Swift Edge (8 page)

“Attempted murder,” he said. “Whoever clobbered her wasn’t messing around. If you hadn’t come in when you did, she’d be dead. Are you sure you didn’t see anyone or anything?”

I shook my head and regretted it. “No. I told you. I heard someone on the ice and a door closing, but that was it. I saw nada.” Sugar poured into my bloodstream, and I began to feel almost human. “I don’t think it was premeditated,” I mused, “because the attacker used a weapon of opportunity—Bobrova’s cane. Wouldn’t he—or she—have brought a gun, a knife, a rope, a candlestick if he intended to kill her?”

Montgomery shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Whoever it was clearly knew Bobrova would be there alone. He probably also knew about the cane. Everyone we spoke to this morning said she carried it everywhere.”

“I wonder if this is connected with Dmitri’s disappearance.”

“I wonder if Dmitri beat her,” Montgomery said, finishing his coffee. “Maybe her saying ‘Dmitri’ to you was an accusation.”

“Maybe.” I needed to think about it some more.

Montgomery caught the glint in my eye. “This is a police investigation now, Charlie. You stay away from it.” He put his forearms on the table and leaned toward me. He smelled like coffee and spicy aftershave. Irresistible. If I hadn’t been hungover.

“Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t dream of intruding on police territory.” I licked sugary goo off my fingers.

He snorted.

“I do have an obligation to my client, however, to continue investigating the disappearance of her partner.” I smiled at him and got to my feet. “So could you take me back to my car now?”

*   *   *

I’d been planning to swing by Dellert’s on my way back from the Ice Hall to get started on Dan’s missing kid, but the attack on Bobrova had changed things. Gigi could handle the initial interviews at Dellert’s while I pursued Dmitri. I pulled into the office lot, not surprised to see Gigi’s yellow Hummer parked out front since it was already after nine. I felt like I’d been up for two days. I found both Gigi and Kendall at their desks when I went in. Gigi had on a pink turtleneck, stretched to capacity by her ample bosom, and a purple velvet jacket. A bigger-than-life-sized sea horse brooch of purple, teal, and green crystals glinted on her lapel. Her jaw-length champagne-colored hair was immaculate as usual, and she greeted me with a smile that faded as she took in the particulars of my appearance.

“Oh, Charlie. Were you doing some process serving this morning? I could’ve told you not to try it at a breakfast place. Luckily, syrup is easy to get out. Soak your coat in warm water and—”

“It’s blood,” I said and marched to the fridge for a Pepsi. I stuffed the coat under my desk and pulled out the gym bag where I kept a change of clothes.

“Are you hurt?” Gigi asked at the same time Kendall said, “Why are you wearing cleats?”

“No,” I told Gigi, then turned to face the teenager. Apparently, she wasn’t feeling guilty about trying to get me arrested yesterday, because there wasn’t a trace of self-consciousness on her face. “I wore the cleats so I wouldn’t slip on the ice.”

“You wore cleats on the ice? At the Ice Hall?” Kendall sounded appalled, as if I’d admitted to swindling sweet grannies out of their life savings or having sex with giraffes. “That is
so
verboten!”

“Believe me, a few cleat marks on the ice is the least of their worries today.”

I told them about Bobrova.

They sat in stunned silence for a moment when I finished. Finally, Gigi said, “I know you probably feel badly that you didn’t get there earlier, Charlie, but I’m grateful you didn’t surprise the attacker. Why, he might have killed you, too.”

I shot Gigi a surprised look. I
had
been blaming myself for not moving quicker, for not finding Bobrova in time to prevent the attack, but how could Gigi know that?

Kendall had a more predictable response. “What will her students do? Nationals are next week, and the Olympics are in February. They can’t switch coaches now!”

“I think they’ll have to,” I said, finishing my Pepsi. “No way will Bobrova be doing any coaching in the next couple of months, even if she lives.”

“You mean she might
die
?” Kendall stared at me openmouthed, obviously shocked by the idea.

Was there actually a film of tears in her eyes? Maybe she wasn’t as heartless as I thought. The girl sank back into her chair, playing abstractedly with a strand of golden hair, and I briefed Gigi on Dan’s case. As was her habit, she took copious notes.

“I should start by talking to some of his friends at the halfway house, don’t you think?” she asked when I finished.

