Hold ’Em Hostage (25 page)

He sucked in a breath. I willed myself to patience. Rushing him would only make matters worse. Once he got going it would be fine. “…to sneak into the Church of the Believers office in that building Carey found when he followed D-D-Dragsnashark. Problem was, while I was poking around, some people came in and I was stuck behind a bunch of boxes. It turned out to be great in the end, though, because I heard everything. He's b-behind it
all
, Bee.”

“What are you talking about?”

He took another swallow of water and I felt guilty for pushing him so hard. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Sit down and relax.”

“We don't have t-time for that. I have a lot of it recorded, enough to put Paul away for g-good, I think. Enough to get Affie freed, even without Frank and his men in b-black. Enough to bring in the authorities.”

I didn't have the faith in authorities that Jack had, but I wouldn't burst his bubble right now. “Jack, what does Affie have to do with Paul?”

“It's not the Medula who kidnapped Affie—it's Paul.”

“What? But—”

“Let me f-finish, and it will all make s-sense.” Jack paused. “S-sick sense, but sense nonetheless.”

I nodded. He continued. “The Medula are extorting money from you that they get to keep, as their part of the arrangement with Paul. His goal is to put poker down across the world, run it back to the backrooms where he thinks it belongs. It's his mission. He's smart, though. He knew he couldn't attack the nameless, faceless game in this media-driven age. He had to chose a scapegoat and no better one than you. To reveal a woman who seems to be the antithesis of rotten as truly bad would be doing the same to a game that seems like harmless entertainment. And, what's more, it would be dramatic. He and his chief deacon likened it to a child opening a beautifully wrapped Christmas gift to find a rotting, dead puppy inside.”

“That man is not right,” I said, pulling a face.

“He started long ago, sending church members into play in poker rooms, planting seeds of rumors of collusion and your dirty play, trying to bribe other players to spread the word too. But the deeper his spies got into it, the more they came to realize simple bad talking would not be enough to scare you into doing something wrong. That's when he joined up with the Medula, who were to use whatever means they could to squeeze you. They killed Tasser in order to frame you for the crime eventually—after the WSOP—after you'd made them the money. They kidnapped Affie, but didn't want to have the hassle of keeping her, so they sent her to Paul's compound.”

“Like David Koresh's,” I murmured, so sorry now I hadn't listened more seriously to Thelma. Then finally, realization dawned. “In southeastern Oregon. With a circus tent where they have services, with lots of other teenage girls like the ones picketing…”

Jack nodded.

“It's been right in front of us.”

“C-come on, Bee. Don't be so hard on yourself. If you t-told me what I'm telling you I still might not b-believe it. But I heard them.”

“I just don't understand about this Terry guy…”

“Some guy named D-drew came in last night, furious, frustrated, s-spouting off that he was going to b-bring you down no matter what. Paul told him the best soldiers were the bravest, told a story about the samurai's hari-kiri, and it was major creepy. It was almost like he was talking him into committing suicide.”

“Suicide?” I whispered with a shudder. “I found his body, throat slashed with a serrated knife in our suite last night.” I didn't look very hard for the knife, though, did I?

“Whoa. Who could actually do that? S-s-scary. Is Ingrid okay?”

“What about Serrano?” I mused, as I nodded in answer.

“Wrong place, wrong time. He apparently was killed by Dragsnashark because Serrano hassled him when he was following you.”

That made me sad.

Jack wrapped my shoulders in a hug. “I already called Frank and left him a message with the address for the compound. We need to tell him the rest.”

Jack and I left the live truck to get a cell phone signal to call Frank, when we saw Trankosky leaning against his Crown Victoria. He pushed off when he saw us, nodding to Jack as I introduced him. They shook hands. “I follow your work. You're a good poker dick,” he said. Jack blushed. Pushover.

“Belinda, you're in big trouble and I can't do anything to help you now.”

Uh-oh, they'd found out about Terry. I guess it was bound to happen. I wondered what the punishment was for corrupting a crime scene and improperly disposing of a dead body.

“Aren't you going to ask what you did?”

“I don't know how he died.”

Jack shot me a warning look to shut up. Even though he didn't know about Terry, apparently he could sense me putting foot in mouth. “C-cut to the chase, Detective.”

Trankosky's eyebrows had drawn together as he considered what I'd said, but then he turned to Jack and answered his question. “The FBI has apparently authenticated Belinda's signature on documents that prove she attempted to bribe casino officials.”

