3 Swift Run

by Laura Disilverio

  “What!” Sandy popped up again. “Dead? Who killed—? How—?”

  “Why would you assume she was killed?” Charlie asked.

  “I assumed … I mean, she’s so young and healthy, so I assumed—” She sank back into her chair.

  “You were right the first time,” Charlie said. “Someone strangled her.”

  “Here? I mean, in Colorado Springs? I thought she’d moved on, gone to Belize or someplace. I’d never been more grateful to see the back of someone in my life.” The shock of hearing about Heather-Anne’s death was loosening Sandy’s tongue.

  “Costa Rica. Why were you glad she left?”

  “Because—” Sandy’s eyes narrowed as she assessed Charlie. “I really can’t talk about an employee.”

  “Former employee,” Charlie reminded her. “Dead former employee.”

  “Even so.”

  “Were you ever in the military?” Charlie asked.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I spent seven years in the air force, OSI. I just thought you might have served.”

  “Navy,” Sandy admitted after a moment. “Five years. Payback for Annapolis.”

  “A grad, huh? I went the ROTC route. Why’d you leave?”

  “I never intended to stay. I joined for the education, did my time, and donated my uniforms to the thrift shop without a single qualm. Six to nine months at sea, followed by a year or so in San Diego or Norfolk or the Pentagon, didn’t have much appeal. I applied to the Naval Academy solely to get out of Liverpool. That’s West Virginia, not England.” Sandy whiffed out a sharp breath.

  Just when Charlie was congratulating herself on the success of her “build rapport with the witness” strategy, Sandy stood again with a finality that told Charlie she was on the verge of eviction. “None of which has anything to do with the case at hand,” Sandy said. “I can’t talk about Heather-Anne or the pending litigation.” Walking past Charlie to the door, she pulled it open.

  Charlie rose stiffly and unconsciously rubbed at her hip. “Thanks for your time,” she said, moving toward Sandy and offering her hand once again.

  “What’s wrong with your leg?” Sandy asked, sharp eyes assessing Charlie’s gait.

  “A bullet in my gluteus maximus,” Charlie said, grinning slightly. “Or, as Forrest Gump would say, in my but-tock.”

  “I trained as a physical therapist after I left the navy,” Sandy said. “Come back if you want help getting back in shape.”

  Charlie had no doubt Sandy Sechrest could run her into the ground. “Thanks,” she said. “I just might do that.”

  She stepped into the hall, but a half-motion or a slight sound made her turn back to face Sandy Sechrest. After a brief hesitation, the woman said, “You might want to talk to Robyn. She was here when Heather-Anne was hired; I didn’t arrive until almost a year after that.”

  “Thank you,” Charlie said with real gratitude, recognizing that the Y director was trying to help her without compromising her organization. Employers needed to be cagey about releasing information about their employees for fear of lawsuits.

  Robyn, apparently another personal trainer, was with a client but would be done in fifteen minutes, Maureen informed Charlie when she stopped at the front desk. Charlie jotted a quick note for Robyn and decided to wait for her outside. Propping her shoulders on the wall beside the exit door, Charlie gazed at the parking structure that held her Subaru and wondered what tack to take with Robyn. Clear skies and a brilliant sun added up to an almost springlike day, one of the things Charlie liked best about living in Colorado. Even though it could get bitterly cold, it didn’t stay that way. It might snow three feet one day, but the sun would almost certainly pop out within a day or two, so you were never trapped at home for long, unlike spots in Minnesota or Michigan or the Dakotas where the snow might fall in late September and still be on the ground in May.

  The door beside her squeaked open and a pair of businessmen exited, followed by a short, muscular woman wearing one of the ubiquitous blue golf shirts and a puzzled look. “Miss Swift? You wanted to talk to me?” She waved the note Charlie had left.

  “Call me Charlie. You must be Robyn.”

  The woman jerked her head down once, setting brown corkscrew curls threaded with gray bouncing. “Is it true Heather-Anne’s dead?”

  Charlie nodded.

  The older woman fidgeted, one hand tugging at her ear, the other fingering the YMCA name tag pinned to her blue shirt. She looked like she was dying to gossip about Heather-Anne but couldn’t quite bring herself to speak ill of the dead.

