Now that she’d gotten over being mad at Dmitri, she was embracing self-flagellation with a passion. I inserted a question to stem the tide. “Can you think of any place he might be? Does he have a friend he might be staying with, or a special place he likes to go?”
“You got something to write on?”
I passed her my notebook, and she scribbled a couple of names before handing it back. “I can’t think of any special place—”
The sound of an approaching motor made us both look up. The Czarina Catering van negotiated the tight turn into the parking lot and idled. A man got out, opened the double doors at the back of the van, and disappeared into the kitchen without so much as looking in our direction. “I’ve got to get back to work,” Fiona said. “Y’know, Boyce might know of a spot.” She lifted her chin toward the kitchen. “He and Dmitri went off for a weekend, once. Fishing, I think. Maybe he—”
She broke off as the man emerged from the kitchen, pushing a rolling cart with a large white box perched atop it. “Hey, Boyce,” Fiona called. He looked up, all mousy hair and pasty skin, as we walked in his direction. “This woman’s a detective, and she wants to talk to you—”
Panic flared in his eyes, and he shoved the cart toward us, hard. Boyce took off down the alley, the green hood of his fleece pullover flapping behind him. The cart careened toward us. I reached out a hand to stop it, but one wheel lodged between two cobblestones and it jolted to a stop. The box, however, obeying some law of physics about items in motion staying in motion, didn’t stop. It slid off the stainless steel top of the cart and landed heavily but upright at our feet, the box splitting open to reveal the cake, still largely intact. As I watched, the top layer teetered on its pedestals. Fiona lunged for it. It slid away from her grasp and the whole cake collapsed as if dynamited, splattering white cake, blue icing, and gooey filling onto my shoes.
“Oh, shit,” Fiona and I said in unison.
7
With Bavarian cream filling squishing in my shoes, I climbed the stairs to Boyce Edgerton’s third-floor apartment off of Cascade Avenue in the heart of Colorado College country, my tailbone shrieking with every step. Fiona, furious with him, had given me his full name and the name of his complex.
“The Burtons are going to shit a brick,” she’d observed, picking one bruised carnation out of the cake muck at our feet. “The baptism will be ruined.”
I was pretty sure that baptisms “took” whether or not there was designer cake, and said as much. Fiona gave me a look that said I was dimmer than a night-light. “But the Burtons won’t pay us. Plus they’ll want their deposit back. I’d better get Gary—”
She disappeared inside the house, tracking cake the whole way, while I jumped in my Subaru and headed after Boyce. I’d found his reaction interesting, to say the least. Very few people took to their heels upon hearing I wanted to talk to them. A fair number of people didn’t want to talk to me a second time, for some reason or other, but I’m not that off-putting at first glance. Boyce’s flight was evidence of a guilty conscience, I deduced. Whether or not it was related to Dmitri Fane remained to be seen.
The building Boyce lived in was a beautiful old home converted to apartments. A wide walkway led to three shallow steps and an unlocked outer door. Didn’t these people know crime was rampant? One of the mail slots in the foyer said B. EDGERTON and gave the apartment number as 3A. I climbed. Arriving on an expansive landing with lovely, wide-planked hardwood floors, now scuffed by careless tenants dragging bicycles and strollers and furniture up and down, I knocked on the only door in sight. I had figured Boyce would scurry home—most critters run for their dens when panicked.
I was right. He pulled the door wide and then, when he saw me standing there, tried to shut it. I blocked it with a stiff arm. Unable to flee, he resorted to shouting.
“If that bitch Vanessa says I violated the TRO, she’s lying her head off. I haven’t been near her, Detective.” Anger mottled his fair skin an ugly puce.
The penny dropped. He thought I was a cop. I was not above taking advantage of his misconception. “I’m not here about the restraining order, Edgerton,” I said.
“You’re not?” Surprise dropped his arm from the door, and I walked in.
