Swift Edge Page 2

  “Einstein?” I couldn’t resist.

  “Mo-om.” Kendall tossed her long blond hair. “He’s like the most awesome pair skater ever!”

  “He gets some help from Dara Peterson, doesn’t he?” I asked, amused by her reaction.

  “She’s a bitch.”

  “Kendall!” Gigi gasped. “I don’t like to hear—”

  “She’s our client,” I said. “Where do you know—” Then I remembered. Kendall was a figure skater, and a pretty good one, according to Gigi. She trained at the World Arena Ice Hall, where Dara had said she and Dmitri practiced. “Do you know them?” I asked.

  “Of course.” Only a teenager talking to an adult could infuse two words with that much scorn. A speculative look crossed her face. “I know someone who will be happy if Dmitri stays gone, too.”

  “Who?”

  “Trevor Anthony,” Kendall said. “He was Dara’s partner before Dmitri came on the scene. Dmitri totally stole her away. He skates with Angel Pfeffer now, but she falls all the time on the throw triple salchow. They’ll make the U.S. team, though, if Peterson and Fane aren’t at Nationals.” Changing tactics, the girl smiled at me—a first—revealing pink and white bands on her braces. “Can I help with the case?”

  “No,” her mother and I said in unison.

  “It might be dangerous,” Gigi added.

  To our reputation, I thought. “I’ve got to get going or I’ll be late for my interview,” I said, happy to cede Gigi the task of quelling her daughter’s newly found ambition to be a PI. “I’m meeting Fane’s coach in half an hour.”

  “Bobrova?” Kendall’s smirk was knowing. “Good luck with that.”

  2

  A skater clad in leggings, a turtleneck, and gloves twirled in the middle of the ice when I arrived at the World Arena Ice Hall, where the Broadmoor Skating Club trained. A low building with squat sculptures of Zamboni ice-making machines out front, it had a reception area with a cheery fireplace, a reception desk—unoccupied—and a store selling skating gear and souvenirs. I’d turned right out of the reception area and found a rink, only to be told by a hulking skater with a Jason mask and a hockey stick that I needed the Olympic rink. Silly me, thinking an ice rink was an ice rink. Finding the correct rink on the other side of the lobby, I’d circled around to a swinging gate that barred access to the ice. Now, gazing across the sheet of blue-white ice in the arena smelling of cold metal and damp, shivering, I watched the skater reach behind her to grab the blade of her skate and pull her foot up toward her head. Ow. Auburn pigtails stuck out from either side of her head, making her look like Pippi Longstocking. She couldn’t have been more than twelve. She was amazing.

  “Dat is not a spin! Dat is a disaster,” croaked a Russian-accented voice.

  The skater returned her foot to the ice, slowed, and hung her head as a dumpy figure stomped toward her across the ice, leaning heavily on a cane. What seemed to be a black cape obscured most of her shape and swirled around calves that disappeared into fur-trimmed ankle boots.

  “Lengthen your spine, so.” She prodded the girl in the back with the tip of her cane. The girl stood up straighter. “Your line must be elegant. Elegant! Again, from the transition.”

  The girl nodded and skated toward the far corner of the ice. Seizing the opportunity, I called over to Bobrova. “Excuse me, I’m—”

  She turned her head and glared. Her eyes seemed black from this distance, set under heavy, almost straight brows, drawn together in a frown. “Dis is a private training session. You go.” She turned back to study the skater, now gliding on one foot with the other leg stretched out behind her, never doubting that I’d obey. Well, she might be Empress of the Ice Rink, but she wasn’t the boss of me, so I pushed through the metal gate and made my way onto the ice. Whoa! My right foot threatened to slip out from under me and I windmilled my arms to balance myself. When I felt steadier, I slid one foot forward cautiously, then the other. In this shuffle-step manner I made it to within a couple of feet of Bobrova. She was turned away from me, focused on the skater who was doing some fancy footwork on a diagonal line across the rink.

  “Deeper knees,” Bobrova called, thumping her cane for emphasis.

  Resisting the temptation to say “Boo,” I got her attention with a moderate “Ms. Bobrova?”

