Swift Edge

by Laura Disilverio

  “Cell phone?”

  He hesitated, sighed, and rattled it off from memory. “If you get hold of her, tell her to get here yesterday or she’s fired, too.”

  The way Chemerkin flung the F-word around, he might be auditioning to replace Donald Trump on The Apprentice.

  I thanked him and headed for my car, punching Fiona’s number into my phone. It rang once and went straight to voice mail. Worried about the young woman, I backed carefully out of the lot and headed down Tejon, wondering how long it would take me to come up with an address for someone with the common last name of Campbell. I was about to call Gigi and put her to work on it when I spotted a slim figure in dark jeans and a teal sweater walking fast on the other side of the street, shoulders hunched against the chilly wind. Relief melted through me. Making a U-turn, I pulled the car up beside her, earning a wary glance and a quickened pace until I buzzed down the window. “Fiona!”

  Fiona halted briefly, then kept walking. “I’ve got to get to work,” she said as I kept pace with her, earning a honk from the car behind me.

  “I’ll give you a ride.” Pushing open the passenger door, I invited her in.

  Obviously torn, she finally slid onto the seat. The faint odor of cigarette smoke came with her. “I’m really late,” she confessed. “I had to take the bus. Gary’s going to be PO’d.”

  “He’ll get over it,” I said, confident that the man who’d lost two employees in the last week couldn’t afford to fire a third for being tardy. Since she was clearly perfectly okay, I wondered if I should warn her that she might be in danger because of her association with Dmitri Fane. I decided to approach the topic obliquely. “Have you heard from Dmitri since we talked?” I asked.

  She pulled at a strand of gelled hair. “Did you hear about Boyce Edgerton?”

  Something in her expression and the way she ducked my question convinced me she’d been in touch with Dmitri. Wait a minute … “Why did you have to ride the bus today?” I asked.

  “Car trouble.”

  “You loaned your car to Dmitri, didn’t you?” Irena had said Dmitri had borrowed a car “from a friend” when he loaned her the Mustang.

  “No! I’m still mad at him.”

  Right. She probably was still mad at him, but that hadn’t made her turn down his request for her vehicle. I felt a new spurt of anger at Dmitri; he knew his friends were being attacked, and yet he’d put Fiona and her daughter in danger by getting in touch.

  Running the palms of her hands up and down her jeaned thighs, Fiona slanted a look at me. “He only needed it for a day,” she said.

  I pulled to the curb a block shy of Czarina Catering and pivoted in the seat to face her. “Fiona, Dmitri’s mixed up with some bad people. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but you and your daughter might be in danger.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said, but the words lacked conviction, and she looked over her shoulder at the cars coming up behind us. Her clavicle bones stood out, thin as bird bones, and she seemed young and vulnerable.

  “Do you have someplace safe to stay?”

  “Tanya and I moved in with my folks a month ago,” she said. “It’s a gated community.”

  At least she had people around. “Did Dmitri say anything about where he might be going today, what he was doing?”

  She shook her head, the wispy ends of her pixie cut dancing around her ears. “He called last night and asked if he could borrow my car for a day or so. I met him at the Arby’s down the road from my folks’ house, and he drove me back. I told him I really needed the car back by tomorrow, and he said it shouldn’t be a problem, that after tonight things would get back to normal.”

  “What’s happening tonight?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “He didn’t say. I told him Tanya missed him, and he said maybe we could drive up to Dave and Buster’s with her weekend after next.”

  I compressed my lips. Either Dmitri was living in la-la land or he was deliberately misleading Fiona. I couldn’t see any way he’d be gallivanting up to a family fun center in Denver next weekend, not with criminals and the police on his tail. “Don’t tell anyone at work you’ve talked to Dmitri,” I cautioned.

  “All right,” she agreed, opening the door. “I’ve really got to get in there before Gary shits a brick.”

  Delaying her with a hand on her arm, I asked, “Do you think you could get hold of the company’s client list? Say, the names of the people you’ve catered for over the past year?”

  “Piece of cake,” she said.

  I passed her a business card with my fax number and e-mail on it. “Punny.”

  She stared at me a moment, then giggled. Putting a hand to her mouth, as if to stop the unfamiliar sound, she said, “I’ll call you when I’ve got the list.”