“What?!” I blurted.

He looked at me and I saw he was disappointed. “They have phone records from your cell phone that you placed calls to known criminals and they found fifty thousand dollars in bills they can link to a crime scene here in Vegas. Serrano was working undercover for the FBI when he was murdered. They are at court right now waiting for the judge to sign the warrant for your arrest.”

“I don't understand. I didn't do any of those things.” My mind was flashing like a strobe light, hitting me with thoughts, images and memories too brief to make sense. I saw myself turning my cell phone over to Trankosky, then forgetting to cut off service until two days later. I saw myself signing that thick sheaf of papers as an autograph. I saw myself leaving that stash of money in the trash can.

“You're the one who had my phone,” I said accusingly.

“I just checked the evidence room. It's gone. Why didn't you cut off your service if you didn't make these calls?”

“Because I forgot and don't regularly expect to have to guard against being framed for crimes I don't commit. This is all new territory for me.” I sucked in a breath while Trankosky watched me carefully. “Where was the money found?”

“When they raided that poker game off The Strip and found those underage girls. I'm telling you more than I should.” Those girls. Those damned girls. They worked for Paul, who was determined to set me up.

“Belinda, you've been keeping something or things from me.”

“Yes, but this isn't it. This isn't even close.”

“So tell me what it is,” Trankosky said. “Does it have to do with your mercenary boyfriend?”

Eyes widening, I shook my head. Mercenary? I suspected he was on the scary end of the security business, but hearing him called that was a shock.

“Let me help, Belinda,” Trankosky said. “You need some.”

Jack said: “You're being blackmailed, Bee. If they throw you in jail, you can't do anything for Affie. You know who's behind it now. If Frank fails, let the detective pick up the lead and run with it. Do it for Aph.”

I felt like I couldn't breathe.

“My goddaughter is being held hostage,” I whispered roughly.

“By the gang that tried to kidnap you at the Image?”

“No, by Reverend Phineas Paul.”

A
fter Trankosky gave Jack a threatening lecture
about never leaving me alone again, he zoomed off in his unmarked sedan and we trooped back to the casino. On the way, we tried to call Frank again to make sure he knew he was storming a cult compound instead of a gangland headquarters, but he had his phone turned off. Jack left an urgent message detailing what he'd discovered. I refused to let him tell Frank about the new mess I was in with the feds and the dead body, a fact that I was pretty sure Trankosky and the rest of the CCSD was going to catch eventually. I was determined to keep Frank and his merry band of mercenaries focused on Affie. We'd get the rest sorted out later.

Reporters shouted, flashes exploded and cameramen scrambled when we turned the corner. I wanted to run and hide but there was no place for that anymore. I had to hide in plain sight like I'd done before. Now I had to play on the final table even if Affie was rescued. The longer I sat and bet, the longer I could wait for the truth to rise to the surface, the longer I could stave off handcuffs and federal prison.

The mass of media outnumbered Paul's followers for the first time, but I did notice that it was an all-teenage girl group today. They saw me and started whispering. Probably didn't approve of my braided hair or the retro outfit Ingrid had forced me into. I didn't see the bad reverend anywhere. I'd already planned to jump him and choke him to death until he agreed to let Affie go so this was a big disappointment.

“Where's Phineas Paul?” I asked one of the girls.

She shrugged, but looked like the cat that caught the mouse. “I dunno.” She was obviously lying.

Good. Maybe they'd killed him for me. And chopped him up in little pieces and flushed him down the toilet.

I paused, ashamed of myself. This was warping me to an extreme. I thought I was going to need counseling after this. They probably provided that behind bars.

Once inside the casino, I was flanked by security. A legion of poker babes jumped up and down, waved, whooped and hollered when I walked by the rail. Some of the women I'd played against during the week waved and wished me luck. Gun-shy now, I pretended not to see the autograph seekers. Then I saw Frank's family gathered near the ballroom door. I veered over to them, shaking off a security guard's protective arm. I shook Randolph's hand, kissed Wilma on the cheek and took the rabbit's foot Matthew offered.

“I can't get ahold of Frank,” Monica admitted, searching the crowd behind me.

“He's gone to do a job,” I told her, guilty for having to talk around exactly what he was doing, but not willing to make her worry. Of course, since she knew he was a mercenary any time he was on a job would be cause for concern, wouldn't it?

I stopped my train of thought. I was getting bitter.

