Cashed In Part 10

I nodded, remembering how panicked Kinkaid had been. I wondered if Hans would tell me something on the side. "Where is the s.h.i.+p registered?"

"Nicaragua."

Oh swell. I'm sure their justice system relied on sound democratic principles and wads of cash. They would be the ones responsible for any investigation. The American Emba.s.sy could get involved but it would be messy and likely unfulfilling. We wouldn't be docking in the Keys today so the odds of getting American authorities involved were dwindling.

Jack c.o.c.ked his head at me. "It doesn't make much sense, though. The rumor mill is writing off one man as s-s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around, falling and hitting his head. The second disappearance is being spun as more lethal, although possibly accidental. What's your take?"

I really didn't want to sic Jack on Paul, the gambling addict college student, without more evidence that he was involved, and I couldn't tell him about Rick's mystery lady and the broom closet either, so I just scrunched my face up thoughtfully and shook my head. "Coincidence?"

"Do you believe in c-coincidences?" Jack waggled his eyebrows.

Frank didn't believe in coincidences. I tried not to think about that. Or rather, about him. I shrugged, trying for nonchalant. "I don't know what else they could be."

"S-Start thinking like a journalist, and you'll think of a dozen elses they could be from a j-jealous rival to a mafia hit."

"Sounds like you're thinking like Oliver Stone instead of Anderson Cooper," I said, letting my smile soften my words.

"You can t-tease me all you want, Bee Cool, but you just be careful. If this is an organized hit of the poker stars on board, you need to remember you are on that list."

How could I forget?

Ian Reno was one of those wrinkle-free people-you know the type, whose clothes always looked freshly pressed and whose psyches were so carefree (or was it confident?) that their faces probably would age without a crease too. I wished I knew how they did that because I had a line between my eyebrows that would soon rival the Grand Canyon. Maybe Ian's secrets were a good dry cleaner, a skilled plastic surgeon and no twin brother, but I didn't think it was that easy.

He smiled when he saw me walking toward where he waited at the entrance to the restaurant, drawing me in to kiss my cheek. He smelled like he did yesterday, of Obsession. So hip. So young.

"You look," he reviewed my get up with a carefully neutral expression, "cool."

I raised my eyebrows. "You're kind. I think I need to fire my fas.h.i.+onista."

"Your what?" he blurted. For some s.a.d.i.s.tic reason it occurred to me that Frank would've had a sarcastic comeback that would've made me laugh while Ian just looked uncomfortable.

I waved noncommittally in the air, hoping to wave Frank out of my mind too. Ian seemed happy to let that conversation go, guiding me with a hand on the small of my back to the buffet line. I paused and swallowed a gasp at the amount of food displayed in front of us. My best friend, Shana, who'd been on cruises with many a boyfriend, had warned me that the food on cruises were feasts of plenty. This was more than plenty. This was gluttonous, reminiscent of the Romans.

There were two entire tables longer than my apartment filled with salads, fruit and appetizers. Alongside that was a chef at a nacho bar. A pizza maker tossed dough at the pizza bar. Four tables held the side dishes and main dishes with a sous chef frying mushrooms and onions and red peppers to garnish the made-to-order steaks. Eight smaller tables set in a semicircle were overflowing with desserts with a chef at a table in the middle scorching fresh creme brulee.

And this was lunch. Good thing I'd missed breakfast or I would need a whole new, larger, wardrobe by tomorrow morning. Of course, Ingrid was trying to oblige me. I guess I'd have to start making her take measurements after every meal. Surely I would be filling in those Capri pants a little better by the time we made our first port.

"Mind boggling, isn't it?" Ian asked.

"Unbelievable that the s.h.i.+p doesn't sink under the weight of all this food."

"Where do we start?" he asked, reviewing the tables with a glance.

I really didn't want to seem like an oinker in front of the uberstud, but having not eaten for going on eighteen hours, I was starving. I let my answer be my stampede to the plates at the salad table. I filled mine up so fast, I didn't even get halfway down the first table before I had to stop, and then endure the embarra.s.sing wait while he picked through the soybeans and tofu. A health food nut. Maybe that was his secret to being smooth. Hmm. I don't think I could make the sacrifice, even to avoid wrinkles and cellulite.

After he found a home for his last alfalfa sprout, I let him lead us to a table that was uncomfortably close to the flow of dining traffic. I considered asking him to move but dismissed the thought as paranoid.

"Did you talk to Paul?" I asked between bites of some awesome bleu cheese and pesto lobster cream pasta salad.

