Death Plays Poker (30 page)

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.

“I guess you have no idea how they might have figured out your identity.”

Noah kicked at a candy bar wrapper that someone had left on the sidewalk. Its flimsiness annoyed him as the wrapper lifted slightly from the ground and settled an inch from its starting point. “What are you going to do? Deny, deny, deny, like fucking usual?”

“Yup. We’re planning to leak that you’re with the mob. You’ve been cheating at cards; that’s considered a crime here. You’ll probably have to do some jail time.”

“That’s so unfair.”

“It’s what we
should
do.” Bert grunted. “But the powers above might level with the pleasant Canadians. It’ll cost us, though. We might have to let them in on the Gallagher motel room crime scene as a peace offering.”

“That murder is part of their investigation. You should let them in anyway.”

“Going native? I think I can guess how they got your name.”

Noah fumbled for a cigarette and managed to get one in his mouth and light it with one hand.

“You want to confirm or deny?” Bert said. “Not like it’s going to make it any worse on you. You’ll be lucky if you get another plum assignment after this one. If you’re not, you know, arrested and thrown in a Canadian prison for your mob ties.”

“Fine. I told Clare. But she was supposed to keep quiet. We even have a plan to work together.”

“I guess the broad was playing you. What did I tell you about letting your heart get involved?”

Noah pressed his phone’s Off button as violently as he could. The horrible part was that whatever happened to him wouldn’t be unfair: this mess was down to Noah’s own stupidity.

Fucking Clare, and her fucking boyfriend at home.

GEORGE

George watched the sun as it slipped down toward the horizon. He zipped up his fleece; the night was turning cold.

An animal moved through the water in front of him. It was swimming too fast and too straight for a seal. His first guess was a beaver, though all he could see was a furry dark head. In less than a minute, the creature was gone.

He’d lied to the police. They asked him if he’d left the hotel the night before. If he’d rented a car and crossed the border. Did they know he was lying when he’d said no to all three? Not that a Zipcar really counted as a rental. But he’d given his own
ID
at the border. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now it was only a matter of time.

George adjusted his seating position on the large rock. The mountains were beautiful from Richmond — not big and overpowering, like they could appear from the city, but muted, like the backdrop of a movie set. George wouldn’t want to live here; he needed a place more bustling with culture and energy. But for a stop along the way, this Vancouver suburb with its casino and fishing village ranked among his favorites.

Five people were dead. But it hadn’t mattered to George until Fiona.

Of course he and Fiona hadn’t been getting back together. George wasn’t blind to the fact that she’d been using him as a security blanket when she’d felt herself losing control. He should have been angry about it, but no such luck. He’d never felt himself pulled to a woman like that before, and he hoped like fuck he never would again. He’d rather die single, or in some pleasant, banal marriage where at least there could be no heartbreak.

Even jail would be better.

George got up off his rock and walked back toward the bus stop. On the gravel path, two young girls, maybe eight years old, were trying to control their two small dogs. One girl spoke seriously to her dog and pulled severely on the leash before cracking up with laughter. The other joined spontaneously in the laughter, and soon they were in hysterics.

George would ordinarily have found the scene endearing. Tonight, he pictured Fiona at that age. And Josie Carter. So these girls with their dogs — full of life at the moment — should turn nine, and then twelve, only to die before they were thirty? Why bother?

The girls giggled and continued on the path away from George.

CLARE

Clare loved morning. She loved the smell of coffee before she’d had her first cup, and she loved the way the first sip tasted as caffeine dripped pleasingly into her veins. She especially loved morning when she was outside, the chilly air brushing her skin and making her feel alive.

She gazed over the water at the North Shore mountains and the Howe Sound beyond. It reminded her of a grade-school panorama — layers of mountain and water from big and up close to tiny and far away. Several fishing boats were out already, dropping their traps or lines for whatever they hoped to catch.

“It’s the mountains.” Noah’s voice startled her from behind. “The water’s nice, but mountains give you energy. They make you feel like you can do anything.”

“I’m not supposed to see you.”

“I worked that out.” Noah glanced down at his Rollerblades. “Paid a kid five hundred bucks for these, and they’re not even my size.”

“Cabs are cheaper.”

“Thanks. Mine dropped me on the other side of the park. When I realized it was the wrong entrance, the driver didn’t have time to take me to the right one because he had a pick-up at the Westin Bayshore.”