  “Are you on break?” Charlie asked. “I could buy you a cup of coffee.”

  * * *

  Robyn chose the Pikes Perk on Tejon, several blocks from the Y, and Charlie wondered if she picked a coffee shop that far away to avoid running into co-workers. Charlie paid for her muffin and Robyn’s chai tea, thinking that it smelled like Christmas with its heavy cinnamon and clove scent, and carried them to the table where Robyn sat. Blinds-filtered sunlight striped the warm wood. The personal trainer fussed with the tea after Charlie set it down, giving Charlie a chance to study her. Fiftyish, or maybe a bit more, she had a plain face with slightly chipmunky cheeks and skin that showed traces of long-ago acne problems. Scraggly brows made an almost straight line over makeup-less eyes, but her mouth was surprisingly pretty, full lipped and with a natural pink color that warmed her whole face. Her body was fitness-champ tight and ripped, making a good advertisement for her personal trainer skills.

  “Were you and Heather-Anne close?” Charlie knew at once she’d made a mistake as Robyn snorted.

  “Do I look like a rich old guy who thinks with his dick?” she asked.

  “Only around the ears,” Charlie shot back, surprising a tiny smile out of the other woman.

  “Well, if you weren’t male, and willing to hand over the password to your bank account for a little flattery and silicone tits rubbing up against your arm while she showed you how to do lat pulldowns, and maybe more outside the Y for all I know, then she didn’t know you were alive.”

  Charlie occupied herself with tearing a bite off her banana nut muffin, not wanting to interrupt the flow of Robyn’s words.

  They sprayed out of her like soda out of a shaken bottle. “I knew she was trouble when she first walked through the door two years back. Trouble with a capital T. But Jake—he was the director then—he hired her on straight away. She said she had all sorts of personal trainer credentials, but I never believed it. I was studying for my AFAA certification then, and when I tried to get her to quiz me before an exam, it was clear she didn’t even know what the IT band was.” Robyn said it as if Heather-Anne had failed to recognize the name of the nation’s first president.

  “IT band” sounded like something to do with computers to Charlie.

  “Iliotibial band,” Robyn clarified, looking pleased with her knowledge. “It runs— Never mind. Just believe me when I say Heather-Anne should have known what it was, and she definitely didn’t. I might as well have been talking about rubber bands, for all she knew. Most of the women who work at the Y, especially the other trainers, agreed with me that she didn’t know shit from shinola, but the men all thought the sun shone out of her perky little ass.” She rolled her eyes at the gullibility of men. “Things got a little harder for her when Sandy took over from Jake.” Robyn smiled with remembered satisfaction. “Sandy went through all the personnel records and noticed that some employees, Heather-Anne among them, of course, didn’t have documentation of their degrees and certifications and such. She insisted that everyone update their records. Heather-Anne had one excuse after another, and it was just about then that the first of the complaints trickled in.”

  She paused, clearly wanting Charlie to respond. “What complaints?” Charlie asked.

  Robyn leaned forward, pushing her mug aside, to whisper, “A member’s wife alleged that Heather-Anne had stolen ten thousand dollars from them.”

&n
bsp; “How?” Charlie asked skeptically. “Climbed in their bedroom window, broke into their safe, and ran off with a bag full of cash? Stole a checkbook and forged their names?”

  “Just what I said,” Robyn said, leaning back with a satisfied expression. “From what I saw, men were more than happy to give Heather-Anne money. That’s probably what happened in this case: Some poor shmuck let Heather-Anne weave her wiles and bilk him out of ten grand and then didn’t have the balls to tell his wife what happened. There were some other complaints, but my friend Cass who worked in the front office and overheard a lot of this left, so I’m not quite so up on the details. A lot of it faded away after Sandy let Heather-Anne go, too.”

  “Can I talk to Cass?” Charlie jotted a few notes.

  “She’s in Laos with the Peace Corps.”

