I focused my mind on Roger Nutt and Dellert House’s party. He could have caught Dmitri stealing credit card data during the party and forced him to help deliver the identity packets. With any luck, Gigi might be able to find out more on her date this evening.
* * *
“You want me to do what?” Gigi’s waxed and tinted brows rose toward her hairline, and she fanned herself vigorously.
“Wear a wire,” I repeated patiently. Well, sort of patiently.
“You mean like the Mafia informers wear to trap the don into confessing to murder? Or undercover cops wear for a drug deal? The kind the bad guys always find and rip off, right before shooting the poor cop?” Her blue eyes widened.
“That’s movies,” I said dismissively. “Not real life.”
We were sitting in Gigi’s swanky living room, a symphony of cream fabric, pale blue leather, velvet drapes, and exotic wood floors. Clearly a decorator’s work since there were no heart-shaped throw pillows or puppy-printed curtains or glass swan bowls filled with M&M’s. A layer of dust coated the silk flower arrangements and filmed the gilt-framed mirror over the hearth. Looming in a corner, a treadmill struck an out-of-place note, and I wondered if Gigi was working out.
“I can’t.” She shook her head, fanning her beigey-blond hair across her cheeks. “It wouldn’t be right. Besides, I wouldn’t know what to say or do, or how to act.”
“Act normal,” I said. “Say you’re having a party and ask if he can recommend a caterer.”
“But I always use the Food Designers,” Gigi said. “Or, I did before Les left. Now I can’t afford—”
“Pretend.”
“You mean lie?”
I sighed. Gigi was going to be seriously handicapped as an investigator if she couldn’t get over her hangup about lying. It was one of the PI’s most useful tools, I’d found. As were its relatives: misleading, prevaricating, fibbing, and creative manipulation of the truth. “Don’t think of it as lying,” I said. Before she could object, I added, “Remember, we’re talking about someone who has killed at least once, beaten up an old lady, and shot at yours truly.”
“Not Roger,” Gigi said, setting her mouth in a mulish line.
“Maybe he didn’t do it himself,” I said, “but you’ve got to admit there’s a pretty solid circumstantial case against him.” I took her through the evidence again. “All you have to do is wear this pin.” I pulled out the crystal-encrusted pin, the remnant of a joint operation with an agency that shall remain nameless where I’d spent a tense evening in a bar chatting up an arms dealer, wearing the pin and the shortest, tightest dress I’d ever had on.
“Ooh, pretty,” Gigi said, touching one of the green crystals with a finger. “Where’s the wire?”
“It’s wireless.”
“Then why’s it called a wire?”
I ignored the question. “It’s state of the art. Digital. It’ll record your conversation, and we can download it later. With any luck we’ll get Nutt on tape saying something that Montgomery can use to get a search warrant.”
“I’ll flub it up,” Gigi objected.
“Why don’t you go get dressed and I’ll drive you back to the office to pick up Irena’s Mustang.”
The prospect of driving the silver Mustang perked Gigi up, and she went upstairs to don her dress without further comment. She came down half an hour later, wearing a ruffled pink satin and tulle confection that made me think some ballet company must be missing its Sugar Plum Fairy costume, and an armful of sparkly bracelets. She was way overdressed for José Muldoon’s, but I didn’t say anything. I helped place the pin on her dress.
“I thought the shoes would match the pin,” she said, sticking out one plump calf so I could admire the mint green high-heeled peep-toe pump.
“Can you walk on those?” I asked. “In snow?”
She gave me a pitying look. “Of course.”
I’d never been one to suffer frostbitten toes for the sake of fashion, but Gigi clearly thought it was worth it. As we reached the airy foyer of her house I looked around, realizing I hadn’t seen or heard either of her kids since I’d arrived an hour earlier. “Where are the kids?”
“Dexter’s out with friends”—her expression said she didn’t much like them—“and Kendall’s in her room sulking. I haven’t seen her since we got back with Irena. She got miffed when Irena said she was too young for Dmitri—which, of course, she is, besides the fact that Dmitri’s gay.” She sighed. “I don’t know how to break it to her.”
