3 Swift Run Page 2

  I clicked the pen against my teeth, trying to figure out what else Charlie would ask if she were here. The heck with it. This was a golden opportunity to snoop into Les’s personal life post-me, and I didn’t even try to resist temptation.

  “I apologize, Heather-Anne,” I said, not one bit sorry, “but I’ve got to ask you some personal questions. Were you and Les … having difficulties?” They must be—right?—if Les had run off. “Financial issues? Was he seeing, that is, was there another woman?” What goes around comes around, I told her in my head, almost hoping Les had taken up with some Costa Rican sexpot.

  Heather-Anne’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? I came to you because I figured of all the PIs in this town, you were the one most likely to have insight into Les, to be able to track him down, because, well, because you were married to him for longer than I’ve been alive. I didn’t think you were the kind of person to taunt me, to try and make me feel bad—”

  “I’m not! I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay,” she said, wiping at her eyes, even though I hadn’t noticed any tears. “I understand.”

  “It’s just that if you want us to find Les, I’ve got to know some things.”

  Heather-Anne raised her chin, shaking her hair back. “No, there weren’t any other women, and no, we weren’t having problems. We were blissfully happy, insanely in love with one another. In bed—”

  I definitely did not want to hear about their sex life, so I jumped up and went to pour myself a cup of coffee. The carafe chattered against the mug. “What about money?” I asked loudly. Returning to my desk, I set the mug down carefully.

  “Financially, well—”

  I looked a question at her when she hesitated.

  “Les seemed … worried the past few weeks.”

  “Worried? About what?”

  “Well, you know that when we went to Costa Rica there were some … questions about his financial dealings on this end.”

  “He embezzled from several of his companies and there’s a warrant out for his arrest, if that’s what you mean.” The people he’d cheated had been harassing me, making my life miserable, since he left. The angry calls had petered out the last couple of months, maybe because they’d realized you couldn’t get blood out of a turnip.

  She nodded. “Right. Well, I got the feeling that maybe some of his former business partners were taking matters into their own hands, that they were tired of waiting for the justice system to catch up with Les.”

  “Oh, no.” My hand flew to my mouth. “Did someone threaten him? Is that what you meant about him being in danger?”

  “I don’t know about that, exactly,” Heather-Anne hedged, “but he was edgy recently, seemed to be looking over his shoulder, got more secretive, and made a point of going outside to take phone calls.”

  “You have no idea what was going on?”

  “None.” Heather-Anne widened her eyes at me. Her expression reminded me of something … Kendall! She looked just like my daughter did when she told me she’d “lost” the report card I was supposed to sign.

  I wrinkled my brow. “What makes you think he’s in this area? I mean, why come to Colorado to hire an investigator, rather than L.A. or Chicago? Do you think he wanted to see the kids?” I held my breath. Maybe he was regretting the divorce … maybe he really wanted to see me.

  Heather-Anne snorted, and my hopes crumpled like a balloon stuck with a pin. “Not hardly. I … I knew his card number and password, and I got the credit card company to send me this.” The piece of paper she handed me had a highlighted entry for an airline charge for a flight from San José, Costa Rica, to Denver.

  “One way,” I said. The paper trembled in my shaking hand. Had he bought a one-way ticket because he wasn’t going back, because he was returning to me and the kids? If so, why hadn’t he called?

  “Just find him. Please.” Real worry showed on Heather-Anne’s face. “And it’s got to be soon.”

  “Why?”

  “Because … because I miss him so much. Here.” Heather-Anne thrust a card at me. On the front was her name and the words PERSONAL TRAINER. On the back she had scribbled Embassy Suites, Rm 115, and a phone number. “Call me there when you have news.”

  Before I could think of anything else to ask her, she was striding through the door, bumping into Albertine on her way out so Albertine had to juggle the beignets she was carrying. A gust of chilly wind blasted in. The last few days had been in the fifties, but typical February weather had returned today.

