Hold 'Em Hostage Part 23

"Good for you, and now you're going for your second offense?"

His eyebrows drew together below his cue-ball head. Boy, he was one guy who shouldn't go bald on purpose. "What do you mean?"

"Sam." I stared at his hands. "You're holding me against my will. I think that is considered kidnapping, or at the very least, a.s.sault."

"Oh." He said, "But I want you to listen to what I have to say."

"I won't go anywhere, Sam." For now. Until I see a weapon. Like a serrated knife.

He let go and stuck his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "I wanted you to know that that Paul guy is out for you."

"No kidding."

"No, Belinda, I really mean it. One of his henchmen, a guy named Drew Terry, approached me before the Main Event even started and first pumped me for info on you, then tried to talk me into drawing you into collusion. When I refused, they wanted to pay me to at least talk about you being a dirty player."

So, Terry was a Paul man. Somehow I wasn't as surprised as I should have been, perhaps because it confirmed a niggling suspicion that had been building in the back of my mind. "Well, Sam, did you do it? After all, you do that for free anyway."

"Hey, I never said you were dirty. I said you were stupid."

"Oh, right. I guess they didn't pay for that."

"No," he sulked.

"Why are you telling me this, Sam?"

"Because playing in the Main Event this year, I've come to accept how much poker has changed. I realized, more than ever you deserve to win as much as I do. Maybe."

Whoa. Now's where he pulls out the knife.

He moved his left hand, yanking it out of his pocket and extending it, empty and open, waiting for mine. "Good luck, Bee Cool."

So much for that theory. And I guess I wasn't being tailed at all because no one had come to my rescue in the alleyway, even if I didn't need to be rescued. Humph.

I guess it wasn't my day to die. Yet.

Even before I turned toward the Fortune, I could feel the electricity. The media was out in force, the fans revved up, players hopped up. And I could barely force myself to walk up to the casino. Ugh, not to mention this debate I'd been invited-forced-to join. That was the icing on my cake of misery.

I'm certain I was a fly in the World Series of Poker executive committee's ointment, if I was noticed at all. That Paul had asked me to appear as the spokeswoman for the game must have been hard to swallow, but to their credit, they didn't tell me what to say. I a.s.sumed so they could best distance themselves from what I would say. I knew I could be easily sacrificed-as a woman, as an amateur, as a perceived fluffhead-much easier than the handful of household names at the final table.

As I entered the poker room, I saw they had set up a poker table with only two chairs in front of the WSOP's final table. The TV-friendly one was rife with all the props of the game, even real cash scattered about the chips and cards. True infotainment. The pretty boy network announcer who'd probably never played a hand of Hold 'Em in his life stepped in front of the scene. "This year's World Series of Poker is setting all kinds of records, for attendance at 11,202, for the winner's purse of fourteen million dollars and for the first organized protest against the game. The Reverend Phineas Paul and members of his Church of the Believers have been picketing from the first day of the tournament. On this, the final day, with the field whittled to nine players, and the world watching, the Main Event organizers have invited Paul to make his case in a three-minute debate on live television prior to the first deal."

The president of the 2008 WSOP took the mic. "To celebrate the free speech we value in America we invite Mr. Paul to have his say." He paused as he motioned Paul out from the sidelines and into the chair on the left before continuing, "Paul asked that Miss Belinda Cooley, a relative, but extremely successful, newcomer to Texas Hold 'Em, speak for poker. We thank her for being such a lovely amba.s.sador for the game."

I resisted the impulse to gag as I nodded and followed his sweeping arm to my own chair. He made it clear I was window dressing. I took a deep breath and focused on getting through this so I could get on with freeing Affie.

Paul's hate across the table was palpable as I eased into my seat. I marveled at the energy it took to abhor something this much; it had to be exhausting. I steeled myself to remain as calm as possible, for as irritating as he had been during this week from h.e.l.l, he wasn't what I needed to focus my energies on.

"I have the easy job," he began. "G.o.d is on my side. The Bible is on my side. The devil is on yours. There is no divine defense for gambling. It is a sin, pure and simple."

