Death Plays Poker (19 page)

NOAH

Noah couldn’t sit still. He paced the length of his hotel room while Bert looked on in annoyance. “I’m meeting Tiffany this afternoon, hopefully.”

“You want me to find out her life history before then?” Bert tapped his Mephisto dress shoes against the cheap hotel carpet. “You don’t ask for much.”

“I don’t need answers right away. But I want to know who she is.”

“You don’t believe her story?”

“A rich kid from Toronto?” Noah shook his head. “Maybe. But there are holes in her supposed education. When we got drunk the other night — well, when she got drunk; I can handle more liquor than she can — she spoke more freely. Unless Canadian private schools are dramatically different from the one I went to in New York, I’m going to go out on a limb and say she never went to one.”

“Are they supposed to have different accents?” Bert asked. “This isn’t England.”

“She resents people with money.” Noah stopped pacing and sat on his bed, facing Bert, who was in Noah’s desk chair. “She seems to hate them because they’ve never had to work for what they have. Doesn’t add up if she’s a trust fund kid.”

“People are complicated.” Bert took a long sip from his coffee. “We don’t always like ourselves, or what we come from.”

“And the other thing — when we were ordering beer, I said I’d have a Bud, and she got all precious, saying she doesn’t drink domestic beer. I mean, okay, you don’t drink domestic. So order what you do drink. You only make a point about something if you’re lying about it.”

Bert nodded. “Let’s say she’s lying. It could still be innocent. Sometimes people put on airs. They want to paint themselves as someone they wish they were, or wish people saw them as.”

Noah frowned. He wasn’t saying this right, maybe because he didn’t understand it himself. “The thing is, lying about her background doesn’t fit with the rest of her character, which is totally not phony. If she
is
lying, I think she has a solid reason.”

“What reason?”

“That’s what I fucking wish I knew.”

“Okay,” Bert said. “You think Tiffany’s cheating at poker?”

Noah didn’t want to ask that question. She hadn’t cashed in the Niagara game, but a careful cheater would throw a tournament here or there to deflect suspicion. “If she’s telling the truth about her identity, no. But if she isn’t, then yeah, maybe.”

Bert frowned. “Are you emotionally invested in this?”

Noah got up and walked to the window. He looked across the river at Vancouver. He imagined Tiffany at her hotel, lying on her bed listening to songs on her little pink phone while she tried to process Loni’s murder in her cute little head.

“Look, Walker. You can’t indulge real feelings here. Acknowledge that you’re into her. Then make yourself into a character who doesn’t feel the same way.”

Noah wrinkled his forehead. “I’m already in character. I’m Nate Wilkes. I can’t change my identity in the middle of an assignment.”

“You need to rewrite Nate Wilkes as someone who hasn’t fallen for this broad. Doesn’t matter what the real you feels — as long as you know it, you can master it. You can’t let a suspect manipulate you.”

Noah pulled a memory stick from his pocket. “Here’s that voice clip. The kid’s name is Oliver Doakes. I’m pretty sure it’s him on that other clip I gave you, the one that tells the hole cards during the game.”

“Good work.” Bert took the memory stick from Noah. “Here’s hoping that’s a match.”

“Even if it’s a match, it doesn’t tell me who’s behind Oliver pulling the strings. Maybe his boss, Fiona. Maybe a player.”

“What kind of kid is he?”

“British,” Noah said. “Disillusioned. Thinks the world should belong to him. Probably as annoying as me, ten years ago. We had a drink last night. I didn’t learn much, but it’s an in, right?”

“It’s a start. You’re going to have to become friends with this Oliver. Follow him. See who he’s talking to.”

“Yeah.” Noah groaned. He didn’t love Oliver’s company, but they couldn’t all be Tiffanys. At least if he had to bring Oliver down, he wouldn’t feel as much anguish.

CLARE

Clare studied the menu. There were a lot of salads, some frilly-looking pasta dishes — nothing normal, like spaghetti and meatballs — and a bunch of so-called sandwiches with pompous ingredients like carpaccio and focaccia. The place was perfect for Amanda.

“What are you having?” Clare asked.

“Insalata Caprese.” What was that in normal language? “And a glass of Pinot Grigio. Unless you want to share a half-liter.”

“Don’t they have, like, burgers on the menu?”

Amanda laughed. “You want to get out of here and find somewhere that does?”

“No.” Clare realized she was being high-maintenance. “Just tell me what the closest thing is to a club sandwich.”

Amanda scanned the menu. “Maybe the
pollo pancetta panini
. Although it should say
panino
, since it’s only one sandwich.”

“Groovy.” Because Clare had missed her Italian lesson for the week and was shaky on her plurals. “And thanks for the wine offer, but Tiffany drinks beer.”

“Good.” Amanda nodded. “Most new operatives stick too close to what they think would be expected from their cover character. But it makes them come across as one-dimensional. Real people are complex, full of inconsistencies.”

“What are your inconsistencies?” Clare looked at her new handler, who seemed flawless right down to her bone marrow.

Amanda tilted her head to one side. “I’m addicted to Japanese animation, which most people who know me find surprising.”

Clare found this revelation weak, but didn’t say so. “Have you ever been in the field as an undercover?”

“No.”

The waitress came and took their order.

“Have you ever wanted to go undercover?” Clare asked when the waitress had left.

“Yes and no. The idea of working the field scares me more than it excites me.”

“So you let someone else take the risks.” Clare hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but whatever. “Did you call me here to talk about Loni?”

“Among other things. How are you holding up?”