“Yeah. I think he’s probably moved on for good, but I told Dan we’d look into it. Do you know where Dellert’s is?” I gave her directions to the house in Old Colorado City, west of I-25 and downtown proper, watching with amusement as she tucked the notebook into today’s purse, a purple suede creation large enough to hold the complete works of Barbara Cartland, one of her favorite authors.

“Kendall, you’re with me,” I said, startling the girl.

“What?” Gigi and Kendall asked together.

“You’re going to tell me everything there is to know about the international skating scene,” I said, “with a particular emphasis on gossip about Dmitri Fane, Dara Peterson, and Yuliya Bobrova.”

“Does that mean I’m like an expert witness?” She tried to sound blasé, but her interest peeped through.

“More like a consultant.”

“How much do consultants get paid?”

“The same as part-time receptionists who show up late and ruin coffeepots.”

She pouted, but I could tell she was intrigued by the idea and a bit proud to think that her knowledge was valuable. “Let me change,” I said, “and we’ll hit the road.”

10

Gigi Goldman looked around at the scattering of men and teens in the Dellert House dining room. The room was simply furnished with a trestle-style table and mismatched chairs, obviously donated or rescued from Goodwill bins. No two looked alike, and there’d been a brief squabble between two teens for the most comfortable chair, a wing chair with rose-covered upholstery over thick padding. The housemaster, Roger Nutt, a short man in his early sixties, broke it up. Gigi was glad he stayed, his shoulders propped against the doorjamb, surveying his charges with paternal tolerance. Pale sunlight filtered through miniblinds that could have used a good dusting, but it failed to warm the atmosphere in the room. The four inhabitants chilled the space with their expressions. Ranging in age from maybe seventeen to late twenties, they surveyed her with varying degrees of boredom or hostility. All wore jeans and chips on their shoulders. Gigi, feeling overdressed and out of her league, nervously patted her hair. Why had she thought she could connect with these boys—men, really—just because she had a seventeen-year-old son?

“Well,” she started brightly. “I’m Georgia Goldman, but you can call me Gigi. G. G. for Georgia Goldman … get it?”

Total silence.

She cleared her throat. “I’m here because one of the inmates here … I mean, customers … er, boarders has gone missing and people are concerned.”

A rude noise came from the slim black teen seated closest to the door.

“Did you say something?” Gigi asked.

The teenager eyed her, debating whether or not to favor her with an answer. “Ain’t no one gives a shit about us,” he said finally.

“Now, William, how can that be true?” Roger Nutt asked from the doorway. A smile curved the full lips half hidden by a gray mustache and beard. “When you live in a luxurious spot like this?” He gestured to the shabby room.

Loud hoots greeted the gentle attempt at humor, and Gigi smiled her thanks at Roger.

“Who’s missing, then?” asked William, leaning forward with his hands hanging between his knees. “Brothers come and brothers go … how come one’s more missing than another?”

“A boy called Kungfu,” Gigi said, not sure she followed William’s logic but grateful for his willingness to engage. “He had a job working for Father Dan Allgood at St. Paul’s, but he hasn’t been there all week.”

“Father Dan’s cool,” one of the twenty-something men offered. He had buzz-cut brown hair and tattoos of dragons coiling around arms bared by a leather vest. A scar disfigured his face, and Gigi fought not to stare at it.

“Did any of you hang with Kungfu?” Gigi asked, hoping she’d used “hang” correctly; she’d heard Dexter say things like “I’m going to hang with Jesse and Dillon at the skate park.”

The man with the dragons chewed a hangnail on his thumb; he seemed young for his age. The teen sitting farthest away had his eyes closed and his head resting on the chair back. The other man eyed William but said nothing. William answered for them all. “Nah. Dude was a loner, man.”

This was hopeless, Gigi thought, not having felt so uncomfortable in a group since she first married Les and attended a dinner party given by one of his stuck-up clients who clearly despised a girl who spoke with a Georgia accent and did nails and hair for a living. She’d heard the phrase “white trash” whispered more than once that evening.

“How about drugs?” she asked.

“What kind you want?” William asked with a laugh. The others joined in.

“Not me!” Gigi’s voice squeaked. “I mean, did Kungfu—”

“They’re all clean,” Roger Nutt put in from the doorway. One raised brow quelled the laughter. “They agree to weekly drug tests while they’re here, and if they fail one they’re gone. No exceptions, no second chances.”