“Say, ‘Dmitri’s gay,’” I suggested.
She gave me a look that said I didn’t understand the difficulties of communicating with teenagers, grabbed a full-length fur coat from the closet, and opened the door to a blast of wintry air.
30
This isn’t so hard, Gigi thought an hour later, spooning up the tasty chicken tortilla soup she’d ordered as an appetizer. Roger didn’t seem to suspect he was being recorded as he chatted about a Broncos game he’d been to over the weekend.
“Did I tell you you look lovely this evening?” Roger asked, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “Pink suits you.”
Gigi beamed. It had been a long time since anyone—a man—had told her she looked nice. Not since Les. Well, not Les, either, she thought, not for several years. Had the pin microphone picked up the compliment? Maybe she should be sitting beside Roger instead of across the table from him. “You know,” she said, rising, “it’s a little drafty in this spot.” She resettled herself on Roger’s right, then realized the pin was above her right breast, farthest away from Roger. Should she move again? No, that would look suspicious. Maybe if she sort of turned toward him. She shifted in her chair, and her foot brushed his under the table. Oh, no! Now he would think she was coming on to him.
Roger smiled. “I met your partner today. Did she tell you? I can see what you mean about her.”
At the thought of Charlie listening to the recording later, Gigi gasped and turned it into a cough.
“Are you okay?” Roger asked, pounding her back.
“Um-hm,” she murmured, gulping some water.
“Did you find anything interesting in Nate Wong’s effects, anything to help you locate him? Charlie told me about his brother being Kungfu and that he was really in town to search for Nate.” He broke off a piece of bread and buttered it.
Roger sounded genuinely concerned about Nate, Gigi thought, but maybe he was just trying to find out if they knew anything that incriminated him. “I don’t think there was anything too useful,” she said. “I was working a different case today.”
“Tell me about being a private investigator,” Roger said, smiling warmly. “What attracted you to that kind of work? You don’t seem the type, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”
Gigi was tired of hearing that. “What type? The smart type?”
Roger drew back, brows raised. “No, not at all. Sorry. I meant the snoopy type, the type that enjoys pawing through people’s secrets.”
“Is that what you think we do?” Gigi asked.
“Isn’t it?”
She shook her head.
“Educate me.”
Roger seemed genuinely interested, so Gigi told him about Les’s departure with Heather-Anne and the need for her to find work since he’d taken all their money with him. Through the salad and halfway into her main course, Gigi chattered about her first couple of disastrous cases, the drudgery of serving summonses, and how good she was getting at investigating via the computer. “Mostly, I do background checks for employers—stuff like that,” she said. “Routine.”
“I can tell you like it,” Roger said, a slight smile denting his cheeks, “and I’m sure you’re good at it because you’re so easy to talk to.”
“Am I?” Gigi felt herself flushing. The way the pendant light reflected off Roger’s smooth head was really kind of sexy. She’d never found bald men particularly attractive before, but there was something about that expanse of skin … With a guilty star
t, she realized they were almost up to dessert and she hadn’t managed to work in a single reference to Czarina Catering or fake IDs or anything.
“You know,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about having a party. You don’t have a catering company that you like, do you?”
A line appeared between his brows. “I thought you just told me money was tight since your husband left?”
“Oh, yes, right! I mean, the party would be for the business, for Swift Investigations.” She talked faster, forgetting to breathe. “To see if we can’t attract new clients.”
“Oh.” Roger nodded as if that made sense, and Gigi took a deep breath. Stupid! Why had she let Charlie talk her into this? “We do an annual fund-raiser for Dellert House,” Roger said, “and that’s always catered. The caterer we used to use went under a couple years back, and this past year we had a new company. The service was good, but I thought the food was only so-so. Soggy cheesecake.”
“I hate that! What’s their name?”
He gave her a puzzled look.
