I nodded.
“He was really broken up about that. I found him crying one day—I think we were the last ones to leave the rink—and he told me a lot about his dad.”
“It was a car accident, right?” I tried to remember what Dara had told me.
“Yeah. It was icy. Mr. Fane slid off the road and crashed into a tree. Died instantly, from what I heard. Dmitri was obsessed with it for a while, convinced there was another car involved, but he hasn’t talked about it recently. I told my mom—she’s a psychologist—and she said that it wasn’t unusual for people in Dmitri’s situation to want to blame someone else, to look for a scapegoat. She said it was probably hard for him to accept that his dad’s carelessness may have caused the accident, or to come to terms with … with the randomness of it all.”
That made some sense. It takes a certain amount of maturity to accept that life is not all about you personally, to accept that bad things—disease, accidents, home invasions—happen to good people, as some popular book put it. Even though he was twenty-six, I didn’t have the impression that Dmitri was maxing out the maturity scale; quite the opposite, in fact.
“Do you know where he might have gone? I’m interested in any ideas, no matter how far out they might seem.” I was at the grasping-at-straws stage of the investigation, and I hated it. I couldn’t seem to grab hold of Dmitri, get a feel for who he was, untangle his relationships.
“Fini,” Estelle said. She picked up stray pins from the carpet and straightened to her full height. Without a word, she crossed the room and exited through the hall door.
Angel stepped off the platform. “Let me think about it while I change.” She ducked into the bedroom, leaving the door cracked. “Y’know,” she called, “I forgot. I saw Dmitri Saturday. He was coming out of the Whole Foods, the one by the DSW?”
I knew the store she meant. It was on the east side of Academy, a couple of blocks down from Swift Investigations. “What did he say?”
“I didn’t talk to him. I was going into the DSW, and I saw him come out of the Whole Foods pushing a cart of groceries. I waved, but he didn’t see me. He was talking with a guy. Arguing, maybe.”
“Who?”
She pulled the bedroom door wide and strolled into the living room wearing jeans and a sweater. A chopstick skewered her light brown hair into a messy knot at the back of her head. “I dunno. Not a skater. He was older and a bit overweight. He had brownish hair, I think. I really didn’t pay much attention. Is it important?”
“Maybe.” I thought about what she’d told me. Based on my brief reconnoiter of Dmitri’s apartment, he hadn’t stashed a cartful of food there. Did that suggest that he’d been stocking up for a trip, maybe a trip to the mountain cabin? Was the man she’d seen him with the same man Mrs. Peterson had seen? Could he be a boyfriend? A sugar daddy? I had no clue. It’d be nice to know what they were arguing about.
“I’ve got to go,” Angel said with an apologetic grimace. “Trev and I are talking to a new coach.”
“You trained with Bobrova?”
“Yeah, like Dara and Dmitri.”
“That must have been cozy.” I thought of Trevor’s anger toward Dmitri. How awkward for Dara. Then again, she might have liked having two men fight over her … some women get off on that. If I caught up with her, I’d ask her.
“Bobrova thought the competition between us made all of us train harder, especially Dmitri and Trev,” the girl said. “It’s okay most of the time. Only, every now and then things get tense, you know? Trev—” She bit back whatever she was going to say. “Have you heard how she is?”
She was back to Bobrova, and I realized I hadn’t called the hospital or Montgomery to see how the coach was. Maybe she was conscious and could talk about the assault. Maybe she’d like to talk to me, the woman who had saved her life. I’m not above capitalizing on gratitude when the opportunity arises. I’d swing by the hospital as soon as I was done here. “No.”
“I’ve really got to go,” Angel said, inching toward the door. “I hope you find Dmitri.” She slipped through the door, passing Estelle, who returned carrying an armload of costumes.
I had started to follow Angel, murmuring apologies for having interrupted the fitting, when the tall woman said, “That one didn’t fall far from the tree.”
I wrinkled my brow. “Angel?”
Estelle shook her head so the ends of her dyed black hair whisked against her shoulders. “Dmitri. I’m sorry; I couldn’t help overhearing.”