“I'm sorry, Bee,” she said, her big eyes reflecting her sorrow. “It's not right he'll miss your big day. For work. You'd think he'd learned his lesson.”

“It's okay,” I told her, wishing everything really was. “Or it will be okay, soon.”

She smiled bravely and patted my arm. “Go make history.”

I thanked her. Security escorted me to the ballroom door as I looked back to see Jack and Trankosky turning away, deep in conversation. The detective turned to give me a look that I couldn't say was anything other than a promise.

 

H
aving to dispose of a dead body, finding out my
goddaughter had been kidnapped by a lunatic and that I was wanted for crimes I didn't commit had managed to diminish the intense atmosphere of the final table. Playing against the toughest of the pros for fourteen million dollars now was just not that big a deal anymore.

We shook hands all around. The tournament and the network had planned a long, dramatic introduction that we had to withstand. I had no idea who'd made the cut with me. It was the ultimate irony. How many times in a person's life would they beat million-to-one odds and how many times would they have a loved one kidnapped and how many times would they find a dead man in their hotel room…I could go on, but suffice it to say I was the only player who had no clue. And that was probably a good thing in the long run.

I had to outlast at least four of these players. I tried to concentrate on their tells from the moment we sat down. My strength was my ability to read players on a given day in a given game, not letting my imagination spin truths that weren't there. The one time I'd actually researched my final table in a tournament I'd busted the second hand, because I hadn't trusted what I saw but what I'd read.

So while five of the men at the final table probably had volumes written on what they did when they held an Ace/Jack, I was going with what my gut told me.

Ron, the player sitting to my left, leaned in. “I hear you are the worst kind of alligator blood.”

I smiled at his attempt to make conversation. “You hear wrong.”

“No, no, you got it all wrong, she's a Maniac,” said a pro who had played against me once before.

I raised my eyebrows.

“Pot calling the kettle, Oscar,” another player chimed in. “She's the dog.” Poker slang for underdog. “But a damned cute one.”

“I'd call her a chameleon, but I hear the females can't change colors. Does that mean they are genetically unable to play with our skill? No wonder. It won't be your fault when you bust out, Bee Cool.”

That garnered a testosterone-induced chuckle all around. The dealer, a woman named Sandy, looked askance at me for not arguing. I didn't care. In fact, I loved it. The more they underestimated me, the better.

“She's nothing but a donkey,” muttered the grump across from me, who was introduced as a European champion who won a seat having never played in a U.S. tournament. His disdain for women was palpable.

“Exactly! Someone nailed the right animal on the head,” I said, gladly accepting the rarely used term for a fish—novice player—and ready to end this conversation. “Thank you.”

That shut the male hot doggers up and the play began. The cards didn't make life easy for me at first. An Ace of diamonds, 3 of clubs in my pocket, when I'd drawn the seat at the big blind, was not a gift but it was enough to make me stick around to see The Flop. Deuce of hearts and 4 of spades were enough to give me hope but the King of clubs was easily a counterfeit—enough for someone to land trips or at least a pair over my Ace kicker at this point. I hated to even think about a straight draw, even though I had one.

Only two on the table folded although there were checks all around. I raised small to make a statement. The Maniac man nodded to the chameleon commenter. I don't know what they thought I had but apparently everyone was into my agenda. Wouldn't they be surprised.

Another folded and the rest hung around for The Turn which was another King. Ack. I watched the table. Everyone was very stiff. Ah-ha. No one was giving me any yahoo signals. I tempered my own and when the European creep went all in I knew I had the nuts, even with only the Ace kicker. I met his push and everyone else folded. My stack had him by maybe a million, so when the five came on The River, I showed my straight, collected the pot and my statement was made. The European whiz slammed his chair back and left in a huff.

As the dealer passed out our next hand, I ordered the vodka gimlet to get the whole information-about-the-location-of-the-drop exchange over with. I had enough suspense in my life without that adding to it.

The next three pockets dealt to me were a hammer (two/seven off-suit), a Heinz (five/seven off-suit) and San Francisco busboy (Queen/three), so it was a good thing I'd stockpiled some chips and some clout. The waitress still had not produced my drink.

My next pocket deal was a Kojack (King/Jack suited hearts) and, while not ideal, it was pretty promising. I met the reraise Preflop. Five of us rode into The Flop for a King, King, Jack. I wanted to faint but didn't. This never happens. I likely had the nuts and didn't know how to play it, so I remained conservative, trying to read the lip twitcher for a sign he was bluffing and the hangnail worrier to see if he had a gutshot straight. I think the man to my right had an over card and nothing else, but that was just his bouncing leg talking.

