Hold ’Em Hostage (20 page)

I shrugged, conceding the point. Poor Thelma wore the same thing she had on the last time I'd seen her.

“What do you think happened?”

“She got hit by a car.”

“But why?”

“That's what you are going to tell me,” he said, turning me to face him.

“I have to get in and make my table.” I didn't think the kidnappers would take some random hit-and-run as an acceptable excuse not to make the cut.

“I'll escort you there, and, on the way, tell me this woman's name and how you know her. I'll make sure you'll be able to play.”

Gosh, thanks. This was all playing into Joe's supposition. “You think I had something to do with her death?” I asked, accusingly.

Trankosky nodded with his cop's face I recognized from my time with Frank. “Indirectly, yes, I do.”

D
istracted as I was by Thelma's death, Trankosky's
possible frame job and Hyun in town determined to make me look bad, I didn't start a pivotal day in the right frame of mind. Not to mention, I hadn't heard from the person I'd called to come in to help me find Frank. By the first break, after two hours of play, I'd lost at least a quarter of my stack. That's really the only way I had come to be able to think of my chip load in this tournament, because the thought of millions made me unable to concentrate. Really, if life were a true balance, the cards I got in the first level of the day were fair. The ones I'd been dealt at Poseidon's had been good enough to blow out half my WSOP table. Of course, at this point, those kind of cards had run dry. I just had to withstand whatever I was dealt and shore up for a long haul of bad cards.

The Jordan, deuce/three suited spades was a horror as a first pocket for the next level. I was in early position, small blind, which was sizable. Hanging around for The Flop was worth it, though, as it fell Ace of spades, 5 of spades and Queen of hearts. I wouldn't have stayed in had it not been for my blind investment. Good thing. With my luck, though, I had to be prepared for nothing more than a straight flush draw.

What to do, since everyone was betting on this one. I guess a few might have had flush draws, maybe someone had a pair, three of a kind. Everyone could hold a low straight draw for all I knew.

Four of spades fell on The Turn, squelching my suspense, thank goodness. I had the nuts for sure, the second-highest possible hand with no one able to make the highest hand—a royal flush. I needed to slow play this one or I would scare everyone off. I moderately raised, as if I'd landed a pair or perhaps a low trips. When The River came a Jack of spades, I could swear I heard a swallowed gasp from the one who'd landed a flush. I couldn't be more pleased since that meant more chips for me. I bet then waited as the flush pushed. I called and simply cleaned up.

The tournament broke for a meal at eight. Trankosky had threatened to take me to dinner to quiz me about Thelma in detail. I wished I had an excuse, but Shana and Ingrid were off to visit Moon again, Ben and Frank were MIA, Jack was undercover, Joe wasn't answering his phone, and Carey was dancing as a Wall Street Woman.

I'd just have to get busy making more friends in Vegas, I guess.

Trankosky was waiting for me as I exited the ballroom—by some stroke of luck—having guessed which of the multitude of doors I would use. Humph. Sometimes I wondered if he hadn't fitted me with a homing device.

He fell into step with me, going, where? I wasn't at all sure. “Can I take you to dinner?” he asked.

How gallant.
What if I said no?

“Then I would have to take you to jail.”

“Excuse me, did I
say
something?” I asked, shocked.

“No, I was reading your mind.”

Huh. “I guess you're accustomed to rejection.”

“I'll take you to your favorite Egyptian restaurant.”

“How would you know where that is?”

He looked at me and smiled.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot. You read minds.”

“Or know the right people.”

It couldn't be Frank. He disliked Frank. Suddenly it occurred to me, “Chief Patterson. You talked to him, didn't you?”

“It's not what you know, it's who you know.”

“Let's go eat.” If Patterson spoke to him, he wasn't all bad.

 

T
rankosky was a rather charming dinner date, for a
cop, only intermittently pumping me for information and moderately satisfied when I gave him tidbits. I still withheld the whole Affie kidnapping—for two reasons. Either he knew all about it because he was behind it all, as Joe suspected, or if he hadn't known, I was afraid he'd try to fix it and get Aph killed in the process. He sensed I was hiding something but didn't press so hard that he threatened to pull my toenails out or anything. Good thing too, because I think I would roll over on the toenail torture. I can't even stand a hangnail.

What's more, he only growled twice (surely a record), when he asked where Frank was and I told him it was none of his business. And then I asked what he knew about the Medula.

“Why do you need to know about them?”

“Well, the person who tried to kidnap me at the Image that first night is one of their members. I just thought I ought to know more about them,” I said, trying to sound conversational, hoping he wouldn't read the “and my brother has gone to join them” that kept flashing through my mind.

“How do you know that's who it was?”

I gave him a raised-eyebrow look because I wasn't mentioning Frank's name again.

“Oh,” he said, getting it. “I'm sure then I don't know more than you do. They run a variety of criminal syndicates throughout the West and Southwest. We know who the leaders are but only ever catch the underlings, all of whom have either killed themselves or been killed in jail before they talk. Not a good group to hang with,” he said pointedly, pinning me with a hard look. “You're lucky you got away.”

I couldn't swallow. Suddenly I wanted to tell him everything, just to save Ben. I wished I trusted him more. I wished he were Frank. My life was such a pretzel.

After a few moments in which he ate and I scooted the kofta around on my plate, he observed wryly: “Here this was my idea and I think you are the one doing the interrogating, instead of me.”

I leaped at the opportunity. “Since you don't mind, I have another question: Do you know anything about a psychic named Moon? Lives in the Happy Homes trailer park off Hibiscus?”

“Why?” he answered, his eyes narrowing.

Uh-oh. He knew her. “My best friend, Shana, seems to have stumbled upon her and is paying her to tell her future,” I said casually. “Shana is impressionable so I just wanted to make sure it was harmless diversion.”

