Authors: Laura DiSilverio
Swift Edge (31 page)
* * *
Wednesday, Bobrova regained consciousness and identified Aguilar’s thug, the one I’d shot, as her assailant. The police matched the bullets found in Dmitri’s condo with a gun hidden in the thug’s rented SUV, and a recently stitched knife wound in his left arm seemed to indicate he was the man Dmitri slashed at the Estes Park cabin. He admitted to tossing his lighter into the gas-filled cabin but denied knowing I was in it at the time. I actually believed him.
Thursday, I decided a walk was in order so my muscle tone wouldn’t deteriorate completely, but I barely made it a quarter mile before pain forced me to turn around. I spent most of the day in bed, exhausted by my attempt at exercise. While I snoozed, the district attorney filed formal charges against Irena Fane for the premeditated murders of Duncan Graham and Boyce Edgerton—I guessed ballistics matched her gun to the bullet in Boyce—and Peterson and Fane landed in a tie for third after their short program. Angel and Trevor were sitting atop the leaderboard or whatever they call it in figure skating.
Friday, Aaron Wong burst through my door, a smile as wide as the Mississippi River splitting his face. “Mom heard from Nate!” he crowed. I demanded all the details and learned that Nate Wong, now calling himself DuShawn Morton, had indeed scored a new driver’s license and Social Security card through Graham at Tattoo4U.
“DuShawn?” I queried, arching one brow.
Aaron winced. “Yeah, I know. His new name’s the least of it. He left here, hitched back to the East Coast, and married that Alisha girl whose photo was in his wallet. Her parents were against it—”
“They didn’t want their daughter to marry an eighteen-year-old unemployed deserter living under a false name? You amaze me.”
With a grin, Aaron continued, “Yeah, especially since she’s only sixteen. So they eloped and have been hiding out from her parents and the military ever since, moving from motel to motel in the Carolinas until they ran out of money. When they couldn’t pay their bill, they offered to clean rooms at the last fleabag motel they landed at, but the owner called the cops on them, and the cops called Alicia’s parents, who apparently want to string up Nate—”
“DuShawn.”
“—and have him drawn and quartered. They’re accusing him of statutory rape, kidnapping, and I don’t know what all else. My mom’s flying in here tonight, and we’re leaving for South Carolina in the morning to see if we can help straighten this mess out.” Having expelled his news on a single breath, he paused to suck in air.
“Good luck,” I said, thinking that the army ought to realize they were better off without Nate-DuShawn in uniform and drop all charges on the condition that he never take up a career that would allow him access to heavy artillery or even a slingshot.
* * *
Saturday night I sat lopsidedly in an ice-side seat at the World Arena, Gigi beside me, as the last five pairs couples warmed up to skate for the national championship and the right to represent the United States of America at the Olympics. The Arena was a bit more than half full, and the bright lights, hum of conversation, and music playing over the loudspeakers made it seem like a different building entirely than the one I’d been shot in Monday night. As the skaters leaped and spun and glided, Gigi tore off and ate fluffy bits of aqua cotton candy the same color and texture as her bulky mohair sweater.
“Roger called me,” she said with a sidelong look. “For a date.”
“Congratulations,” I said, wondering if it would be premature to suggest that February—okay, May—was a lovely month for a wedding. After which, she could resign from the PI business …
“I didn’t think he would,” she admitted. “Not after last time when I behaved like a loony with that stupid spy brooch. And I’m okay with his best friend being a murderer—”
“Huh?” I stared at her.
“—since it was a drunk driving accident
years
ago and he’s paid his debt to society and been sober for decades.” She nodded her head emphatically.
“Was Kendall happy with eighth place?” I asked. The junior women’s competition had wrapped up earlier that day. Despite my throbbing derriere, I’d come to watch at Gigi’s request and been seriously impressed with Kendall. The petite blonde had seemed to float across the ice, making double and triple jumps look easy and only falling once on a tricky combination. The way she scrambled back up and continued on, a smile glued to her face, made me realize she was built of tougher stuff than I had imagined. Which didn’t mean I wanted her working at Swift Investigations ever again. Still mad at Dmitri for not knowing her name or for threatening to kill her—I wasn’t sure which rankled more—she had refused to come to tonight’s competition.