Gigi shifted from foot to foot. “Well, thanks for talking to me, guys.” She’d almost said “boys” but caught herself in time. “If you think of anything, anything at all, that might help us find Kungfu, please let me know.” She passed business cards to each of the teens and men. They filtered out of the room until only the man with the tattoo was left, neatly pushing the chairs under the table.

“Thanks, Jerome,” Roger Nutt said. He gestured for Gigi to precede him out the door.

Gigi smiled at the man, wondering about the burn scar that disfigured his face from cheekbone to jaw and the air of apprehension that clung to him, despite the tough-seeming tattoo and leather clothes.

“Kungfu had a…” His voice trailed off so Gigi couldn’t hear him. His hand drifted to his cheek, as if to hide the scar.

“What, sugah?”

He cleared his throat. “Kungfu was getting a tattoo,” he said. “Is that the kind of thing you want to know?” He blinked several times.

“Exactly,” Gigi said warmly, wanting to hug him—he wasn’t that much older than Dexter. “How do you know? Did Kungfu mention it?”

“I saw him at Tattoo4U. That’s where I got Saracen and Scimitar.”

“Who?”

“My dragons.” He flexed his biceps so the dragon tattoos seemed to writhe.

Gigi fought to control her distaste. Who named his tattoos? “Uh, they’re very pretty,” she offered.

Jerome frowned. “Fierce. They’re fierce. They protect me.” He stepped toward Gigi, neck poking forward.

Gigi sent a “help me” look to Roger Nutt, who made a calming motion. Jerome nodded jerkily and stepped back. “I’m cool, I’m cool.”

“When did you see him?” Gigi asked. She dug a roll of Life Savers out of her purse. “Want one?” Jerome took three and popped them all in his mouth. She offered them to Roger, and he shook his head. Letting a lime Life Saver melt on her tongue, Gigi waited for Jerome to think.

“Monday,” he said. “Yeah, it was Monday. I was thinking about getting another tat, but I can’t really afford it. Kungfu came in as I was leaving.” He juddered from foot to foot and edged toward the door.

“You’ve been very, very helpful, Jerome,” Gigi said. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re on lunch duty this week, aren’t you?” Nutt asked the man. “Better scoot.”

Jerome slipped away without another word, and Gigi watched him until he disappeared through a swinging door at the far end of the corridor. The smell of spaghetti drifted into the hall.

“So sad,” she murmured.

“That burn on his face is from a curling iron,” Nutt said, his voice grim. “His mother … He’s been here off and on since he was fifteen.” He shook his head. “You said you wanted to see the stuff Kungfu left. C’mon.”

He led the way up a wide staircase to the second floor of the old house. A hallway branched off to either side of the stairs. “We have room for four in each room,” Nutt said, “but we’re only half full now. Minors on this wing, men over there.” He gestured left and then right.

“How many live here?”

“We can hold a max of sixteen,” he said. “We’ve got nine right now; most of them are at work. Sometimes they rotate out quickly—they go back home or they don’t like to follow our rules. We’re pretty strict. Other times, like with Jerome, they hang here longer.”

He ushered Gigi into a room with two sets of bunk beds neatly made with white sheets and army blankets. Milk crates stacked at the ends of the beds held personal belongings, while clothes hung from multicolored pegs along the walls. “That’s Kungfu’s stuff,” Nutt said, pointing to a blue milk crate and the blue pegs.

It was a pitifully small collection. A pair of jeans and a sweatshirt hung from the pegs, and Gigi quickly patted the pockets. Nothing. A couple of pairs of socks and a pair of BVDs were neatly folded in the milk crate along with a battered paperback stamped with the name of a used-book store. A five-dollar bill fell out of the book when Gigi held it upside down and riffled the pages. “Would Kungfu have left without this?” Gigi asked Nutt, waving the bill.

He stroked his beard and shrugged. “Hard to know. Maybe he forgot it was there.”

“If you’re down to your last few bucks, you don’t forget it’s there,” Gigi said, thinking of the hundred dollars she had squirreled away in her lingerie drawer and the sixty-three dollars in her purse. Since Les dumped her and ran off with all their money, leaving her nothing but the house, the Hummer, and a half interest in Swift Investigations, she’d had to keep close track of all her pennies.

“Not much of anyplace to keep valuables, is there?”

“These men mostly don’t have valuables, Gigi,” Nutt pointed out. “What they value, they keep with them. Kungfu had a backpack, as I recall, a red one. I’m sure his camera’s in there.”