  Albertine set the napkin of beignets on my desk and helped herself to one. She’s a tall woman with shiny black skin, even fatter than me. I’ve never asked her age, but I think she’s in her late fifties or early sixties. She’s got a Louisiana accent thicker than molasses-drenched grits, and the best smile this side of the Mississippi. She moved to Colorado after Hurricane Katrina and has opened three restaurants. Even though we only met last August when I became a PI, she’s one of my best friends.

  “Was that an actual client, Gigi?”

  “Yes,” I said glumly. I reached for a beignet and bit into the soft, doughy goodness. Albertine could cook like nobody’s business.

  Albertine shot me a look, dusting powdered sugar off her turquoise tunic-length sweater. “That is not the reaction I’d’ve expected,” she said, “from a businesswoman with a rent check to write.”

  “That was Heather-Anne Pawlusik,” I said. At Albertine’s questioning look, I added, “Les’s Heather-Anne.”

  “Say what, girlfriend?” Albertine’s brows snapped together. “That skinny white woman is the skank who ran off with your lawfully wedded husband?”

  Skank. I liked the sound of it. “Uh-huh.” Putting my elbows on the desk, I let my chin fall into my cupped hands.

  “And she sashayed in here like sugar wouldn’t melt in her mouth and had the nerve to try and hire you for something?”

  “Yes.”

  “You gave her what-for, I hope?” Albertine eyed me doubtfully, knowing I wasn’t the “what-for” type.

  “She gave us a thousand-dollar retainer.”

  “Money isn’t everything, girlfriend.” When I didn’t answer, she asked, “What’d the skinny bitch want?”

  “To find Les.”

  Albertine burst out laughing, a sound as rich as pecan pie that made me smile despite myself. “At least you had more pride than to try and hunt him down when he ran out on you.”

  It wasn’t pride. I’d had no money to hire a PI, and by the time I got the idea of being one myself, well, it seemed like too much water had gushed under that bridge. Besides, I basically knew where he was … and with who.

  “I guess there’s something to be said for finding Les,” Albertine mused. “If you catch up with his criminal white ass you might pry some of the child support he owes you out of him.”

  “Unlikely.” Les had so far not paid one cent of the court-ordered support.

  “I know where I can get a cattle prod. Or you can sic the cops on him.”

  “Ooh, I couldn’t do that!”

  Albertine glared at me. “Why the hell not? Aren’t you angry at that scum-sucking lowlife?”

  “It doesn’t do any good to get mad.” That’s what my mama always said when my daddy’d been drinking down at the stripper club.

  Albertine’s eyes about popped out of her head. “Say what? That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” she said without waiting for me to answer. “Gettin’ angry’s healthy. Let me help you get your mad on, girlfriend.”

  I had to smile at her enthusiasm. “Maybe later.”

  Albertine changed tacks. “What’s Charlie think of this?”

  “I haven’t told her yet, but you know she’ll be in favor of it. Charlie doesn’t believe in discriminating against clients based on anything other than their ability and willingness to pay.”

  Shaking her head slowly, Albertine said, “She might surprise you.”

  For a few minutes, we specu
lated about why Les might’ve left Heather-Anne, with Albertine suggesting it was because Heather-Anne wanted them to join a nudist colony so she could show off her hot bod. I choked on my third beignet, and she pounded my back, grinning.

  “How’s your diet going?” Albertine asked.

  I stuck my feet farther under the desk, feeling guilty about my new shoes. Albertine was helping me with my finances and had put me on a spending diet. The Louboutin pumps were not supposed to be on the menu.

  “Gigi…”

  “It’s hard,” I confessed. “I’m not used to having to watch every dime. I’m no good at it.” I’d been good at it, as a girl, when there’d been six of us kids and Daddy hadn’t held on to jobs very long, what with his drinking and all, but then I’d met Les not long after I got out of beauty school. When we got married, well, it was a relief not to have to pinch pennies so they squealed like a stuck pig anymore.

  “You won’t get good at it if you don’t try,” Albertine said. She wagged a finger at me. “How’re you gonna send Dexter to college if you don’t quit buying every pair of designer shoes that calls your name?”