The apartment smelled vaguely of dirty laundry, stale pizza, and marijuana. Hm. All the windows were closed, and it was uncomfortably warm. I shrugged out of my peacoat but held on to it, unwilling to drape it on the only piece of furniture, a tatty futon stippled with cat hair. Ugh. A sheet-cum-curtain obscured the only window. A small kitchenette opened directly off the living area and featured a two-burner stove, a fridge, and a recycling bin piled high with Budweiser and Mountain Dew cans. Edgerton looked to be in his late twenties, but he’d apparently never outgrown his taste for frat boy life, or he’d reverted after he and the bitchy Vanessa broke up.
“I’m interested in Dmitri Fane,” I said in my most coplike voice.
Looking confused, Edgerton closed the door and gangled over to me. He wasn’t fat, but he looked soft, and I figured running away from Czarina Catering was the most exercise he’d gotten in a month. “What about Dmitri?”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Hey, is this about what happened Friday night? I had nothing to do with it!”
“I haven’t accused you of anything, Edgerton,” I said. My tone said I still might. “Tell me about Dmitri. Were you friends?”
“We hung out sometimes. I stayed with him for a couple weeks after Van kicked me out, until I found this place.” One large hand gestured at our palatial surroundings.
“Ms. Campbell said you and he went away for a weekend. Where did you go?”
“Fly-fishing,” Edgerton said. His eyes, a surprisingly attractive hazel, lit up. “It was sweet. I caught a rainbow this big.” He measured air with his hands.
“Congratulations. Where did you stay?”
“A cabin outside of Estes Park. We fished the Big Thompson.”
My pulse quickened. A mountain cabin sounded like a great place for a guy to disappear to. “Did Fane own the cabin? Do you have the address?”
“I could find it, but I don’t know the address. It was off of Route 7.”
A clinking sound from the kitchen made me turn. One of the beer cans toppled off the recycling bin and rolled across the linoleum. “What—?” I started. Then I saw a pointy nose wiggle behind the trash can. “Rat!” I yelped, pointing.
“Don’t shoot,” Edgerton shouted, zipping around me and holding up his arms as if to block me. “It’s only Sadie.”
I gaped at him. “Shoot? I’m not armed.”
“You’re not?” His eyes narrowed and his arms dropped to his side. Just then, a rodent slinked over to sniff at his jeans leg, and Edgerton bent down to pick it up. “She’s a ferret,” he said, holding the creature out to me. It looked like a skinny mink with a raccoony face, complete with black mask. It wrinkled its nose and drew back its lip, making a hissing sound.
Stroking the rodent, Edgerton looked me up and down suspiciously. “Aren’t cops supposed to wear their guns all the time?”
“I never said I was a cop.”
“Fiona said you were a detective! I thought—”
“I’m a private detective,” I said, offering him one of my cards. “About that cabin—”
“You lied to me.” He advanced toward me, the weasel egging him on from a perch on his shoulder.
I held my ground, wondering uneasily what he’d done to Vanessa to earn a restraining order. “I did not. You assumed,” I said. “Look, we’re on the same side here. We’re both concerned about Dmitri, right? If you’d—”
“Out.” He stalked past me and yanked the door open. “Now.”
I slipped my arms into my coat. “Give me a call if you think of anything else,” I said as if he weren’t glaring at me and practically shoving me out the door. “Especially about Dmitri’s cabin.”
“I don’t think it was his.” Edgerton relented in the face of m
y imminent departure. “I think it was his aunt’s.”
I stopped on the threshold. “His aunt’s?”
“Yeah, you know, that coach woman. What’s her name? I only met her once. Julie Bublova?”
* * *
Could Boyce Edgerton be right? I asked myself as I drove away from his apartment. Was it possible that Yuliya Bobrova was related to Dmitri Fane? Dara Peterson certainly hadn’t mentioned it. I dialed her number on my cell phone and punched up the heat in my car a couple of notches.
I recapped my investigation when Dara answered, then asked about Fane and Bobrova’s relationship.
“His aunt?” Her voice was skeptical. “Neither of them ever said anything about that, and she treats him like she treats the rest of us … like dirt.”