At The Turn, I called again. I was waiting for Fifth Street to make a big move, hoping I could milk the pot as far as it would go. I was helped by another piece of paint on the board, a Queen of hearts. There were so far no flush draws with an unsuited board, but it was still a worry. A royal flush would send me packing. I raised then reraised before Fifth Street. Then the twitcher went all in. Three of us held our breaths as the dealer threw the burn card. A six of hearts fell on The River. A total blank. I'd won, the draw hopefuls held nada, and I was probably the most unpopular player at the table with six of us left.

Another hour rolled by with small gains and small losses for me. I remained relatively even. I won two with only King high and Queen high kickers, respectively. I'd never played in a tournament game where that would have flown but it was a strangely suited set of players where tells told the story for me. They still couldn't figure me out. I got the sense that I might be able to win the whole thing and it was slightly tempting, but only for a hand. I lost the next one to the tune of twenty million in chips.

The decent alligator blood labeler sitting next to me got knocked out on what I would have considered a pat hand—pocket rockets met with twin Aces on the board at The Flop. Poor guy, head-to-head with the pro who called me a Maniac, he lost to a royal flush when jack/ten fell on Fourth and Fifth Streets. That was just a bad beat.

It was down to four players now, and thankfully time for me to bow out. The suspense of not knowing what was happening with Affie was about to kill me. It took me five hands from that point to do it, however, as Murphy's Law kicked in and I was dealt a full house, a gutshot straight and a Jack quads. I was one off being chip leader when I finally got dealt walking sticks in my pocket (pair of sevens). Since the Maniac man had American Airlines and had started his happy sweat on his upper lip, I thought this was a good time to push. I was too eager, however, pushing on The Flop and he folded, thinking, I suppose, I had the royal flush with the royal board. Argh. Everyone else bailed too. I collected the pot without even having to show I'd won with an unintentional bluff.

Finally, Murphy hiccupped and I got ducks in a family pot. Perfect time to bow out. This time I patiently waited until someone else—Mr. Fast—pushed. Good thing he was chip leader. I pushed back.

“She's down to the felt,” the dealer said.

Holding my breath and crossing my fingers under the table that another couple of deuces wouldn't land back door, I watched as my opponent made his ladies trips on The River. I blew out my breath and shook his hand as my fans moaned behind me. The rest of the table were shaking their heads, still not figuring why I would have gone all in with deuces.

“You did that on purpose, losing,” the dealer whispered to me. “Why?”

I shook my head, blinking innocently. “Gosh, I thought I had the nuts.”

He shook his head too, not believing me in the slightest.

 

I
turned in my seat card, collecting the two million
dollars which they most definitely did not want to give me in cash. I had to sign a form promising to report it on my taxes. (I'd be in federal prison so they'd know where to find me if I didn't.) Since I still hadn't gotten any news about Affie, I couldn't take a chance at not turning the money over to the gang. The small size of the envelope they handed me surprised me—how compressed two million could be. I shoved it into my Kate Spade. The crowd gathered at the rail cheered as I exited the office. A WSOP official tried to shush them, which frankly I never understood. It's not a library, or a chess match, it was a poker tournament. I certainly didn't need absolute silence to concentrate on counting fifty-two cards and crossing my fingers.

I waved, smiled, shook hands. The producer I'd made the deal with asked me for my interview. My heart clutched in my chest. “I plan on it. But, this money is making me nervous. Can I get it to my bank, first?”

“Just make sure you're back before nine o'clock. We've got to make the news at ten. And don't you dare talk to any other broadcast reporters!”

“No problem.”

As I walked out of the casino, I was suddenly flanked by two bodies who both grabbed my arms. “Hey!” I looked to my right. Paul's right-hand man. And, on my left was Paul himself.

“Miss Cooley,” he said as loudly as if he'd had a megaphone. My ears rang. “My followers and I highly recommend that you donate your winnings right now to the Church of the Believers, to repent and save your soul.”

“I can't and you know it,” I whispered. “I have to save my goddaughter and the animals you sicced on me are expecting it.”

“Don't you understand, you stupid fool,” he flashed his megawatt fake smile as he looked at me with cold snake eyes. “If she's not already dead, she will be soon. We couldn't let a witness like that walk.”