  She pivoted to face me, scowling. “I told you to go.” Up close, her face was deeply lined and framed by hair as gray as a Moscow winter cut bluntly at jaw length and threaded with white. She was about Dara Peterson’s height, but stout around the middle with short arms and legs. I was pretty sure she was a hobbit, only not so happy, and that her flat-heeled boots hid hairy toes. My imagination couldn’t stretch far enough to see her in spandex and sequins, doing loop-de-loops around the ice with a handsome partner. Yet Dara had told me in an awed voice that Bobrova and Petrov had dominated pair skating in the sixties and seventies and that Bobrova had trained more world and Olympic champions than any other coach in the business.

  I tried a smile. “My name’s Charlotte Swift. I’m a private investigator. I’m here about Dmitri Fane.”

  She ignored my proffered hand, saying only, “Bah!” Having assessed me with one acute look, she returned her gaze to the young skater.

  I let my hand fall. “Does that mean you’re not worried about him?”

  “Why should I worry about Dmitri?” A trace of her native Russia gave the words a guttural feel, but her English was excellent.

  “Hasn’t he been missing since Saturday?”

  She shrugged. “He is a grown man. It is not for me to keep track of him. What’s the saying? It is not my day to watch him.”

  Despite her words, I caught an undertone of tension in her voice and the tautness of her jaw. I wished she would look at me so I could read her expression, but she kept her eyes fixed on the skater.

  “You seem strangely unconcerned about the possibility of him missing the Olympic trials next week,” I said.

  “Dmitri will be here. He always turns up. I told Dara not to worry, but that girl does not listen. On the ice—nerves of steel. Off it—” She made a fluttering gesture with a surprisingly dainty hand.

  Dara hadn’t seemed nervous or flighty to me. In fact, she’d come across as determined and at least as angry as she was worried. “When you say ‘He always turns up,’ does that mean he’s gone missing before?” I asked.

  “Outside edge,” Bobrova called to the skater, who landed a jump so close that bits of ice sprayed my brown wool trousers. “Sometimes a man has things to take care of,” she said. “Merely because he is out of touch for a few days does not mean he is missing.”

  “What kind of things does Dmitri have to take care of?”

  “Da, da! The Ina Bauer is beautiful, Nicole,” she said, swiveling to keep the skater in view as she glided across the ice with her front knee bent and her foot turned to the left with the other leg behind her, the foot facing right. Her back arced deeply. My ankles ached just watching her. Suddenly, my ankle hurt for real as something whacked it, knocking me off balance. As I fell, I caught a glimpse of Bobrova’s cane and the swirl of her cape’s hem as she stepped back so I wouldn’t take her down with me. I landed on my tailbone with a crack that jolted up my spine to my head. Fighting to keep back tears, I lay still for a moment, until the cold and wet seeping through my clothes prompted movement. Gingerly, I pushed myself to a sitting position. Damn, I felt shaky.

  “I am so sorry. Such an unfortunate accident,” Bobrova said, shaking her cane as if to punish it. “Here.” She reached down her free hand and hauled me to my feet with a strong grip for a seventy-year-old. “Did you hit your head?” She peered into my eyes, looking for signs of concussion.

  I let go of her hand as Nicole skated to a stop beside me. “Are you okay?” the girl asked with far more concern than Bobrova. “Let me help you to the side.”

  “Nyet,” Bobrova said. “Your short program needs work.”

  Nicole looked at me, then at her coach, clearly to
rn. A gentle swell of breasts under her turtleneck told me she was closer to Kendall’s age than the twelve I originally took her for, but she seemed kind, totally lacking the attitude and insecurity of Gigi’s daughter.

  “I’m fine,” I told her. I took two steps to demonstrate. “But thank you. Should I have heard of you?” I asked before she could skate away.

  With a shy smile, she said, “I’m Nicole Lewis.”

  “Current world junior ladies champion,” Bobrova said, shooing Nicole away with a brisk flick of her hand. “Soon to be U.S. senior ladies gold medalist if she will focus, focus, focus.” Her voice rose on each repetition, and the girl ducked her head as the words bombarded her.

  “You go now,” Bobrova told me. Without waiting to see if I complied, she stalked across the ice toward Nicole, as sure-footed as a polar bear on the slick surface—and just about as friendly.