“No, it’s okay. So you knew his dad?”
“I knew both Stuart and Irena. I designed their costumes when I was first starting out. It is fair to say they gave me my start. They were already established—world champions—when I showed them my designs.”
I watched as she draped the costumes individually over the curved back of the sofa, her large hands surprisingly graceful as she smoothed and tucked the fabrics. If she was in her fifties as I guessed, she was certainly old enough to have worked with Dmitri’s parents. “What were they like?”
She turned, appraising me from irises so pale I couldn’t tell if they were blue or gray. “Stuart Fane was a lovely man,” she said finally. “A gentleman in the true sense of the word: gentle. An exquisite skater.”
“Dmitri takes after him?” I asked doubtfully.
“Non,” she said scornfully. “Absolument, non. Well, only in that he, too, is a once-in-a-generation skater. Of course you know Stuart was not his biological father?”
I remembered Dara saying Fane had adopted Dmitri when he married the boy’s mother. “But you said acorn … tree?”
“Dmitri takes after his maman,” Estelle said. “Agnes!”
The female assistant appeared, hovering in the doorway. “Yes, Estelle?”
“Nicole’s costume.” She pointed to an emerald chiffon number with rhinestones spattered across the bodice. “It needs more stones along the neckline.”
The assistant nodded her head. “I see what you mean. I’ll take care of it.” In a blink, she snatched the costume up and disappeared again.
“That one will go far,” Estelle said with an approving nod. “Pierre…” She rolled her eyes, the fringe of fake lashes giving her an almost comical air. “He is my sister’s son.”
Nodding with understanding—nepotism sucked—I prodded, “Dmitri?”
“So like Irena,” she murmured. “That woman had focus—I’ll give her that. Focus on her skating and focus on Dmitri. She hadn’t wanted a baby, she told me—afraid it would derail her skating career—but by the time I met them, she adored that boy. She taught him to skate, scared away bullies, challenged coaches who said he wasn’t good enough.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad to me,” I said, thinking of my own absentee parents. “What about Stuart?”
“Ah, Stuart loved him, too,” she said, her expression softening. “His death was a tragedy.” She turned away to fuss with the costumes, but not before I caught the gleam of wetness in her eyes. She’d loved Stuart Fane, I realized, and been jealous of Dmitri’s mother. She must have been plain and awkward as a young woman, not yet confident in her height and style, while Irena Fane, as a pair skater, was probably petite and lovely. I felt inexplicably sorry for the young Estelle.
“Do you have any idea where Dmitri might be?” I asked when she remained silent.
“None at all,” she said, her tone brusque now, as if to make up for her brief display of emotion, “but he’ll turn up in time for Nationals. Skating is everything to him.” She paused as if reconsidering. “And winning. Skating and winning.”
13
Kendall was waiting by the car when I got back to it, jiggling from foot to foot with suppressed excitement. For the first time, she reminded me of her mother. “Guess what Trevor said,” she ordered as we belted ourselves in.
“He confessed to kidnapping Dmitri and promised to take you to the dungeon where he’s holding him prisoner.”
“No, he—”
“He has
proof Dmitri is a terrorist who’s going to bring the world to its knees by detonating a bioweapon at the next big skating event.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and sat back with a huff. “Fine, don’t take me seriously.”
A twinge of remorse zapped me. I looked at her stony profile. “I’m sorry, Kendall. I was kidding. Anything you got from Trevor would be useful. Heaven knows I haven’t dug up anything yet.”
Mollified, she slewed in her seat to face me. “Well, you know he was really pissed when he left Estelle’s room. I caught up with him in the elevator and, well, I let him think I’m on his side.”
“His side?”
“Yeah, you know, on the Dara thing. I told him how rotten it was that Dmitri had stolen Dara away from him. Like, it was totally unfair. Boys like it when you take their side.” She nodded sagely.
I bit back a smile and prompted, “And he said…?”
“He said he knew for a fact that Dmitri was splitting up with Dara.” She sat back with a satisfied air, knowing she’d surprised me.
“Really? Did he say why? Or how he knew this?”