Assuring her I’d keep her posted, I hung up and headed for the office. Gigi was out, and I spent the afternoon doing paperwork on a couple of recently completed cases. Early winter dusk was falling as I headed home, and I flicked on the Subaru’s lights. I’d been counting on getting some skiing in this weekend, but it looked like this case would keep me tied to the city. My mood darkened along with the sky. I’d spent last weekend tiling my powder room instead of skiing, and now it looked like I’d have to pass on the slopes again. Plus, my head and tailbone ached, and I was not feeling up to helping Father Dan with whatever project he wanted to tackle. When he’d phoned this morning before I left for the office, he only said he needed my help with something. Since he’d admired my remodeled bathroom greatly, I thought he might want some help with a tiling project.
Rounding the corner onto Tudor Road, I automatically looked toward the Dumpster in St. Paul’s parking lot. I’d seen a bear there late this summer—the same bear, I was pretty sure, who wrecked my bird feeders to dine on my birdseed—but he was hibernating at this time of year, though, and I continued past the church and the rectory where Dan lived to my house. Parking in my driveway, I let the peace of the quiet area drape itself over me. A great horned owl hooted as she set out on her night’s hunting. The scent of pine trees drifted on the chilly wind. It smelled like snow, and I reminded myself to check the weather forecast.
I looked longingly at the hot tub on my deck as I changed into a comfy pair of sweats and stuffed my cake-speckled slacks and Pepsi-stained turtleneck in the hamper. Something crackled in my slacks pocket, and I withdrew a handful of receipts. I stared at them, puzzled, then remembered: They’d come from Dmitri Fane’s closet. I tossed them on my dresser to look at tomorrow. I’d told Dan I’d come over, so I put off sinking into the steaming water and trudged through the hundred yards of young pines and scrub oaks that separated our houses, comfortable on the familiar terrain even without a light.
“Feed me,” I said when he opened the door. Six foot five with shoulders to match and thick blond hair, Dan didn’t look like an Episcopalian priest.
“Here.” He thrust a glass of Scotch into my hand before I’d even stepped into the warm foyer, his large hand wrapped around the glass seeming more suited to handling a rifle or power tools than a communion host.
“Marry me.” I took a sip of the Scotch and closed my eyes, letting the liquid burn its way down my throat to my stomach.
He smiled. “You’re too easy.” He led the way back to his kitchen, where I could smell something delicious.
“Am not.” I scuffed off my boots and padded after him, hoisted myself onto a red leatherette bar stool, one of two drawn up to his counter, and watched him stir whatever was bubbling on the stove. Dan’s broad back blocked my view of dinner.
“Venison stew,” he answered my unspoken question.
“Have you been out shooting Bambi?” I knew Dan had a couple of guns and that he was quite the marksman. We’d gone to the range together once or twice. I didn’t know he hunted.
“A parishioner got Bambi with a crossbow and shared the wealth.” He turned around, and his smile faded. “Good God, Charlie, what happened to you?” He crossed the kitchen in two strides and cupped my face in his large hand, tilting it so the light illuminated my forehead.
I’d almost forgotten the lump. It was probably a lovely mix of purples by now. His palm felt hard and callused against my cheek. The calluses reminded me that Dan hadn’t always been a priest, that he’d only been ordained ten years ago, and I wondered (not for the first time) what he’d done before answering “the call.” Something about the way his body stilled when he concentrated, his fierce intelligence, and the way he kept himself fit told me he hadn’t been an actuary or a shoe salesman. I twisted my face away from his hand, which felt a bit too good against my skin. “Um, I got conked on the head while rifling a famous figure skater’s bathroom.”
“Of course,” he said sardonically. Light from the overhead fixture glinted off his blond hair. “So the figure skater came home and smacked you? Who can blame her?”
“Him. He’s the one I’m looking for. Someone else hit me while I was going through his condo, looking for a clue as to where he might be hiding out.”
“Start at the beginning,” Dan ordered, sliding onto the bar stool beside me.
I filled him in on the case.
“So what do you think’s going on?” he asked. “Did Fane leave under his own steam, or is he in trouble?”
