was going to dinner with her family tonight — without Joe — and I’m not sure when I’ll get this chance again. Joe obviously won’t scream it from the rooftops that he fucked me, but he’ll have to tell Nate in order to collect on the prop bet. So if Elizabeth finds something on me that she can share with the poker world, I can make it look like she only did it because I’d slept with her boyfriend — which I’ll get a modicum of sympathy for, because I can say I only did that because I was angry with Nate about the prop bet. Tiffany would still have to leave the scene, but it would take longer for the fallout to happen because Elizabeth would be under scrutiny as well.”

  Clare could imagine Amanda’s immaculate brain synapses trying to fire their way around this. Eventually, Amanda said, “In one way, it’s insurance. In another way, you’re giving your cover role an end date. It’s like you’re planting a stick of dynamite in the scene and setting it onto slow burn.”

  “I think the dynamite’s already planted,” Clare said, though it killed her to acknowledge this out loud. “I don’t see Tiffany James’s cover role holding up much past this leg of the tournament. To use your dynamite analogy, I see sleeping with Joe as extending the wick a bit longer.”

  “I’m not sure, Clare. I wish I had more time to think this over.”

  “I wish I had ten years to learn how to play poker. I also have a backup story ready, if this is blown open before I can bail from the scene. I can say I lied about being a trust fund brat because I didn’t want to admit how I’d really made my money, through Internet porn or something.”