“It's a waste of money if she wants to know the future,” he began.

“Oh well,” I said.

“But Moon is pretty decent at pointing you in the right direction if you have a missing person.”

I choked on a sip of pinot grigio. Trankosky smoothed his hand across my shoulders as I waved off his help and dabbed at my lips. He continued. “The department has used her a few times over the years depending on who the head honcho is at the time. Some aren't as open-minded about that kind of thing.”

“Speaking of sheriff, who wants to be head honcho now? Has Patterson been replaced?”

Bingo. He studied my face again. I forced myself to look the picture of innocence. “Now I think you're the one who is reading minds. Actually, Mickey Juarez is acting sheriff, but the Republican party is trying to talk me into running. Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “Curious. Patterson was a good guy.”

“Still is. Now it's my turn,” he said between bites of mombar mahshy. “Do you know anything about the rumor that players in the Poseidon's poker room were using counterfeit money?”

“Is that where all those FBI guys were going when I left there this morning?”

Trankosky smiled tightly. “I wondered if you'd admit to being there.”

I blinked. “I didn't do anything wrong except play poorly. Why wouldn't I admit to that?”

He studied me for a moment, not believing me but not having any proof otherwise. “How do you know what FBI guys look like?”

“I watch TV along with the rest of America.”

He let it go. “So go back to the beginning and tell me how you knew Thelma.”

“Only in passing. She often played tournaments, but lately was more of a railbird. I think she was making more money sponging off flush players, hitting up the new ones who are feeling generous and don't know they are opening up a bottomless pit of begging if they shell out even a ten-dollar bill.”

“The underbelly of poker. Sounds like you have some experience.”

“Isn't that how we learn best?”

“I like to think so.” His blue eyes twinkled. I squirmed in my seat. That didn't help the direction my thoughts had taken with his simple statement.

“Is it illegal to pay someone for information?”

Trankosky shook his head. “But ignorance is not protection from the law, so the next time you do something questionable, you probably should check it out first so I don't have to drag you to the clink.”

“Hmm. Okay, Thelma got sidetracked and instead of finding out why people were using my name in a cheating context, she dug up some dirt on the big-mouth preacher.”

“And what was that?” Trankosky asked, more politely than interested.

“That Paul pays those girls to walk the pickets.”

“He's probably not the only one in history who's done that. Again, unless they are under sixteen, not against the law, but not very morally or ethically correct either.”

“Oh,” I said, deflated.

“Then I sent her off yesterday to find out more about the rumors circulating about me being a dirty player.”

“Really? And what did she discover?”

“I don't know. I never talked to her again.” I felt the tears welling and willed them back where they came from. I might have succeeded had Trankosky not leaned over and drawn my hand into his.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel bad about the accident, which I don't think was an accident at all. You didn't intentionally send her off to her death.”

“That doesn't help much.” I sniffled. He handed me his handkerchief. I blew my nose, wiped at the mascara tracks on my cheeks and dreaded looking in the mirror. “Why don't you think it's an accident?”

“Because witnesses saw the van swerve and speed up to hit Thelma, the tire marks support that. The vehicle had no license plates.”

“What kind of van?”

“Unfortunately, the kind every rental outfit in Vegas got a package deal on—there are thousands in town.”

“Smart killer,” I mused.

“Exactly, which gets you off the hook for this one too.”

“Very funny,” more insulted than relieved, evidence of my truly perverse nature. “Do you have any more leads on who killed Tasser?”

“No, but you are the common denominator. A popular theory at the station house is that locking you up will reduce the body count more than catching the real killer.”

“But you'll stave off those theorists?” I asked, holding my breath, thinking of Joe's suspicions.

“If you share the bourtaka muhallabieh with me,” he said, and I let out the breath with a smile. Orange custard? Suddenly I didn't mind if he were using me. Food extortion I could definitely deal with.

 

T
wo levels and four hours later, the tournament was
down to twenty-seven. I eliminated Blackie. What a sense of accomplishment, although, suddenly and inexplicably, I felt lonely, a bit bereft. The enemy was leaving the building. I wondered if I would ever really know who she was. I expected her to grunt, perhaps, if she were feeling generous and wander off under the shelter of her cloak, gloves and glasses. Instead, she reached across the table and shook my hand.

“Congratulations, Bee,” she said clearly, with her other hand pulling back the hood she wore to reveal her face, sliding her sunglasses off and placing them on the felt. She was lovely—midthirties, with a round face, flawless skin, an easy smile and warm brown eyes that drew you in like a comforting blanket. Her blond hair, sun streaked, was smooth and shiny. I almost fainted in shock. How could the woman I'd envisioned beneath her strange dress alternately as Cruella De Vil and Morticia from
The Addams Family
be so normal? No, better than normal. She was someone I'd want as a friend. Gosh, she was someone I would want to be. Her soul shone through bright and clear. She glowed with goodness. With psychic balance.

“Th-thank you,” I stuttered as I took her hand.

She was a little taken aback by my shock. Her face shuttered a bit. “You've seen photos, then, I suppose.”

Was she someone famous I was supposed to know? Oops. I racked my knowledge, but sadly I didn't have the time nor the inclination to haunt poker sites in a celebrity search. Maybe that was it, she was a Hollywood star. She was lovely enough, somehow reminding me of Grace Kelly in her elegant composure. “I'm sorry, no, I haven't seen photos…”

Suddenly, her face relaxed in relief and a trace of sadness. “Yes, I guess I was silly to think so. I am Monica Gilbert.”

If she had told me she was an alien from Pluto, I wouldn't have been more stunned. “B-but,” I stammered, again, begging myself for the composure she commanded effortlessly, “When I called you, I thought you were in L.A.?”