“Asshole. I hope you didn’t tip.”

Noah laughed. “It’s not the driver’s fault I gave him crap directions. Anyway, what’s so clandestine that you only have until seven a.m. exactly?”

Clare glanced around in case the
RCMP
guys had followed. She was pretty sure she and Noah were alone, but since she’d never been in the spy business, she recognized that she might not know what to look for. “My handler told me I have to stop working with you.”

“I figured you weren’t washing your hair when you bailed on last night. Why did you tell her about me?”

“You already knew?” Clare was surprised.

“Yeah, and I’m in a load of shit for it.”

“Sorry.”

Noah pulled his cigarette pack from the front pocket of his fleece. Although she had her own smokes with her, Clare accepted a Marlboro. She wanted the raw, nasty edge of the American cigarette.

Noah sat on the bench beside Clare, took the coffee from her hand, and took a long sip before setting it on the seat between them.

Clare liked that Noah liked his coffee black, that they could share a cup and both enjoy it. Kevin drank his with cream and sugar, which Clare had never understood.

“See, we’re meant to be together.” Noah leaned back, stretched his non-smoking arm so it rested behind Clare, his hand lightly touching her shoulder.

Clare wondered if it was cheating on Kevin to let Noah leave his hand there. It sure felt like it. “If this was destiny we would have met when I was single.”

“You can be single anytime you want to be. Ditch your boyfriend and move to New York.”

Clare blew a couple of smoke rings. “I suppose you moving to Toronto isn’t in the cards.”

Noah smirked. “You suppose right.”

“Is that like the Antarctic Pole to you?”

“More like Siberia. But that’s not it. What if I could get you a job working with me?”

“Because the
FBI
loves recruiting inexperienced Canadian girls.”

“They like recruiting assets. I told my boss about our plan — the notes, and the disinformation havoc we want to create. He’s not being particularly nice to me right now — something about some Canadian operative spilling that she knows my real identity — but he likes the plan. I told him it was yours.”

Clare wished Noah would move his arm, because it continued to send a warm electric current through her body. “That’s why I called you here. I want to continue our plan with the notes whether Amanda okays it or not. I might not be able to make all the drops I was planning to, but I’ll pull as much weight as I can.”

“Don’t worry,” Noah said. “I’ll run the notes around until you’re allowed to breathe on your own. You just dictate what you think the notes should say. I’m used to being a woman’s lackey.”

“And you should move your arm; it’s annoying me there.”

Noah put his cigarette to his lips, inhaled, and blew the smoke out slowly. He didn’t move his arm. “I got one of those notes this morning.”

“You —” Shit. Of course. Because the real Dealer was still out there. “What did it say?”

Noah pulled a crumpled page from his pocket.

Stop stirring shit around.

Clare stared at the note. It didn’t make sense. If Noah had been made, why would he get warned instead of killed?

Was he fucking with her? Noah could have written the note as easily as received it. Amanda was right. She had to get the hell away from this guy until they knew who he was.

Clare took Noah’s arm from around her shoulder, intending to get up and walk away, but instead she kept his hand and held it. Because she wanted to? She told herself that no, she kept his hand because she didn’t want to tip him off to her suspicion. There were joggers out, and some other early risers. But Noah on Rollerblades would be able to chase Clare down easily if she tried to run. Unless she headed for the bushes . . . but that was verging on ridiculous. Better just to stay here and leave slowly.

“So tell me about your real father,” Noah said.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been idolizing this fake one — Tiffany’s father. What’s your real dad like?”

“He’s fine. He’s a mechanic.”

“Are you close?”

“We used to be.” Clare didn’t want to talk about her depressing real family. “What about yours?”

Noah snorted. “He tried to create me in his image. He failed.”

Clare’s phone beeped. She turned the screen away so Noah couldn’t read it.

Amanda: Where r u? Thought u went 4 smokes but u’r gone 2 long.

Clare: Clearing my head. Walking on seawall. Surprised goons didn’t follow me.

Amanda: Probably did. Come back. Have new info.

Clare: What new info?

Amanda: Not in a text.

Clare stood up. “Thanks for the revelation. Sorry your dad’s a jerk. I have to go.”

“Clare, whatever they tell you —”

“I have to go.”

“They might lie. The
FBI
might tell the
RCMP
that I’m not who I say I am.”

Clare walked away as quickly as she could without breaking into a run.