  3

  Sitting in my Subaru Outback an hour later, studying the facade of Dmitri Fane’s condo, I drank a Pepsi and shifted from one butt cheek to the other, trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t aggravate my bruised tailbone. I made some notes from my conversation—if you could call it that—with Bobrova. Two things seemed clear. One, Yuliya Bobrova knew more about Dmitri’s disappearance than she was saying. Two, my accidental fall was no accident. She’d deliberately tripped me with her cane, and I wondered why. Was she just a nasty old witch who enjoyed inflicting pain? Her treatment of Nicole Lewis supported that theory. Or was she hiding something and wanted to get rid of me? If she was hiding something, what was it? I drained the last of the Pepsi from the can and opened the door. Maybe I could find something in the condo that would put me on the right track. Wincing as I swung my legs out of the car, I stood and looked around the parking lot. Only one other car, a white RAV4, occupied a slot near the big Westhaven Condominiums sign near the entrance.

  Westhaven advertised itself as being “the resort-style, no-maintenance housing choice” for young professionals, and the lack of people and cars in the middle of the day testified that most of the inhabitants were at work. Good. I’d need to talk to Dmitri’s neighbors later, but for now I wanted a look at his living quarters, and if I made an unorthodox entry—through a window, say—it was better to be unobserved. Nosy neighbors are both a blessing and a curse for private investigators.

  Marching up the sidewalk as if I belonged there, I approached Dmitri’s condo. Each step jarred my tailbone, and I cursed Bobrova. Dmitri lived in a two-story unit in a block of four. The building was pseudo Cape Cod with gables and weathered shingles. Dark green shutters flanked multipaned windows. A covered carport with four slots, numbered and unoccupied, was across from the unit. I knew from Dara Peterson that Dmitri drove a silver Mustang, and I kept an eye out for the car but didn’t see it. I made a mental note to check with my CSPD friend, Detective Connor Montgomery, to see if the car had been ticketed or towed recently.

  My steps slowed as I came level with Dmitri’s unit. Should I knock or slink around to the back and see if I could gain access through a window? I glanced around: fenced, multilevel pool, drained for the winter; management office almost out of sight on the far side of the complex; FOR SALE sign in the window of the connecting unit. No dog walkers or landscapers or delivery people. Wishing I had the lockpicks Gigi had bought on eBay, I approached the door and plied the brass knocker twice. Dmitri didn’t answer. Shocker. Automatically, I tried the doorknob. It turned easily and the door inched open. Surprised and wary of my luck, I glanced casually over my shoulder. Still no observers. Pulling latex gloves out of my pocket, I slipped them on, rubbed my fingerprints off the doorknob with the hem of my sweater, and pushed the door wider.

  Finding myself in a small, wood-floored foyer, I shut the door on the nippy breeze and looked around. To my right was a living room–dining room combination, and to my left a flight of stairs rose to the second floor. I decided to start with the ground floor and leave the bedrooms for last. I gave myself ten minutes—staying longer would increase the chance of discovery—and set my watch alarm. Enough light filtered through the closed blinds that I didn’t need to turn on a light as I stepped into the living room. It had all the warmth of an ice rink, outfitted with a white leather sofa and recliner, a big-screen TV, and glass-topped tables with chrome legs. The dining room lacked a table but had a black metal computer desk complete with printer, fax machine–copier combo, laminating machine, and stereo components, but no computer. Two things struck me as I stood in the middle of the room, conscious of the chill in the air that said the heater hadn’t run for days. The decor and electronics were high-end, and I wondered how Dmitri afforded them. Surely, part-time catering and ice-skating didn’t add up to custom-made sofas and state-of-the art plasma televisions. My second observation raised even more questions than the first: Either Dmitri Fane was a slob, or someone else had searched his condo.

  The doors on the entertainment center cabinets gaped wide, and the stack of DVDs inside was jumbled. A thin layer of loose papers obscured the floor around the computer desk. The sofa cushions were askew, and a red silk pillow, the only shot of color in the room, languished under the coffee table next to the remote. Reaching for it, I turned on the TV, and a soccer game flickered to life on ESPN. I turned it off.

