Death Plays Poker (31 page)

ELIZABETH

“You know what having a kid would mean?” Elizabeth poured cream into Joe’s coffee and stirred it. Joe was driving
Last Tango
home to the casino. They’d spent the night anchored up Indian Arm, a secluded saltwater fjord surrounded by dense forest and sheer granite cliffs, and Joe’s only message on Twitter had been to tell the world he was “chilling with Liz & offline until morning.” Elizabeth loved that about Vancouver — how close you could be to the city, and how far away you could feel. If her family ever left, she would move home in a heartbeat.

“Sure I know,” Joe said. “This baby will mean a whole new world of endorsement opportunities. Gerber ads, Huggies commercials . . . hell, if the kid’s cute, he can be on
TV
with me.”

“Oh my god.” Elizabeth set the coffee on the dash in front of Joe. Some splashed from the cup as they went through a wave.

“Kidding.” Joe put his hand on the coffee as he braced for the next small wave. “But seriously, this kid’s going to be awesome. Cute, funny, smart — and if he takes after you, he’ll also be responsible.”

“What I meant was, do you know what having a baby is going to mean in our lives? We’ll have to work less — maybe enter less tournaments.”

“Nah,” Joe said. “That’s the trouble with parents today. Their world is all diapers and child-protecting their houses. I think that’s why kids are growing up entitled. Their parents’ world revolves around them, so they think the real world should, too.” Joe waved at a seal. “Those things are adorable. If we ever live by the water, we should have a pet seal.”

“Sure. We’ll have a seal. It can babysit our kid while we’re off playing poker.”

Joe laughed. “We could hire someone to come with us on the road.”

Of course. A nanny. A.k.a. Joe’s portable concubine. Elizabeth shook her head. “My parents offered to take care of the baby when we’re traveling.”

“Yeah? You want to stop in Richmond before and after every tournament?”

“Good point. How about a male nanny?”

“The kid’s going to have enough male influences from the poker community. I think a woman is the way to go.”

Joe turned the boat into the Burrard Inlet, bringing the city and its industry back into view.

“An old woman, then,” Elizabeth said. “A grandmotherly type.”

Joe grinned. “Fine. So will you marry me and have this kid?”

Elizabeth stared at the water. The rising sun behind them, the North Shore mountains to their right, Stanley Park becoming larger ahead of them . . . even the giant pile of sulfur that was normally a yellow eyesore in the inlet managed to look beautiful in the early morning sun. “Yeah,” she said.

Joe turned sharply to look at her. “Did you just say yes?”

Elizabeth felt her throat constrict. She didn’t think she could speak, so she nodded.

Joe let out a shout and gunned the engine hard. When he’d brought the speed back down, he said, “I thought you’d leave me if I ever asked you to marry me.”

“You did?” Elizabeth said. “Why?”

“Women like you don’t want forever with guys like me.”

Elizabeth studied Joe. His eyes were on the water and his sunglasses hid their expression. “Sometimes,” she said, “you have no idea what you want until it’s there.”

CLARE

Amanda poured Clare a new cup of coffee. “You’re good.”

“You mean . . .” Clare tried not to get her hopes up.

“Noah Walker checks out.”

“He’s
FBI
?”

“Yes. We’re obviously not pleased that they launched their own investigation in our territory without first attempting to gain our cooperation . . .”

“Will they share their Washington motel info with us?”

Amanda gave her short, sharp laugh. “They don’t feel badly about being caught, if that’s what you’re asking. No, they won’t change their position on the motel room murder scene.”

“That’s so unfair.” Clare decided not to correct Amanda’s grammar from “badly” to “bad.”

“Welcome to dealing with the United States of America. You want really unfair, try dealing with Iran.”

Clare smiled.

“At any rate, we’ve resolved that issue. You’re sharing information on the ground level with Noah Walker.”

On the ground level. Leave it to Amanda to find a way to be condescending. Clare wished she
had
corrected her grammar.

“I guess I’d better get back to my low-level work, then. Seeing as it’s the only thing that’s actually accomplishing anything.”

“Really, Clare? After everything, you’re still the pouting princess?”