He paused, chewing on a mouthful of lentils. "He was nervous and, frankly, quite disturbed. We met at the coffee bar, and he drank five double espressos."

That was enough to make me pause between a garlic breadstick and the cheese souffle. "In what time period?

"A half hour."

Ack. "Poor kid. He's really messed up."

"He may be," Ian admitted. "He is an addict. No doubt about that. He has himself in complete financial disarray. Apparently his parents are type-As who expect a lot and forgive little. Home pressure is high for this guy."

"But do you see Paul as a potential murderer?"

That seemed to take him aback for a moment. "I have to say that everyone is a potential killer. Not everyone is a likely killer. Love and money are common motivators. A mother may kill without any other psychological pathology on her part when her offspring's threatened. That doesn't make her a psychopath."

"Okay, you've muted it all to an acceptable level. Anyone can kill with a proper motivation."

"That's a simplification, so I offer a qualified yes."

Geez, Professor. "So do you know how far in the hole this kid is?" I asked.

"Almost two hundred thousand dollars."

"Whoa! That's a lot for a teenager. Where is he getting all this money?"

"For a while from his student loans, now from credit card advances."

"That's scary, that a kid can get that much money so easily. What are these card companies thinking? So now Paul is not only addicted to gambling, he's addicted to credit cards as well."

Ian nodded and dove a fork into his dry grilled salmon. I'd lost my appet.i.te thinking about the mess Paul was in. "But," I mused aloud, "I doubt Paul went on all those other cruises where they say poker players disappeared. If someone was really after poker players with the intent to rob them, it wouldn't be this kid."

Ian shrugged, wiping the corners of his superclean mouth with a napkin, then leaned over to dab at my left lapel where I'd dribbled some cream sauce. I knew I should consider it a sweet gesture, but it bothered me. "Copycat crime," he said, placing the napkin on the table, apparently satisfied that this was as clean as he was going to get me. "Happens all the time. Besides, no one knows that these events are connected. They might be nothing more than disturbing coincidence."

That word again. "You're a scientist and you believe in coincidence?"

"Of course. I gamble don't I? What's luck other than fortunate coincidence? Many scientific findings are the result of properly interpreting coincidence. Many seemingly random things actually have been proven to have a purpose."

"Then that would make them the ant.i.thesis of coincidental, wouldn't it?"

Ian c.o.c.ked his head and smiled. "It all depends on from what direction you look at life. One man's coincidence is another's expectation."

Ack. This discussion was beginning to give me a headache. I knew less than I did when we started. Perhaps that was Ian's strategy, dazzle me with his brilliance until I was blinded by the bulls.h.i.+t. I sighed. That wasn't fair. I was just restless and cranky. Perhaps chocolate would help. "Shall we get some dessert?"

Ian put a stilling hand on my forearm. That current of s.e.xual awareness rippled through me as it did whenever he touched me. I wondered how I could simultaneously find him intellectually irritating and physically attractive. Weird. "You seem a little wiped out from last night. Stay here and let me get it for you. What would you like?"

"Whatever you choose," I answered, distracted by a tall, broad middle-aged Asian man, graying at the temples, who protected his plate of food like locusts were descending. He glanced around furtively before he hurried to a corner table and sat down alone with his back to the room.

Could this be Sam the Man?

I glanced from Ian, who was scoping out the dessert options thoroughly enough for it to be the Last Supper, back to the maybe-Sam. I couldn't resist. I jumped up and tiptoed over to his table, sliding into the seat opposite him. He had his head tucked low, shoveling food in faster than he could possibly chew and swallow.

"Hi," I chirped, trying to sound like an airhead. "Are you famous?"

"Are you stupid?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"Exactly."

Talk about a non sequitur conversation. I decided to cut to the chase. I wasn't much for the indirect, I wasn't patient enough.

"You're Sam Hyun."

"You're Belinda Cooley." He never looked up, never stopped chewing. Talk about a poker face.

A cold sliver of fear snaked down my spine. "How do you know who I am?"

"Exactly."

I swallowed hard. "You are a legend of Texas Hold 'Em. Winner of eight bracelets, you made the game a household word."

"That's not how you know me. Someone told you who I was."

"You and Rawhide, you've been playing the game longer than many of today's stars have been alive."

"Rawhide is a con artist. I am a card player." His words cut the air between us. He clenched his fists, but still looked down at his plate as he bit out the rest. "You wouldn't recognize the difference because you are like millions today who play Hold 'Em on the d.a.m.ned Internet, drop into some luck and think you know it all."