“Fine.” Clare wasn’t about to share her insecurities with someone with such perfectly white teeth.

“You sure?”

“If I can’t handle murder, I’m in the wrong job, right?”

“You’re human,” Amanda said. “You can’t turn that off. You wouldn’t want to, actually.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Amanda lifted her eyebrows. “So fill me in on Loni. Had you met her? Where did she fit in the scene?”

“She fit everywhere. She used to be married to Mickey Mills — thus the last name — and she hated me because I’m taking lessons from him. When she died she was dating T-Bone Jones.”

“Who also hates you.”

Clare rolled her eyes. “I’m sure he’s over that.”

Amanda frowned.

“Why the disapproving look?”

“I think you’re too young for this case.”

Not again. “Because some old guy in a cowboy hat doesn’t want me to be his best friend? I’ve been over all this with Cloutier already. I’m here — I’m embedded in the scene — you might as well find a way to use me.”

The waitress arrived with their drinks. Clare picked up her bottle of Stella Artois. She knew Amanda wanted her to use the glass that had come with it.

Amanda touched the stem of her wine glass. “I think you’re too young to understand how serious the situation is. I think you like the mental challenge, and you see your job as an adventure. But I don’t think you quite get what death is.”

Clare sipped beer from the bottle. “That’s right, Amanda. I think all these dead poker players are hanging out on the sidelines, ready to pop back to life the instant I announce who the killer is. It’s a fun game — too bad you’re too scared to play it.”

“Then prove me wrong.” Amanda spoke quietly. “I’m on your side. I want you to do well.”

“Because it’s good for your career.”

“Because it gets a killer off the streets. Never forget that’s your first goal.”

“I never have.”

“Okay,” Amanda said. “So Loni was dating T-Bone, used to be married to Mickey. Do you know any of the fine print?”

“Only from Mickey’s side. I guess their divorce settlement left Loni richer than Mickey.”

“Was Mickey paying alimony? Or was it a one-time cash payment?”

“Still paying, I think.” Clare tried to meet Amanda’s eyes, but Amanda was looking at the table.

“Have you seen them interact?”

“Loni and Mickey? Once.”

“What was the dynamic?”

“Tense, a bunch of not-so-hidden digs. They both seemed to get a charge out of it.”

“Fine line between love and hate, right?” Amanda said, smiling slightly. “Do you have plans for tonight?”

“I was invited to a game on a boat. It’s hosted by Joe Mangan, which means it’s co-hosted by Elizabeth Ng.”

“Who also hates you.”

“Elizabeth doesn’t hate me.” Clare should be more careful what she told Amanda in the future. “We’re friends now. It’s Fiona I’m worried about.”

“Fiona. Fill me in.”

“The anchor lady. She’s only ever been nice to me, but I get this sense — she says things — almost like she’s trying to scare me off the scene.”

“Why would she want you off the scene?”

Clare traced her finger down the bottle. She decided to be nice and pour the rest into the glass. “Elizabeth thinks Fiona has spotlight issues. As in, no one better take hers.”

“And Josie Carter — the first victim — she got a lot of attention, right?”

“I guess,” Clare said. “And Loni was Fiona’s co-anchor for both Niagara Falls and Vancouver. Maybe Loni was getting too much attention for Fiona’s liking. But victims two and three were old men — not exactly prime choices if the murder motive is narcissism.”

“This is complicated,” Amanda said. “I want to know more about Fiona, but I don’t want you to spend time with her alone.”

“How about alone in a bar?” Clare said. “She doesn’t know where I’m staying — the murder locations have at least been consistently hotel rooms.”

“Will she be on the boat tonight?”

“I doubt it. She doesn’t play poker.”

“Who will be there?”

Clare ticked people off on her fingers. “T-Bone normally would, but I’m not so sure now that his girlfriend’s just been murdered. Mickey was supposed to play, but again — Loni was his ex-wife. Joe, Elizabeth, Nate . . . they’ll probably still show up. I think two or three others.”

“Tell me more about Nate.”

Clare felt herself smile. “He’s from New York. He thinks he’s bad-ass, but he’s soft — he’s just hiding from something.”

“Hiding? You mean, like on the run?”

Clare hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t think it’s so concrete. I meant hiding from himself. From his emotions. You know how guys are.”

Their food arrived. Clare dug right in, but Amanda sat looking at hers for a half a minute before picking up her fork.

“Why is Tiffany having a relationship with Nate?”

“Because he’s hot.”

“Really? Because that’s a bad reason.”

Clare set down the French fry she’d been about to eat. She wasn’t in a rush for it anyway — it was stringy and precious, like the restaurant. “What’s a good reason?”

“Investigative. Do you think he’s the killer? Does he have information that could lead you to the killer? Can dating him bring you closer to the suspects?”

Clare shook her head. “I don’t know about any of that. I’m immersing myself in the scene, staying in character as best as I can considering this Tiffany person has nothing in common with me. That’s what Cloutier said my role is.”

“He’s right.” Amanda let the implicit dig slide. “That’s good basic advice to give a complete novice, which you were on your last case, and even the beginning of this one. But it’s time to start thinking more analytically.”

“The thought I’d like to leave you with is this: for every door you open — like being allowed into Nate’s world — you might close a door. Maybe you
are
better off cultivating a relationship with Joe Mangan — girlfriend or not. Maybe there’s someone else on the scene — a techie, or a dealer — who would give you access to something different. Nate’s a poker player, a novice like you. Hotness alone isn’t enough.”

“I see your point.” Clare picked up her sandwich, which was nothing like a club, but actually tasted pretty good.