  In the kitchen, I found the same disarray. Drawers and cabinet doors were slightly open, and shards of glass on the floor testified to someone’s carelessness. I peeked into the cabinets and even the freezer but found nothing more interesting than plastic utensils, a drawer full of takeout menus, and a bottle of vodka. I deduced that Dmitri wasn’t much of a cook but liked to sip an icy Stoli while watching the sports event du jour. That didn’t get me very far in figuring out where he was.

  I returned to his desk, looking for an address book, a calendar, doodles—anything that might give me a hint as to his location. Nada. He probably stored everything on his computer, and it was missing. I wondered if he had taken it with him, or if the earlier searcher had made off with it. Dara could probably tell me if Dmitri was in the habit of carrying a laptop around. There was likewise no phone in sight, and I figured he was one of those people who used his cell phone exclusively.

  A scritch of sound made me look up. I listened carefully but heard nothing further. Probably the wind, I decided, watching aspen limbs dance outside the dining room window. I checked my watch—only two minutes left of the ten I’d allotted myself. I needed to speed things up. Maybe Dmitri’s bedroom would yield some clues. I climbed the Berber-carpeted stairs and found myself in a short hall with a room on each end. The room on the right was empty except for a twin bed—not made up—and a chest of drawers, all empty. Ditto for the closet.

  The master bedroom held more potential. The door stood open, and a window on the west side of the room framed a striking view of Pikes Peak. A closet with sliding doors ran the length of the south wall. A king-sized bed draped with a navy and white comforter and a mound of pillows faced the window. Did the tidily made bed mean Dmitri had planned his absence, or was he just a neat freak? Neatness was not a character flaw, no matter what my new partner thought. The last time I’d left my bed unmade had been in response to a fire alarm when I lived in the dorms at Lackland Air Force Base. A sergeant down the hall had been using a lighter to melt shoe polish to gloss her boots and dropped it when the Kiwi tin heated up and singed her fingers.

  I began my search. The bedside table nearest the door held a box of condoms, two raunchy magazines, and a gun. I stared at the snub-nosed .38 but didn’t touch it. Why did an ice-skater need a gun? For protection against burglars? It didn’t seem likely that a twenty-six-year-old man would feel unsafe living alone in an upscale community like this. Maybe he was the nervous type, or maybe he just liked guns. I slid the drawer closed and moved to the bathroom as the timer on my watch went off. Damn! I’d push my luck and take an extra couple of minutes.

  The bathroom, an expanse of black and white checkerboard tile with black toilet and sink and a se
rviceable black shower curtain drawn around the tub, smelled faintly of some spicy aftershave. It was cleaner than I had expected of a young man living alone. The generalization might sound sexist, but I’d done enough searches, both as an Office of Special Investigations agent in the air force and as a PI, to know that a single man’s bathroom was likely to be far less sanitary than a single woman’s. I’d told my OSI boss we should be issued hazmat gear before searching a man’s quarters. Besides the generic mildew and filth resulting from an inability to aim, I’d once come across a tub full of dirt planted with marijuana, and another time found red goo that turned out to be strawberry Jell-O rimming the toilet and tub. I never asked. Some things you don’t want to know.

  Nothing that interesting here. A single white towel, dry, hung from a rack. I didn’t see a comb or razor on the sink; it was looking more and more like Mr. Fane had planned his departure. I’d check for a suitcase when I rifled the closet. Opening the medicine cabinet, I heard a rustle and caught a glimpse of movement in the mirror.

  I spun, but not quickly enough. An impression of surging blackness and an upraised arm blurred in my peripheral vision before something hard came down on my forehead. I fell back, striking my head against the sink, and everything went dark.

  4

  I regained consciousness slowly, aware of a throbbing head, the coldness of tile beneath my cheek, and a shroud draped over me. It smelled mildewy. I clawed at the fabric, feeling trapped, finally batting enough of it away that I could see again. A glance at my watch showed me that only three minutes had passed since I was attacked. The “shroud” was the shower curtain, complete with tension rod, which the intruder must have dragged down when he leaped from his hiding place in the tub. I cursed myself for not having considered the possibility that the searcher was still in the condo. I’d been careless and paid the price with an aching head and an assortment of bruises to go with my cracked tailbone. This was not turning out to be my day—it’s Mondayness was still screwing things up.