“So I don’t call them by accident, I mean.”
“Something Russian,” he said. “Started with a C. I’m sorry, but our director of development arranges that sort of thing, not me.”
This was getting her absolutely nowhere, Gigi thought. A change of topics was in order. “You know, I think Charlie said she found Nate Wong’s military ID card in the stuff he left at Dellert House. Doesn’t that seem strange to you, that someone would leave their identification behind? What can he be using for ID? I mean, like for when he wants to buy some beer or cash a check?”
A sad look drifted over Roger’s face. “Many of the men who stay with us are anxious to leave their former selves behind,” he said. “It’s not uncommon.”
The server came by to take their dessert order, and Gigi dithered between a flan and fried ice cream. Finally opting for the flan, she asked, “Do they just make up a new name? Like a pen name?”
Snorting a half-laugh, Roger said, “I don’t think it’s that easy.”
He added something else, but Gigi didn’t hear it because a mariachi combo had launched into a Spanish song only feet away from their table. Would the microphone pick up anything with the guitars so close? Gigi scooted her chair nearer to Roger’s. “Sorry,” she said, making sure her right breast was pointed at him, “I didn’t catch that.”
“I said that generating fake IDs is big business, or so I hear. A good driver’s license is not something the average runaway can whip up with a copier and a laminating machine.”
“Do you have someone you recommend?”
“It’s not like a catering company, Gigi; it’s illegal.” Roger stared at her, distrust settling over his features. “What is this about?”
“About? Nothing! I mean, it’s very interesting. Who hasn’t wanted to re-create themselves at some point in their lives, start over as a new person?” The thought had tremendous appeal, she realized as she said it. No debt to pay down, no surly teenagers to cope with, no broken marriage to haunt her. What name would she choose? Amanda? Juliana? She’d always wanted a frillier name than Georgia Maude. Why did her mother’s best friend have to be named Maude?
“A tabula rasa, as it were?” Roger asked, looking intrigued by the idea and less suspicious. “What would you do differently?”
What wouldn’t she do differently, Gigi thought, wondering what a tabula rasa was. “How did you end up running Dellert House?” she asked.
A reminiscent look settled on Roger’s features. “I drifted into the nonprofit world by accident,” he said. “I have degrees in social work and civil engineering—”
“You must be smart,” Gigi said, thinking of her own beauty school certificate.
“—and I started out working as an engineer for the state. Highways.” He made a face. “That proved less than fulfilling, so after my divorce I—”
“You’re divorced?”
“Yes. Is that okay?” He gave her a quizzical look.
“Of course! I mean, I’m divorced, too. Isn’t everybody?”
“I hope not everybody,” Roger laughed.
Gigi blushed and scooped up another bit of flan, savoring the texture and flavors on her tongue. The mariachis finally moved on, and the quiet was a relief.
“I got a job as a probation officer, but I was still working for the state, and it felt too stifling.”
Gigi started. A probation officer! Hadn’t Charlie mentioned that whoever was involved with the fake ID manufacturing probably had an in with a prison or a halfway house so he could meet people who wanted new identities?
Oblivious to Gigi’s sudden distress, Roger continued, “So then I got involved with an organization called Greccio here in town. They’re a nonprofit that provides housing for low-income families. I worked there for six years as a leasing agent, and when the director job came open at Dellert House, their board contacted me about the position. I applied, they hired me, and here we are, five years later. I finally feel like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing, like you with the PI business, I bet.” Scraping his fork across his plate, he licked the last of the peach goo from it.
“Oh, no, I—” Gigi cut herself off. She did like being a PI, but she wasn’t sure it was her passion. She’d only gotten into it because she needed to put food on the table—and pay ice-skating coaching fees and Dexter’s insurance on the BMW—after Les left. “Was it scary—working with murderers?”
“Very few of my probationers were murderers,” Roger said with the air of someone who has answered the question a few hundred times. “Although my best friend did time for murder.”