  A group of five women, clearly co-workers from a nearby office, squeezed past their table carrying mugs and pastries. A heavyset brunette laughed at something one of the others said and tilted her cup so coffee dribbled on Charlie’s blazer. Charlie endured the flood of apologies and hands swiping at her with napkins, surveyed her jacket ruefully, and turned back to Robyn when the group had settled themselves at a corner table.

  “Heather-Anne was training some guy named Hollis at the Y on Saturday; I saw her.”

  “Get out! That’s the guy. The one whose wife said she stole their money. Hollis Sloan. Sandy would shit a brick if she knew Heather-Anne was using the Y to train clients. I wonder how she sneaked in?” From the expression on Robyn’s face, Charlie knew the first thing she’d do when she got back to the Y was tell Sandy.

  “Did you know any of Heather-Anne’s friends? Did she ever talk about a boyfriend?” Charlie needed more people to interview about Heather-Anne, preferably someone who might even know her real name and where she’d come from.

  Robyn was shaking her head before Charlie finished the question. “With Heather-Anne, there was a new boyfriend every week. You couldn’t much blame them,” she added with an air of trying to be fair. “I mean, there she was, looking like Jennifer Aniston and treating them like they were God’s gift to the female race. What man wouldn’t cave? I’m sure some of them were married, too, from the way she got all sly when she mentioned them. Toward the end there was some guy named Len Something who seemed to be sticking around longer than most of the others, which probably just means he had more money than they did. Dumpy little guy.”

  “Les. Les Goldman.”

  Robyn snapped her fingers. “Yeah. I saw them together a couple of times. He was way gone on her. Oh! She had a roommate, too. A guy. I got the feeling they’d known each other for a while but that there was nothing romantic going on.”

  “Name?”

  “Al. I don’t know if that’s short for Alexander or Alan. His last name was—” She narrowed her eyes, trying to dredge up the memory. “Started with a B. Broadman? Broadwell? Sorry. I only met him once.” She shrugged, then looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get back. I’ve got a client in ten minutes.”

  Charlie stood with her. “Thanks for talking to me. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.” She handed Robyn her card.

  “You bet.” Robyn swept Charlie with a professional gaze. “If you want to get back in shape, give me a call. You’re holding up pretty well but starting to get a bit soft. Middle-age spread is a bitch, isn’t it?” She walked away.

  Charlie stared after her, incensed. Middle-aged? Thirty-seven wasn’t middle-aged! She wasn’t soft, either, just less hard than usual due to the bullet in the butt that had severely limited her workouts. A bullet she’d taken saving a young teen’s life, thank you very much. Arms crossed over her chest, she glared after Robyn until a patron said, “Excuse me,” and tried to squeeze past her. Charlie sucked her abs in and headed for the door and sunshine.

  15

  I overslept and only woke up Monday when the doorbell rang. Who in the world—? “Dexter, get that,” I called before looking at the clock and realizing the kids were already at school. I hoped. The bell rang again, playing that stupid classical piece—duh-duh-duh-DUH—that Les had thought was so clever. It drove me batty.

  “Coming!” I leaped out of bed, avoided looking at my sleep-mussed hair and the bags under my eyes, and threw on the pink velour robe hanging from the back of my door. It didn’t match my nightie with the parrots on it, but I tied the sash around my waist and headed down the stairs as duh-duh-duh-DUH sounded again. How much would it cost to get my doorbell ringtone changed? I was wondering who I could call to find out when I pulled the door open to find Detective Lorrimore and two uniformed police officers standing there. I gaped at them.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Goldman,” Detective Lorrimore said politely. She wore a tan pantsuit that did nothing for her—you’d think any woman who’d ever seen a photo of Hillary Clinton would ban pantsuits from her wardrobe—and had her reddish hair held back with a tortoiseshell headband. One of the cops behind her slipped his sunglasses on and nudged his partner. I looked down to see that my robe had come open and my yellow nightie fluttered in the morning breeze. I gave him an indignant look: The parrots weren’t that bright.

  “Would you like to come in?” I wanted to bite my tongue as soon as the words were out of my mouth. My southern upbringing tripped me up every time. If I invited the police in, was that the same as giving them permission to search my house? Is that what they were here for? I eyed them uncertainly.