“She’s ecstatic,” Gigi said. “That’s eleven places up from last year. By the time the next Olympics rolls around…” She left the thought unfinished and sighed.
“What?”
She sighed again. “Kendall had been making noises about wanting to quit, but now she’s all fired up again.”
“Isn’t that good?”
“It’s expensive,” Gigi said simply, “but if it gives her joy, I’ll have to find a way to scrape up the money.”
I sat silently, thinking about the three mothers of skaters I’d spent time with this week. All had made sacrifices so their kids could excel. Irena went so far as to murder people who might derail her son’s career. Sally Peterson seemed, if anything, more committed to her daughter competing at the Olympics than Dara was, and I wondered where their relationship would go when Dara retired. Gigi, surprisingly, seemed to have the sanest approach, supporting Kendall’s aspirations without getting her own identity all tangled up with her daughter’s success. “I hope Kendall appreciates what you’re doing for her,” I said.
Gigi smiled gratefully. “Want some?” She thrust the gooey blue mass at me.
“No, thanks,” I said, shuddering.
The lights dimmed and a hush settled over the crowd as the announcer called out the names of the first of the last five pairs to skate. Angel and Trevor, in first place after the short program, skated second and earned their all-time highest score, according to the announcer.
“Dara and Dmitri will have a hard time beating that,” Gigi murmured. She tried to explain the beyond-complicated scoring system to me, which seemed to require a PhD and a Cray computer to comprehend, but the woman behind us shushed her as the next skaters took the ice.
Finally, the announcer boomed, “Peterson and Fane,” and the couple skated to the center of the ice, their plain black and white costumes in stark contrast to the fiery reds and sequined blues of other competitors. An expectant hush fell over the crowd as the first notes of Tchaikovsky’s
Swan Lake
sang through the speakers. Any faint, unadmitted hope I might have had that Dara would leave Dmitri standing alone in the middle of the ice, or better yet trip him as he skated past her, died as I caught her expression of fierce concentration. She was here to win.
Their blades bit into the ice, and they opened with what Gigi murmured were side-by-side double axels. From that point on, I was caught up in the tension and grace of the program, the contrast of his dark strength with her fragile beauty, barely conscious of Gigi commentating. “… look at the height on that throw triple salchow … perfect synch on their flying camels … tricky footwork … such speed … Oh, my God!” She dropped the cotton candy onto her lap.
The whole arena gasped as Dmitri whirled Dara up into a lift where he supported her arched figure with one hand while gliding on one foot. She spun and he flipped her back to the ice so her skate touched down as lightly as a dragonfly on water. They concluded with a death spiral, and I found myself on my feet with the rest of the crowd, clapping as loudly as I could when they struck their final pose exactly on the music’s last note. Applause echoed around the arena for a good two minutes as Dara and Dmitri bowed and waved to the fans, Dara’s face shining, Dmitri pumping a triumphant fist.
With the crowd still clapping, they skated toward what Gigi called the kiss-and-cry area, Dara gracefully retrieving flowers and stuffed animals tossed by fans on the way. As she straightened from scooping up a carnation, our eyes met. I beamed at her, wholly caught up in the power and pathos of their performance. Dmitri might be a criminal, but man, could he skate. I made a mental note to ask Dan why God—if He existed—gave a dirtball like Dmitri the ability to move so many people, to bring them close to tears and yet leave them feeling totally uplifted. Dara’s lips curved in an answering smile, and she raised the carnation to me before following Dmitri off the ice to await their scores.
ALSO BY LAURA D
I
SILVERIO
Swift Justice
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
SWIFT EDGE
. Copyright © 2011 by Laura DiSilverio. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
DiSilverio, Laura A. H.
Swift edge : a mystery / Laura DiSilverio.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-62444-6
1. Women private investigators—Fiction. 2. Figure skaters—Crimes against—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3604.I85S93 2011
813'.6—dc23
2011026759
First Edition: December 2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-9559-7