  I jumped. Albertine guessing about the shoes spooked me, but the thought of Dexter and college bothered me more. If Dexter didn’t get his grades up I wasn’t going to have to pay for college because he wasn’t going to get into one. I tried to consider that a silver lining but hated to think of my son eking out a living as a Walmart greeter.

  “Girlfriend.” Albertine shook her head. “You’re supposed to call me when you get the spending urge, right? Like an AA sponsor.”

  “I will. Really.” I truly wanted to change my spending habits.

  She let it drop and mentioned that her sister was sending her youngest daughter to Colorado Springs to work for Albertine. “I just hope she’s got more brains than Sissy,” Albertine said, heading for the door. “Otherwise, I’ll be losing customers faster than Tony Stewart drives a quarter mile.”

  As soon as she’d left, I picked up the phone to call Charlie. Then I put it down again. It’d be better to give her this news in person, especially since I needed her advice on how to go about finding Les. Locking the office, I took my notes and the two documents Heather-Anne had provided and drove to Charlie’s house. She lived a couple of miles west of the office, in a small house located behind St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. When I knocked on the door, she called, “Come in,” and I entered hesitantly. I’d only been here a couple of times.

  “Charlie?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  I followed her voice and found her on her knees grouting a section of slate tile in the breakfast nook. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “I thought you’d be the tile delivery guy.”

  “Should you be doing this?” I asked.

  She slicked her mink-dark bangs aside and pushed to her feet, lurching a bit to her weak side. She’s only five foot three, five inches shorter than me, but she seems taller. Maybe because she works out and is so athletic. Unlike me. I thought guiltily of the expensive treadmill in my living room that I hadn’t used since Christmas.

  “I’d go stir-crazy if I stuck to the doc’s list of approved activities,” she said. “Pepsi?”

  “No, thanks.” I knew better than to ask for an iced tea or a Coke; Charlie only kept Pepsi and beer on hand. I guessed that came from being raised in parts of the country that didn’t understand hospitality the way we Southerners did. She got a Pepsi from the fridge, popped the top, and took a long drink.

  “What brings you out this way?”

  Putting on a bright voice, I told her we had a new client. When I gave her the name, she was silent for a moment. “Heather-Anne the home wrecker?” she asked finally.

  “Yes,” I admitted in a small voice.

  “Are you insane?”

  I stared at her. “A paying client is—”

  “She stole your husband, deprived your children of their father—and God knows they need a disciplinarian around—and made it necessary for you to work for a living. In my PI firm. You can’t tell me you want to work for her.”

  “She gave us a thousand dollars to start with. Cash.”

  Charlie paused only the briefest moment before saying, “Tell her to put it where the sun don’t shine.”

  Her support surprised me, and I smiled. I suddenly felt better about tracking down Les for Heather-Anne. “It’s okay, really.”

  “No, it’s not.” She stomped to the recycle bin and slammed the Pepsi can into it. The movement caused her to wince, but I knew she’d snap my head off if I suggested she sit down.

  “She said Les is in danger, that one of his former partners might be out to get him. I can do this without getting all emotional. I already—”

  “Gigi, you can’t visit a Hallmark store without getting all emotional.”

  “Some of those cards are so moving. The people who write them must—”

  “What story did our new client feed you?”

  I sat at the maple-topped table Charlie had shoved to one side while she tiled and told her everything Heather-Anne had said. When I finished, I watched her think, waiting for her to tell me where to start.

  “If one of Les’s partners is looking for revenge, why would Les run to Colorado?”

  Good question. I wished I’d thought to ask Heather-Anne.

  Charlie let it go. “Here’s what we’ll do. We know he flew into Denver two days ago. I’ll get on to the rental car companies and see if he rented a car. I can do that from here. You make a list of places he might go, people he might call here in Colorado. We don’t know he’s still here—he might’ve boarded another flight after landing at DIA—but we’ve got to start somewhere.”