  “Actually, Mrs. Goldman,” Detective Lorrimore said, “we were looking for your son, Dexter. Is he here?”

  “Dexter?” I caught my breath, feeling suddenly dizzy. “Why do you want Dexter?” My mind flashed to the other times the police had shown up looking for Dexter. There’d been the shoplifting charge that Les had fixed by talking to the store owner, the time he’d been clocked doing 120 on the Hancock Expressway—Les had nearly blown a gasket over that one—the misunderstanding with the Lockes, and that Halloween incident a couple of years back. “Let me get my checkbook,” I said, resigned.

  Detective Lorrimore’s brows twitched together. “We need to talk to your son.”

  Something in her voice told me this wasn’t about somebody’s light-up Christmas reindeer rearranged in “lewd positions that undermined the family values of the entire cul-de-sac,” as the homeowners association chairwoman put it. My mouth felt dry. “Why?”

  With a heavy sigh, the detective said, “We think he might have some information about Ms. Pawlusik’s death.”

  I slammed the door shut and leaned my back against it. My heart beat faster than a hummingbird’s. What kind of information could Dexter have about Heather-Anne’s death? The doorbell played again, and fists hammered on the door. Sheepishly, I opened it to see the three police persons staring at me incredulously.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I had to sneeze.” I dragged a shredded tissue from my pocket and sniffled into it. “Uh, Dexter’s in school,” I said. “Can we make an appointment for this afternoon?” That would give me time to—

  “No.” Detective Lorrimore sounded as firm as my Nana Fitterling when she told me and my brothers we couldn’t have five dollars to visit the Pet Parlor and host a neighborhood goldfish-swallowing contest. “You may accompany us to the school and sign Dexter out. I’ll wait here while you dress.” She signaled to the patrol officers, and they climbed into a police car and departed. I craned my neck to see if any of my neighbors were watching. Detective Lorrimore crossed to her SUV and sat in the driver’s seat with the door open.

  “I’ll be just a minute,” I said, seeing no way out of it.

  My brain fizzed with questions as I got dressed, did my hair, and put on my makeup. I chose the red-and-white-striped Hilfiger sweater because red makes me feel braver. Kendall says it makes me look like a candy cane, but I think candy canes are fun. My hair needed washing, but I didn’t have time. A few minutes with the curling iron would have to do. Feeling rushed and only half put together, I hurried down the stairs, grabbed a slice of lemon
pound cake from the kitchen, and burst out the front door. Only twenty-seven minutes had gone by. Detective Lorrimore looked at her watch in a “what took you so long?” kind of way and started her engine.

  I followed her to Cheyenne Mountain High School in the Hummer. She let me go first as we entered the school, and I approached the student sign-out window nervously. “I’m Gigi Goldman, and I need to pick up Dexter for … for an appointment,” I said, conscious of Detective Lorrimore listening to every word. A bell rang just then, making me jump, and high schoolers poured into the halls.

  The woman behind the desk, who doesn’t think much of Dexter, looked at me over the top of her reading glasses. “Mrs. Goldman, Dexter isn’t here today.”

  “What?” I glanced over my shoulder at Detective Lorrimore, who had stiffened. “But he has to be; it’s a school day.”

  She shook her head, the chains that dangled from her glasses clicking. Shuffling through a pile of papers, she pulled one out. “Your daughter turned in this note, signed by you, saying Dexter was ill today. Scarlet fever, it says,” she added in a snippy tone, accusing finger pointing to the phrase.

  The signature looked a lot like mine, and I wondered how often Dexter had signed my name to similar notes and not been found out. “Oh,” I stuttered. “Um, can I speak to Kendall for a moment?” The attendance lady sent a student runner to find Kendall, and I turned around to face Detective Lorrimore.

  “I heard,” she said, before I could say anything. “Do you have any idea where he could be?”

  I shook my head miserably.

  “This looks bad,” the detective said. “If he’s done a runner…”

  “He hasn’t ‘done a runner,’” I said, getting more worried by the second. “Maybe Kendall—” My daughter came around the corner then, biology book (which I’d never seen before) tucked under her arm, blond hair French-braided.

  “Your hair looks cute, honey,” I said, leaning over to kiss her.