Gigi started, and a drip of flan plopped onto her pink satin bodice. “Oh, no!” She snatched up her napkin and scrubbed at the spot, making the stain larger.
“Here.” Roger handed her his napkin, which he had dipped into his water glass.
“Thanks.” Gigi rubbed some more, sure the dress was ruined. Her favorite Betsey Johnson. She wanted to burst into tears. Flagging the waitress down to ask for some club soda—Was it club soda or tonic water that worked on stains? Was it only wine stains or would it remove caramel?—Gigi joggled the brooch. Loosened by her tugging on the fabric, it clipped the table’s edge and tumbled to the floor.
Gigi froze in horror.
“I’ll get it,” Roger said, leaning over.
“No!” Gigi bent at the waist and clunked heads with Roger.
“Ow.” Roger returned to an upright position, rubbing at his forehead.
Ignoring the pain, Gigi felt around on the floor until her fingers brushed the brooch. She emerged from beneath the tablecloth with it clutched in her hand, flushed and perspiring. “Got it.”
“I wasn’t going to steal it, you know,” Roger said edgily.
“Oh, no! I didn’t think— Of course you wouldn’t—” Her fingers were trembling too much for her to repin the brooch on her dress.
“Here, let me.”
“No!” Gigi batted away Roger’s hand.
He drew back, staring at her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m afraid it’ll fall off again. I’ll just put it in my purse.” She was done with the stupid listening device. She didn’t care if Roger confessed to identity theft, fiddling his taxes, and cheating on a fifth-grade science test. She slid the brooch into her satin handbag and clicked it closed. Roger must think she was a lunatic … or worse. It made her want to cry because even if he was involved with identity theft and murder, she liked him. “So,” she managed a fragile smile. “You were saying about your friend the murderer?”
* * *
Having seen Gigi off on her date with Nutt, I got into the rental and pointed it toward Old Colorado City. It had occurred to me earlier that maybe Aaron Wong had the right idea: A snooping expedition at Tattoo4U might yield some interesting data. I didn’t know exactly what kinds of materials or supplies were necessary for producing first-rate fake IDs, but I figured a computer, high-quality color printer, scanner, c
amera, laminating machine, some art supplies, and the like would be necessary. The mental list loosed a memory—hadn’t I seen a laminating machine at the Estes Park cabin before it went ka-blooey? I couldn’t see the setup being at Dellert House with all the men and boys coming and going at strange hours. If Roger Nutt was in on this, they might be at his house, but I was betting that they were at Tattoo4U. It struck me that this operation was a bit like counterfeiting—an artist was key to its success—and the only “artist” whose name had come up was Graham, the tattoo artist. Anyone who could replicate intricate scenes on human flesh could surely do the background on an Idaho driver’s license, a green card, or a Social Security card, especially with stolen documents to work with. If I didn’t find evidence at Tattoo4U, maybe I could get a line on where Graham lived and poke around there.
I’d taken the precaution of calling Tattoo4U and was satisfied when no one picked up and a recording told me the hours were ten to six. Since it was now past eight and it had been dark for two hours, I figured the time was right for a little reconnaissance. I’d be less conspicuous now, I thought, than if I waited till the wee hours. Still, it paid to be cautious. Parking in the lot across from the shop, I noticed the lights were out and the CLOSED sign was up. I boldly crossed the street and walked smack up to the door, trying the knob like a customer frustrated that the shop was closed. “Graham?” I called.
No response. No hint of sound from within. Hiding my satisfied smile, I returned to my car and drove off, circling back to park a couple of blocks behind the shop. In jeans and a black turtleneck, I was virtually invisible—I hoped—as I strode down the street, bolt cutters held close to my right leg with a gloved hand. After a car passed, I ducked into the alley behind Tattoo4U’s block, spooking a gray cat that dashed away from the trash can it was investigating. With the frigid wind lapping at my face and adrenaline pricking at me, I skated on the thin edge between total alertness and fear. Breaking and entering was not something I did lightly, since it carried a prison term if I screwed up.
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