"I certainly wouldn't pretend to know the Bible as well as you do, Mr. Paul."

"REVEREND Paul," he interrupted.

I nodded without verbally acknowledging his interruption, as I continued. "But I believe the good book allows for diversion and recreation alongside hard work. The interesting thing about life is, it is all about perspective. Someone's blue sky will seem purple to another. One person's job might seem like nothing but fun to another. Some people might consider your job as a preacher to be nothing but getting paid to talk-"

"Blasphemy!" Speaking of purple, that was now the color of his face. I was glad he didn't have a weapon other than his tongue.

"-but others would consider yours the most difficult job, carrying such responsibility as it does for maintaining the faith of your followers."

That mollified him for an instant. Throwing him off balance was the only way I could retain any kind of purchase in this debate. "Exactly. That faith is fragile. It is under attack daily with the crime and wanton secularity of the world today. Poker-built as it is on greed-erodes the foundation of faith that we, in the Church of the Believers, have taken on in order to rebuild the moral fiber of our people."

"How does hypocrisy fit in to rebuilding the moral fiber? How do you justify paying your young picketers to hold signs they don't believe in?"

"You are the tongue of the devil."

Whoops, he was almost frothing at the mouth. I motioned to Joe, who brought the pair of girls forward. They were both shuddering in fear, looking at me in desperate question. I'd promised I'd keep them safe, now I wasn't sure I'd been right to use them. "Did Mr. Paul pay you girls to hold these signs?"

They nodded. "And other things..." one of them said in a small voice.

"We are warriors!" Paul cut in. "We must make sacrifices to save the world. If these girls must sacrifice, then so be it. The means justify the right end. They were on the path to destruction anyway. I saved them, they are working toward heaven now, instead of h.e.l.l."

I supressed my own s.h.i.+ver. "So if every poker player in the world donated her winnings to your cause, would the means justify the end, then? Would the poker devils become your warriors as well?"

He stood violently.

Something struck me as he shoved his chair back and turned away from the camera: Paul's tie was red and yellow. A coincidence? The WSOP president shook my hand, beaming as the camera swung back to the anchorman. I grabbed the sleeve of the WLVS cameraman who was following Paul's departure from the ballroom. He switched off the camera and turned to me as I asked, "Do you have file footage of Paul relatively easy to access?"

"Of course, he's the big newsmaker right now. We carry all the file footage we might need in the live truck outside."

"Can I see it?" I had to temper my adrenaline. He told me he'd have to ask the producer and disappeared. I had exactly an hour before the tournament began. I hoped they were organized enough for us to find it in that time.

After a moment, the producer was produced. She considered my request, calculating, not ready to give something for nothing. "You can see the tape, if you grant us an exclusive interview after you're finished playing today."

"Deal," I said. It was okay with me, because I hated owing anyone. This would make us even.

And I'd see proof of whether this was who Affie had been warning me about days and days ago. Proof that I'd been blind.

The film editor and I were reviewing the last piece of file footage when the door to the live truck opened and Jack stumbled in. "There you are!" he said.

"Look who's talking," I murmured over my shoulder as the editor named Gary and I nodded to each other. Paul's tie was red and yellow on the first day of the World Series too. I spun in the chair to face Jack and my mouth dropped open. "What in the world happened to you?"

He hadn't shaved, was pale and shaky, wearing the clothes he'd had on the day before, except they were filthy, and black half moons underscored his eyes. I asked the editor for water, and Jack gulped it gratefully when it was produced. Finally, he began, "I m-m-m-managed..."

He sucked in a breath. I willed myself to patience. Rus.h.i.+ng 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 ant.i.thesis 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 Ta.s.ser 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 ha.s.sle 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 ha.s.sled 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 d.i.c.k," 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 doc.u.ments 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 d.a.m.ned 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 G.o.ddaughter is being held hostage," I whispered roughly.

"By the gang that tried to kidnap you at the Image?"

"No, by Reverend Phineas Paul."

Twenty-seven.

After 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.