Clare could beat aces. It was the flush she was worried about. She studied the old man across from her. “What do you have? Aces?”

“Nah, I don’t got aces,” the old man said, meaning Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.

Clare tried to find a clue on his face. Deep lines made his skin look more like leather than anything human. The eyes, of course, were blank.

“Raise.” Clare shoved some chips in forcefully. What she meant was Please fold.

“Re-raise you all in.” The man touched the rim of his cowboy hat. A real tell, or a fake one? And how was Clare supposed to single out a killer in a room full of professional bluffers? “Go home, kid,” the old man said, meaning, You’re out of your league in this card room.

But Clare wasn’t going home. She wasn’t going anywhere until she’d proven she could do this job. “Do I threaten you?” she asked.

The old man snorted and Clare thought she saw his nostrils flare. “Sure,” he said. “Kids like you threaten my game every day. You make it so profitable I get lazy and forget how to take on real competition.”

Clare drummed her fingers on the black table felt. If she called the bet and lost, she’d be out of the game. She could already hear Sergeant Cloutier’s scorn as he pulled her off the case and sent her home to dreary beat work chasing graffiti artists and bicycle thieves in Toronto.

But she couldn’t keep folding either. This man had been bullying her — or bullying Tiffany James, Clare’s fancy new cover character — all day. He couldn’t have the best hand every time. And the nostril flare — that had to be involuntary, right?

“Call.” Clare pushed the rest of her chips past the bet line. She could feel her hands trembling. The chip stack nearly toppled on its way into the pot.

The old man squinted at her. “You got something wrong with your brain? Unless you got a flush, Princess — which you shouldn’t, the way you’ve been betting this hand — that was an easy fold.”

“The bets have been made,” the dealer said. “Mr. Jones, please show your cards.”

The old man flipped his cards over, muttering, “Trip kings.”

“Straight.” Clare could hardly believe it. She’d just conquered T-Bone Jones in a battle of wits. She set to work organizing her new larger chip stack, and let out her breath with relief.

The old man peered at her. “That your daddy’s cash you’re burning?”

“No.” Clare faked indignation as she examined the manicure she’d been given the previous morning. It felt funny on her hands — she was so used to chipped nails with motor grease riding the crescents. “Every penny I spend is from my own trust fund.”

“Well, then.” T-Bone’s eyebrows lifted, and Clare wondered why he didn’t lick his chops with greed. “Let me help separate you from it.”

Clare’s heart was still thumping, but she gave him the coolest grin she could muster. “You just tried to take my money; I took yours instead, remember?”

“I’m not talking about some piss-ass tournament chip stack.” T-Bone’s lips curled into a sneer. “I’m talking about putting your money where your mouth is. In a cash game tonight.”

Shit. Clare had just told this guy she was loaded, but before she could say yes to a cash game, she would have to get the funds approved from her handler. “I don’t think I’m ready for a side game. I want to get my legs in this tournament first.”