“C’mon,” I said, taking his hand. “You need a half hour in a hot tub. That’s Dr. Charlie’s prescription for what ails you. And another Scotch.” I grabbed the Lagavulin bottle in my other hand and dragged him toward the door.
“What ails me?” he asked with half a smile.
I set down the Scotch and framed him between my hands, like a movie director setting up a shot. “An inability to solve all the world’s problems and a deep sadness that you can’t save the youth of Colorado Springs from their abusive parents or their own stupid choices,” I intoned in the voice of a film narrator. “Either that or you’re worried about the middle-aged man’s trio of fears: hair loss, erectile dysfunction, and high cholesterol.” I ticked them off on my fingers.
“Middle-aged!”
“Only one thing will cure all that.”
“Prayer.”
He didn’t even make it a question. No wonder he was a priest.
“No, Scotch and water. Hot water, that is, as in hot tub. Get your suit.”
8
Parked outside the Ice Hall Friday morning, I cursed the makers of Scotch and my own stupidity. Relaxing with Dan in the hot tub, I’d drunk more than I intended to. That happened more often than it should when I drank with Dan because the man could put away more alcohol than the Scottish national rugby team. A headache pounded behind my eyes despite the handful of aspirin I’d swallowed with my first Pepsi of the day at four thirty. That’s A.M. Even the birds knew there was no point to being up this early, especially in the winter. I’d left the air force mostly because they overdo the whole teamwork thing—rugged individualism was good enough for the pioneers and it’s good enough for me—but also because the emphasis on starting the day BCOD (before the crack of dawn) went against nature—mine at any rate. When I stepped out of my car, the bitter cold made it seem even darker. I plunged my hands into my coat pockets, grateful for the black cowl-necked sweater that swathed my neck. My wool ski cap kept my head warm, even though I’d have hat-head later in the day. I wore an old pair of soccer cleats on my feet in anticipation of having to meet Bobrova on her home turf: ice. There was only one other vehicle in the lot, a late-model Volvo I assumed was Bobrova’s.
I made my way to the side door Dara had assured me would be open. It was. The only illumination came from the EXIT sign over my head that shed a reddish glow. I started down the hall, calling softly, “Coach Bobrova?”
No answer. I tried a couple of doors, but they were locked. Okay, this was a little spooky. If it hadn’t been for the van in the lot and the open door, I’d’ve assumed the place was deserted. It was quieter than a high school on Sunday with thin carpet muffling my footsteps. Some light would improve the atmosphere tremendously, I decided, running my hand along the wall in search of a switch. No dice. I almost wished Gigi were here; she’d have a flashlight in the saddlebag she called a purse.
A hiss of sound I couldn’t identify came from in front of me, from the rink, if I wasn’t mistaken. I walked more purposefully toward the double doors and pushed them open. It seemed lighter in here, with the flat sheet of ice reflecting the ambient light from windows set high in the walls and a dim glow coming from a vending machine in the corner, but it was still a dark twilight. As I listened, trying to orient myself, a door clicked closed on the far side of the rink.
“Coach Bobrova?” I was getting pissed. Okay, I didn’t have an appointment, but Dara had said Bobrova was here by five every morning. She must have heard me calling her name. If the door closing was her ducking out to avoid me, I was going to haunt her until she talked to me about her putative nephew. Maybe I’d even take a skating class so I could follow her around on the ice. Hah! I looked at my illuminated watch dial. Five ten. Her first students would be here in five minutes and I’d lose the opportunity to speak with her.
“Help…”
The throaty whisper drifted from the middle of the ice. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I could barely make out a darker shape on the ice. Bobrova had fallen—she was hurt. The woman had to be seventy, after all, and probably had osteoporosis. Maybe she’d broken her hip. “Just a sec,” I called to her, feeling my way to the gate.
My tailbone twitched as I shuffle-stepped across the ice in my cleats, reminding me of yesterday’s fall. Reaching the still figure, I crouched beside her, feeling for her hand. I brushed the hem of her cape and let my hand travel up it until I encountered her hip and then her shoulder. My hand was damp, and I wondered how long she’d been lying here, unable to summon help. She was probably soaked to the skin and freezing.
“Where does it hurt?” I asked, reaching for my cell phone.
“Dmitri—” she croaked.
“Why’s it so dark?” a young voice asked.
The overhead lights sprang to life, glaring down on the ice and the old woman crumpled there, red blood oozing from her head and making a halo around the matted gray hair. She’d lapsed into unconsciousness after the one word, and I couldn’t find a pulse. The dent in her forehead and the bloodied cane lying two feet away gave me some idea what had happened.
Screams bounced off the ice and echoed shrilly in the cavernous space as the young skater who’d turned on the lights skidded to a stop several feet away. Her blades stuttering on the ice triggered a memory: That was the sound I’d heard before entering the rink—something sliding across the ice.
I looked around and saw a trail scuffed into the ice, a trail made by shuffling shoes, not skates. It led to the far side of the rink. The first several feet of the marks glimmered red, and I felt sick. This was not a good morning to be hungover.
Swallowing, I looked up at the bug-eyed face of the skinny girl backing away from me. “Can you—”
“Help! Mom! She killed her,” the girl shrieked, spinning and speed-skating for the gate where she’d entered. She thudded into it and let out a squawk.
Running footsteps sounded in the hallway. “Jessica,” a woman’s frantic voice called. Mom. “Are you hurt?”
I ignored Jessica’s boo-hooing, dialing 911. As I waited on the line at the operator’s request, I couldn’t stop shivering, chilled as much by the brutality as by the frigid air.
9
“You look awful, Charlie,” Montgomery said some hours later, following the arrival and departure of the ambulance with Yuliya Bobrova, the influx of crime scene techs and police, and the endless questioning about what I was doing there and what I’d seen and heard. The first cops who responded had aimed guns at me, primed with Jessica’s hysterical assertions that I killed her coach. Montgomery and I were seated in the first tier of spectator seats, cold metal bleachers impressing ridges into my behind and thighs. Yellow crime scene tape roped off the rink, and cops had been posted to send skaters home as they arrived for classes and training sessions. Ice Hall officials hovered on the edge of the action, wanting to know if the hockey practices scheduled for the evening could still go on.
“Nice shiner.” His long finger gently traced the swollen area above my eye.
I resisted the urge to close my eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to have any aspirin, would you?” I asked. I felt beat-up and stained. Despite the twenty minutes I’d spent over the bathroom sink scrubbing at my hands and coat, Bobrova’s blood rimmed my nails and splotched my coat and the hem of my slacks. The fabric was dark enough I could hardly see it, but I knew it was there.
He handed me two Tylenols, and I swallowed them dry. “Is it Monday again?”
“No, it’s Friday. Did you bang your head? Let me see your pupils.”
“I don’t have a concussion.” I pushed his hand away.
“Let’s go over it again,” he said.
I rolled my eyes at him. “I need food.” The two Pepsis and the variety pack of headache medicines I’d consumed roiled in my stomach.
“Come on. I’ll take you to breakfast.” Montgomery helped me to my feet with a hand under my elbow and guided me down the hall that had seemed so spooky earlier. Now it was awash with light and
activity. I carried my stained peacoat, not wanting to put it on, and the wind knifed through me when Montgomery opened the door. He guided me over to his car and put the heat on high for me.
Minutes later, I clutched a half-eaten bear claw from a nearby doughnut place while Montgomery stirred creamer into his coffee. Between bites, I ran through my story again. “What do you think happened?” I turned the tables on Montgomery before he could think up any more questions.
“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 smi
le 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.”
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