Clare lifted her head to face Amanda. “Me? What are you talking about?”

“I fought for you to keep your job after you gave up classified information to Roberta McGraw
and
to Kevin Findlay on an unsecured phone line. Instead of pulling you from the case when you started pooling information with a suspect who claimed to be law enforcement, I went behind the scenes — possibly creating conflict with U.S. law enforcement — to find his true identity, again so you could stay in place. How could you possibly think I don’t value your contribution?”

Again, with the word “contribution.” Or maybe Clare was being overly sensitive. “Thanks, Amanda.”

“For what?” Amanda looked surprised.

“Cloutier would have had me pulled at Roberta.” Clare pushed away her nearly untouched coffee. “Your gourmet coffee’s actually pretty good, but you understand if I don’t stick around and drink the second cup, right?”

“No pancake breakfast to finish off our sleepover?” Amanda looked almost disappointed.

“Have you ever eaten a pancake in your life?”

Amanda grinned, nearly blinding Clare with the whiteness of her teeth. “Only when I’ve had one sangria too many the night before.”

“Another time.” Clare picked up her phone to send Noah a text. “I need to get back in this game.”

“The game doesn’t start until the afternoon.” Amanda glanced at her watch. “It’s not even eight thirty.”

“Yeah,” Clare said. “I’m talking about my metagame.”

“Is that a poker term?” Amanda frowned.

“It’s the game above the game. It’s where you create illusions in order to trick people into making mistakes.”

GEORGE

George felt like he’d been drinking the same cup of watery coffee since the beginning of the Canadian Classic Poker Tour.

He could turn on his computer, but why? He’d already written everything he had to say.

His plane for Las Vegas was leaving that night; he’d go back to his crummy apartment and regroup. If he couldn’t buy his writer’s cabin in New England, maybe he could rent one for a year.

That actually sounded good. George booted up his computer to look at cabin rentals. Anywhere except a city, and nowhere that a poker tour was stopping by. Fiona was dead — he couldn’t change that. But he could avenge her murder the only way he knew how: through fiction.

George entered his password — “darkroast” — and opened Safari. As he was contemplating what search term to type, he heard a shuffling sound at his door.

He looked over and saw an envelope at the base of the door. Blank on the outside and sealed. He pried it open.

Stop stirring shit around yourself.

George grabbed his room card and ran down the hallway to the stairwell, where he thought he’d just witnessed the door closing. He shouted, “Who are you?” as loud as he could. But all he heard was a click as a door shut on another floor.

CLARE

Clare gazed out at the boats of False Creek. They were familiar to her now. She said a silent hello to
Polar Ice
, one of the smaller yachts that she couldn’t see making the journey to either pole. The boat must have been named after the vodka.

She checked the time on her phone. Clare wondered if it should worry her that she didn’t gag on the hot pink color anymore. She hoped when she got home she didn’t start accidentally adding pink clothes to her real wardrobe.

Noah wasn’t due for another twenty minutes. She punched in the numbers to call Roberta. She’d make damn sure not to say anything classified.

“How’s that Virago?” Clare asked when Roberta picked up.

“The more I fix, the more it breaks,” Roberta said. “The electrics are fine, and now the carb’s like new. Damn thing just won’t start.”

“The starter motor?”

“That would be logical. Except I’ve pulled the thing apart and it’s perfect. I think I stared at the insides of that starter for half a day, trying to find a flaw that isn’t there.”

Clare took a sip from her water bottle. “I hope you’re billing by the hour.”

“I’m not counting hours I waste due to my own vacant brain. Anyway, Lance was in and out of the shop, so a lot of that time was spent trying to help him find a caterer. He’s pulling out his hair with wedding plans.”

“Why is he looking for a caterer in Toronto? Isn’t the reception in the legion hall back home?”

“Shauna’s being fussy. One of her friends just got married and hired a fancy caterer from Lake Joe. Lance can’t afford anything that pricey, but Shauna wants him to scour Toronto for something she can pass off as upscale.”

Clare rolled her eyes at the information about Roberta’s soon-to-be daughter-in-law. If she wanted to seem upscale, Shauna should stop wearing spandex to the grocery store. “Everyone wants to fool someone. So why doesn’t Lance leave the planning to Slutty Shauna?”