  “He always used Avis.”

  “Good to know. This is why Heather-Anne hired you. Us. She’s definitely not a dummy. You wouldn’t happen to have his Avis loyalty card number?”

  I hefted my purse onto my lap and dug through it for my wallet. Piling the can opener, mini curling iron, pepper spray, six lipsticks, and other stuff on Charlie’s table, I found my old Avis card behind the two pieces of a Nordstrom’s card the clerk had scissored the last time I tried to use it. Charlie copied down the Avis number.

  “What about the cell phone bill?” I asked.

  Charlie nodded. “Use a reverse directory and track down names and addresses.” She scanned the pages. “A lot of these numbers are international—Costa Rica, most likely—and a lot are cell phones. If we don’t get a lead on him some other way, we can start calling these numbers and see who answers and what they know about Les. I hate to do that up front because someone might warn him we’re looking for him.”

  I sighed with relief. Even though I’d watched Charlie hunt several missing persons, and I’d helped her with a couple of them, I didn’t really know how to go about it on my own. I was better at process serving and doing background investigations. “Thanks, Charlie. I’ll get started on that list right away.”

  “We’ll find him,” Charlie promised. “I just hope you’re not sorry when we catch up with him.”

  3

  After Gigi left, Charlie wiped the grout haze off the section of floor she’d tiled and cleaned up for the day. The prospect of digging her teeth into a new investigation was more enticing than another few hours on her knees forcing grout into the gaps between tiles. Absently massaging her butt cheek, she swallowed the horse-pill-sized antibiotics the doc had prescribed and reached for the phone.

  The Avis clerk who answered was perfect for Charlie’s purposes: young and gullible. Deciding that her best bet was to impersonate Gigi, Charlie introduced herself as Georgia Goldman and gave the clerk Les’s loyalty card number.

  “I’ve done the stupidest thing, and I hope you can help me,” she said, not attempting Gigi’s heavy southern accent. “My husband and I rented a car in Denver two days ago, and I left my sunglasses in it when he dropped me off. They’re prescription and they cost a fortune. He was going to make a few sales calls around the state a
nd then fly to Costa Rica, and I can’t catch up with him. You wouldn’t happen to know when he’s bringing the car back, would you? I can drive up to Denver to get my glasses back.”

  Keyboard clickings told Charlie the clerk was buying her story. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Goldman,” the young woman said, “but I don’t see anything about your glasses. Your husband turned the car in yesterday, and there’s no note about sunglasses. I can call our office in Aspen to make sure, if you’d like?”

  Aspen. Bingo! “Oh, silly me,” Charlie said. “Here they are in my green purse. I was looking in the pink one.” Gigi’s purses were large enough and heavy enough to contain supplies for a monthlong Himalayan trek, and Charlie figured she could misplace a Subaru in one of them, never mind a pair of glasses. “I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”

  “No problem,” the clerk said sunnily.

  Hanging up, Charlie drummed her fingers on the table. No way could she drive to Aspen: Her ass wasn’t up to the trip, and the doc would kill her for trying. However, the Embassy Suites where Heather-Anne Pawlusik was staying was less than half a mile from Charlie’s house. Charlie itched to suss out Swift Investigations’ newest client for herself; Gigi saw people through rose-colored glasses and was apt to give someone the benefit of the doubt—even the woman who’d run off with her husband. She slipped on her Nikes. The doc was encouraging gentle exercise now that they’d zapped the infection, and it struck Charlie that a walk to the Embassy Suites would let her kill two birds with one stone.

  * * *

  The Embassy Suites sat perpendicular to I-25. A small perimeter of grass and trees—shades of midwinter brown, tan, and gray—surrounded three sides. It backed onto a ravine where a creek roared after thunderstorms but sludged gently along the rest of the time. Three or four other hotels and a spattering of chain restaurants were its nearest neighbors. Slipping into the building through its restaurant at the I-25 end, Charlie strode confidently into the lobby and angled toward the ground-floor guest rooms.