“Both, maybe,” I suggested. “I don’t know. I think he left on his own, but I’m damned if I know why. Everyone agrees that skating is his life, so it seems odd that he’d run off right before the Olympic trials.”
“Damn odd,” Dan agreed, getting up to dish the stew into stoneware bowls. He pulled a loaf of crusty bread out of the oven, sliced it, and slid it onto the counter. “Here okay?”
“Sure.” I was pleasantly relaxed and didn’t feel like getting up to move to the dining room.
“So what’s your next move?” Dan rejoined me, his hip bumping mine as he settled onto the bar stool.
“Talk to the coach again. Dara says she’s usually at the rink by five and the first skater arrives at five fifteen. Barbaric. I’ll get there early and see if I can’t have a real conversation with Comrade Bobrova.” Using my teeth, I ripped a bite of bread from the chunk in my hand and chewed hard.
“Do you think she’s really Fane’s aunt?”
“I don’t know, and I’m not sure it matters one way or the other. Maybe she is and they kept it secret so the other skaters wouldn’t whine about favoritism. Maybe she’s not and Boyce is confused. Totally possible. His pad reeked of MJ. Did I tell you he keeps a weasel in the house?”
I swiveled my stool away from the counter so I could hop off it. “You cooked, so I’ll clean up,” I said, motioning him to stay seated. “Tell me what you want my help with. Are you going to redo your bathroom?”
He looked confused for a moment, automatically sliding our bowls and plates toward me as I ran water in the sink. “My bathroom? No. I want your help finding a missing kid.”
“That I can do,” I said, relieved that he didn’t want manual labor. I wasn’t up to it after getting beaten up by a psychotic skating coach and a mysterious intruder. “Who?” I squirted citrusy dish soap into the sink and made it bubble up by running the water hard.
“He goes by Kungfu.”
“That’s a name?”
Dan shrugged. “Nickname. He’s an Asian kid, maybe sixteen.”
I looked at him suspiciously. “Is this one of your runaways?” Dan volunteered at a nonprofit downtown, Dellert House, that provided temporary lodging for homeless men and teens, some of whom were runaways. He did counseling with the boys. “Your runaway ran away?”
“Something like that,” he admitted with a crooked smile.
“How do you know he didn’t go back home?” I scrubbed at a stubborn spot on the stew pan.
Dan shook his head. “He didn’t.”
The expression on his face persuaded me. “Okay. Do you have a picture? When did you last see him?”
“Saturday morning.” Dan pulled a square of paper from his pocket and unfolded i
t. Four teens mugged for the camera, holding hammers and pliers and screwdrivers. “This was taken a week ago, the morning we took the guys to work on the Habitat house. That’s him,” Dan said, tapping the kid second from the left.
I studied him. He looked ordinary, with straight black hair long enough to tuck behind his ears, almond-shaped eyes, and crooked teeth displayed in a wide grin. “What makes you think he didn’t just move on?”
“Because I hired him to do some custodial work at the church,” Dan said, a line between his brows. “He needed the money. He hinted that he was saving for something big but wouldn’t say what. He worked last Friday and half a day Saturday but didn’t show up on Tuesday like he was supposed to. I asked around Dellert’s, but no one’s seen him. His stuff is still there.”
I dried my hands on a paper towel and chucked it toward the trash. I’d done pro bono work for Dan before, but this case seemed like a loser from the word go. A kid who’d run away from home wouldn’t hesitate to ditch a halfway house he found confining. Or maybe he’d had a run-in with the law. I’d check.
“Why this kid, Dan? Don’t runaways drift in and out of Dellert’s all the time?” I studied his face. He seemed tired, his skin a little gray under the perpetual tan, the lines at the corners of his eyes a bit deeper. I usually guessed his age as being early forties to early fifties; tonight, he looked like he belonged on the latter end of that scale.
“I don’t know,” Dan admitted, rubbing a hand down his face. “He seemed like he could make it, brighter than most, with a real plan. Maybe he reminds me of someone I used to know. Shit.”
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