“Because he’s a modern man who believes household duties should be shared.”

“Since when?” When Clare had dated Lance, he’d been as manly as they’d come. And by manly, she meant someone who belched to indicate he was ready for his woman to bring him a new beer. “Don’t tell me Shauna’s got him tuning into his softer side.”

“I think it’s nice,” Roberta said. “So are you coming to the wedding? Lance says you still haven’t responded to his Save the Date card.”

“I’ll be undercover in Helsinki.”

“They plan that far ahead?”

“I was speaking wishfully.”

“Clare!” Roberta was laughing, but she sounded disappointed. “I thought you and Lance were friends now.”

“On the surface. But . . . is it weird that part of me still wants us to be together?”

“It’s not weird,” Roberta said. “You two played together since you were twelve and fourteen.”

“Yeah,” Clare said. “Maybe that’s all it is.”

“Anyhow, don’t you have too many men?”

“No.” Clare kicked a stone off the path she was walking on. “I’m done with the guy here. I’m waiting to go home to Kevin.”

“Don’t sound so excited.”

Clare’s gaze wandered back to the boats. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You’re in your twenties. You’re figuring out what you want. Why does something have to be wrong with you?”

“What if I can’t fall in love?”

“Of course you can fall in love. You’re waiting for the right guy. It isn’t Lance. And maybe it isn’t Kevin either.”

“What if it
is
Kevin? What if I’m afraid of something that isn’t letting me go that final distance? What if
that
fear is making me crave this asshole I met on the assignment?”

“Then I repeat what I said before: you’re in your twenties.”

“Roberta, that’s dumb. I can’t go through life excusing every character flaw I have by saying it’s a function of my age.”

“Why not? When I look in the mirror and an Italian Riviera body doesn’t stare back at me, I don’t whinge and complain — I say hell, Roberta, for forty-three you look damn good.”

Clare grinned.

Then she heard Roberta draw in a breath. “Clare, your dad’s in the hospital.”

“Again?”

“This time it’s serious.”

“It was serious before,” Clare said. “He needs a lung transplant.”

“They don’t think he’s going to make it home.”

Clare lit a smoke. “Did you hear that from a doctor, or from my mother when she was halfway into her nightly vodka bottle?”

“Both.”

“You saw my dad in the hospital?” Clare took a deep drag and held smoke in as if it was a joint.

“He’s off the transplant list.”

“What? How did that happen?” Clare didn’t know how that made her feel.

“They know he smoked in January. He’s telling everyone you gave him a cigarette.”

“I did,” Clare said.

“You what?”

“Don’t treat me like I’m Satan. I was smoking. I told him that if he was too, he could smoke in front of me. It’s the lying I hate more than anything.”

“Clare you can’t — when you’re dealing with an addict — it’s not —”

“Can you not lecture me?” Clare felt her throat constrict. “I get it. I made a dumb mistake. When he dies it’s going to be my fault.”

“That’s not even a little bit true.”

“Of course it’s true. I’m a murderer.” Clare gazed out at
Polar Ice
, bobbing on the water. “Like those people I’m supposed to catch and put in jail. Bitter irony, huh?”

“He’s not dead yet. You can still make your peace.”

“What peace? I can say, ‘Sorry I tempted you with tobacco,’ and he can say, ‘Oh, that’s okay,’ and I can say, ‘Thanks for blaming me, by the way,’ and he can say . . .” Clare couldn’t finish the thought. She felt a tear roll down her cheek.

“When are you coming home?” Roberta asked.

“Depends when the case is solved. A few days, ideally.”

“He’ll hang on until then.”

“How do you even know that?”

“It’s how things work.”

Clare wiped her tear away. Thankfully no more had followed. “So what’s the next step with the Virago?”

“I’m going to stare at it some more. Then attack the electric start.”

“Totally thought it would turn out to be the main fuse.”

“Totally?”

“My cover character talks like a Richmond Hill girl. What about a starter solenoid?”

“Yeah,” Roberta said. “This is why I hate motorcycles. They’re supposed to be so simple, but they never are.”