His animosity should have cautioned me. "Actually, there you are wrong. I know I don't know much about the game. Never claimed to."

Finally, Sam the Man raised his head and narrowed his eyes at me. "What are you up to?"

"Exactly."

The corners of his mouth might have twitched. Or I might have imagined it. "I'm on vacation."

"No ulterior motive?" I asked.

"Yes. One."

"That is?" I asked, trying not to hold my breath as I waited for the answer.

"To play cards and win."

My mouth dropped open in shock. "You're going low profile in the tournament?"

"I figure I eliminate enough of you stars and I might, finally, win one," he said, ducking his head and concentrating back on his meal like I'd never interrupted.

After two solid minutes of watching Sam shovel chicken mole into his mouth without a breath, I returned to our table to find a steaming plate of bread pudding bathed in chocolate sauce at my place, a plate of fruit in front of the other chair and no Ian. As I pulled the pudding closer to me, I noticed a bit of cruise line stationery peeking from the bottom of the plate. I slid it out. On the sheet, written in small block print, in ballpoint ink were the words: Play cards, not detective. Stay out of trouble or you could be gone too.

I looked up in alarm just as a tall man strode by my table. Without meeting my gaze, the Marlboro Man from the line yesterday nodded in acknowledgement and kept walking. Denton Ferris scurried by on the other side. Ian was nowhere to be found.

Thirteen.

My head was so full of the mystery note, Sam's possibly incriminating statement, Marlboro Man's nod and Ian's disappearance that I almost ran over my mother in the hallway outside the restaurant.

Not a good move.

"Belinda Elizabeth Cooley!" she shouted, staring at the stain on my lapel. I suddenly thought she and Ian would get along great. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What if I were an old decrepit woman who you nearly mowed down?"

"Versus a semiold, almost-decrepit woman?"

My dad threw me a wink.

"Don't be cheeky," Elva snapped. "You are already on my bad list for not checking on us during the play last night. Just go on and play poker like no one else matters in your life. Like it doesn't matter to you that your poor father and I come on this cruise to spend time with our only daughter and we never see her and she lets us get eliminated from the tournament in the first hour, then when we finally find something to occupy us, your friend has to interrupt." Deep sigh. Rolling of eyes.

I raised my eyebrows and looked at Howard. He shrugged.

"Didn't catch any cards, huh, Dad?" I asked sympathetically.

"Not a one, girlie. When you're dealt a Dolly Parton and the guy next to you gets pocket rockets, you know it's going to be a bad night."

I flashed him a thumbs-up, impressed with his lingo on a 9/5 deal for a pocket.

"I wanted to play in some hot ring games anyway. I'll do much better in those. I know when to fold 'em." He paused and threw me another wink. "I heard about a secret big money ring game with some of the pros. Might talk myself into that one."

I froze. Uh-oh. That was the one I'd heard about. The one that might be reason enough to commit murder. "Dad," I admonished. "You don't carry that kind of cash around with you."

"What do you know about what I carry around with me, girlie?" He leaned over and pinched Elva on the rump. She giggled.

Ack. "Okay, Dad." He was probably just talking big, but just in case, I added, "Check with me before you go so I can give you some tips." And talk you out of it.

"You got it!"

As they turned to go, Mom looked askance at my outfit. "Really, Belinda, you shouldn't try so hard to recapture your youth."

I opened my mouth and shut it, realizing arguing or even clarifying was futile. Instead, I used a foolproof distraction technique. "How's Ben?"

"Oh Benjamin," Elva took on that dreamy proud momma look she always got when she thought about her favorite child. "He and those cute girlfriends of his went for a dip in the pool. He's still in the tournament, you know. He'll be sure to qualify for that Main Event. He promises he'll take us to watch him in Las Vegas. At least someone cares about including his parents in his life."

I think I was the one who paid for their cruise but in fairness to Mom, I did it reluctantly, and I am sure Ben made it sound like he'd orchestrated the whole thing. Ben was like that. I sighed, figuring for the millionth time in my life that the facts weren't worth clarifying. Dad patted me on the shoulder, probably figuring the same thing. Elva heard what Elva wanted to believe. When she retold the story of what happened in Las Vegas, I'd gotten Ben kidnapped and somehow he'd managed, doped up and comatose, to save my life. Humph.

Shaking my head, I smiled and gave Howard a squeeze. "Having a good time, Dad?"

"The best! Key West here we come. Your mom and I are going kayaking on a manatee hunt."