“No.” She looked disgruntled. “I asked him, but he closed his mouth tight like he was sorry he’d said anything. When the elevator got to the lobby, he took off.”
I mulled over this piece of information, making the turn from Circle Drive onto the I-25 ramp. “So, would that mean Trevor thinks he can get back together with Dara?”
“He couldn’t do that. Not before the Olympics, anyway. You qualify as a pair—it’s not like you can swap partners whenever you want. Besides, there’s no way they could learn new routines, or…” She shook her head rapidly, unable to verbalize the complexities. “There’s no way.”
I believed her. “I think I need to talk to Mr. Trevor Anthony.”
“So I helped?” She looked at me eagerly, a blond Yorkie waiting for a treat.
“You did. Good job.” I smiled at her.
“Does that mean I get a raise?”
My laughter put her back in moody teenager mode, and her silence lasted until we arrived back at the office. As we pulled into the unusually crowded lot, her eyes got big. “What’s that about?”
My gaze followed her pointing finger to a small crowd—maybe fifteen people—carrying signs and marching up and down the sidewalk in front of Domenica’s. Parking in my usual spot, I got out slowly, trying to read the pickets without betraying interest. God knows I didn’t want to attract the attention of a marcher who might want to convert me to her cause. Most of the marchers were female, although there were a couple of men, both of whom had been AARP eligible for at least three decades.
The sign nearest me said KEEP SMUT OUT in stenciled red letters.
“What smut?” Kendall asked, betraying more curiosity than distaste.
I tried to shush her, but her voice had carried to the marchers, and a thin woman with a sign reading WHEN PORN/WAS BORN/WE ALL MOURN strode to us. A parka hood rimmed with fake fur framed a bony face with strong black brows and a nose like a ski slope. Righteous indignation (or maybe the freezing wind) stained her cheeks red. She carried a clipboard in her other hand and sixty years of dissatisfaction in her face.
“Very poetic,” I said, nodding at the sign, hoping to distract her.
“Isn’t it?” A pleased look lightened her face. “I think poetry is so much more powerful than prose.”
“Absolutely,” I said. More powerful still if the verb tenses matched. I was no English major, but “Was born/We all mourn” bugged me. “I’ve always liked ‘Nothing sucks like an Electrolux,’” I offered. “The vacuum, remember? Very powerful.”
Poetry Woman looked offended.
Maybe “sucks” was an unfortunate turn of phrase in this context. I tried to edge Kendall toward the office door.
She didn’t take the hint. “What smut?” she asked again.
Poetry Woman slid her eyes toward Domenica’s. “In there,” she said in a hushed voice. “That store sells—” She broke off as if suddenly assessing Kendall’s age. “Well, it sells products that aren’t suitable for a child your age to even know about.” She primmed her mouth into a tight purse.
“Like vibrators and stuff? Cool.”
The woman gaped at Kendall, then bent her flinty gaze on me. I could see she was debating calling Child Protective Services to accuse me of corrupting a minor.
A news van pulled into the lot, generating a twitter of excitement among the protesters. Kendall’s eyes lit up as a handsome reporter from the local CBS affiliate climbed out of the van. She smoothed her hair and reached for the lip gloss in her pocket. I did not think Gigi would appreciate seeing her daughter discuss the merits of a sex toys store on the nightly news. “Inside,” I ordered her.
“But—”
“It’s time to study your catechism.”
“Huh?”
“Kids,” I said with a “what can you do?” smile at the picketer as Kendall stuck her lower lip out and reluctantly trudged the four steps to Swift Investigations. I heaved a sigh of relief as she disappeared inside, grabbed the leaflet Poetry Woman thrust at me, and ducked into the office before the reporter got within recording distance.
Once inside, I balled up the page and tossed it toward the trash can.
“Did you hear about Domenica’s?” Gigi asked, with a sideways look at her daughter.
Kendall had settled at her card table and was busy painting her fingernails cotton candy pink.
“Hard not to.” I jerked my head toward the demonstrators outside. They were chanting something now, probably for the benefit of the news crew. Thankfully, the words were muffled. “Have you been over to check out her stock? Maybe she’s having an after-Christmas sale.”
“Charlie!” Gigi stared at me, then giggled when she saw my grin.
“I don’t know why they’re kicking up such a fuss about a few dildos,” Kendall said nonchalantly. “It’s not like you can’t buy them, like, all over the Web.” She blew on her wet nails.
“What do you know about—? Where did you hear—?” Gigi goggled at her daughter, clearly agitated. “We are canceling our Internet—we can’t afford it anyway.”
I’d never heard Gigi sound stern. I didn’t know she was capable of “stern.” I suppressed the urge to yell, “Go, Gigi!”
“Mo-om!” Kendall shot to her feet, face a picture of outrage.
“Maybe Kendall should take the rest of the day off,” I suggested. “We’re not going to get any customers through here with all that going on outside. This might be a good time for me to head up to Estes Park if you found Dmitri’s cabin.”
“It’s Yuliya Bobrova’s cabin,” Gigi said, crossing to Kendall and trying to hug her. “I’m sorry, sugah.”
For what? Trying to protect her daughter from Internet smut?
Kendall held up her hands to fend off the hug. “Now look what you’ve done—my nails are smudged.” She flounced to her table.
So much for acting parental. Still, Gigi’d actually been angry with Kendall for 6.2 seconds—a record in my brief experience with the Goldmans.
“Why don’t you call your brother? He can pick you up.” Gigi returned to her desk and sorted through a stack of papers. “The title’s in her name. Here’s the address. She’s owned it since 1990. There’s no phone listing.”
I glanced at my watch: one thirty. I was suddenly eager to get away. The morning’s discovery of Bobrova—was it really almost nine hours ago?—and the day’s interviews, not to mention my injuries from yesterday, had worn me out. I wanted time alone to think and sort through the bits and pieces of the Fane puzzle without interruption. The two-and-a-half-hour drive to Estes Park was just the ticket. If I left now, I’d arrive before dark.
I told Gigi my plan. “Oh, and I’ll stop by Memorial and see if I can talk to Bobrova on my way out of town,” I added, hoping the woman was conscious. The sight of Gigi taking notes as I talked jogged my memory. “Didn’t you say you’re staking out a tattoo parlor?
Something to do with that kid Dan wants to find?”
She nodded. “I’m sure the man that works there—Graham—recognized Kungfu’s photo. In fact,” she leaned closer and dropped her voice, “it wouldn’t surprise me if there was skullduggery going on at Tattoo4U.”
“Really? Skullduggery?” I’d never heard the word used in conversation and wondered if she’d picked it up from one of the PI magazines she devoured. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time there’s been a little back-room drug dealing at a tattoo parlor. Try not to blow the place up.”
Gigi looked hurt. “That only happened once. Besides, I won’t be going into the place; I’m going to try out some of the new long-range surveillance equipment. The parabolic microphone should work great, and maybe I’ll take the NVGs”—she used the acronym self-consciously—“in case I’m there after dark.”
“Don’t get caught.” I thought her chances of getting a lead on Kungfu were nil, but if it gave her joy to try out the spy gadgets she’d insisted Swift Investigations purchase, I wasn’t going to stop her. After all, how much trouble could she get into with a microphone and some night-vision goggles?
* * *
Memorial Hospital on the north side of Colorado Springs is a modern-looking building of stone and curves and glass. When I arrived after packing an overnight bag at home and leaving a note on Dan’s door, the parking lot was mostly empty. At almost three o’clock on a Friday afternoon, the doctors had left for their ski condos in Aspen and Steamboat. Visitors were taking a break before sitting with their sick loved ones for a couple of hours in the evening. I hurried across the windswept parking lot and into the lobby. With its open plan, cozy seating areas, and Pikes Peak views, it looked more like the lobby of an upscale hotel than a hospital. Yuliya Bobrova was still alive, the woman staffing the information desk told me, but in ICU. She wouldn’t update me on Bobrova’s condition beyond “not dead.” Following the signs, I elevatored up to the ICU and bumped into Montgomery as I got off. Literally.
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