  “Be careful,” I said as she strode away. She didn’t respond, and I watched until her petite, straight-backed form disappeared around the corner of Czarina Catering.

  * * *

  Giving Gigi a quick call to make sure nothing disastrous had happened with Irena Fane, I told her I was going to Dellert House.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “To see if there might be a connection between Dmitri and someone at the halfway house. What did you say was the name of the guy who runs the place?”

  “Roger Nutt,” Gigi said, dismay in her voice, “but he can’t be mixed up in this. He’s much too nice, and he really cares about those boys. I’m seeing him tonight.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Ant-cay alk-tay ow-nay.”

  “What?” I stared at my cell, thinking something had interfered with the connection.

  “Ig-pay atin-lay,” she said, still whispering.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Gigi! If you’re worried about someone—Irena or the kids—listening in, go to another room.”

  I heard the muffled sounds of a brief conversation and some footsteps before Gigi came back on the line. “Irena was right there,” she said. “I figured that someone born in Russia wouldn’t speak Pig Latin. I’m outside now.”

  Gaagh.

  “You know, I’m wondering if maybe Irena is spying on me. Every time the phone rings, she’s right there, listening in, and I know she already talked to Dmitri at least once today.”

  Hm. “You could be right, Gigi,” I said, considering it. “Maybe Dmitri set up this whole bodyguard thing to get a spy into our camp, keep him posted on what we’re doing.”

  “You think she’s really a spy?” Gigi squeaked. “What should I do?”

  She sounded ready to call the CIA or Homeland Security. “Let me think about it,” I said. “Go on doing whatever you’re doing. I’ll let you know if I think of some way to turn the tables on Mata Harirena.”

  “Say hello to Roger if you see him,” Gigi said.

  From her tone, I knew she was gaga about the man. I hoped he didn’t turn out to be the villain Dmitri was mixed up with.

  27

  Dellert House was quiet and seemingly deserted when I arrived twenty minutes later. The snow that had been threatening all morning had started to fall, soft white flakes that were already sticking to grassy areas and trees. I eyed the sky warily, hoping it quit before making the roads slick enough to foul up traffic. No one answered when I knocked on the door of the dilapidated house, so I turned the knob.

  “Hello?” I called, walking into the foyer. A threadbare rug and a wall sconce with a sad little twenty-five-watt bulb were the only things that greeted me. “Hello? Anyone here?” I called louder.

  Taking the silence and my continued solitude as an invitation to explore, I poked my head into the room on my left, deducing from the long table and mismatched chairs that it was a dining room. It smelled vaguely of sauerkraut. Trekking back across the hall, I discovered what had once been a formal parlor back in the house’s heyday but now contained only a couple of scuffed sofas—undoubtedly donated—and a rickety bookcase filled with paperbacks, most of them sci-fi, horror, or action thrillers. Man stuff. Back in the still-empt
y foyer, I debated my options: the stairs leading—probably—to the bedrooms, a hall straight ahead that I guessed led to the kitchen, and another hall to my left. I went left, drawn by the copy machine against the wall halfway down; with any luck, I’d find offices that way. Checking the copy machine’s trays as I passed—nothing—I peered into the first room on my right. File cabinets and taped-up boxes stacked four or six deep against the walls. Promising, if I had more time and had the slightest clue what I was looking for. The open door across from the storage room held a desk with a laptop, a chair with a heavy parka thrown over it, and a row of thriving violets in four-inch pots on the windowsill. The glowing screen of the laptop drew me like a flame tempting a moth, but I hadn’t taken more than a step toward the desk when a man’s voice asked, “Can I help you with something?”

  His tone was more “What the hell are you doing here?” so I turned with my most reassuring smile. He was short and sixtyish, with a graying beard and mustache and a shiny bald head. Shrewd eyes surveyed me with a hint of hostility. From the way he rubbed his hands on his black suit pants, I deduced he’d been in the bathroom.

  “Looking for Roger Nutt. Is that you?”

  He nodded warily. “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Charlie Swift,” I said, holding out my hand. He shook it reluctantly. “Gigi Goldman’s partner. She said to say hi.” This was a first—invoking Gigi’s name to soften up an interviewee.

  He didn’t quite smile, but his expression lightened. “She mentioned you.”

  I felt a moment’s impulse to ask “In a good way or a bad way?” but I repressed it, telling myself it didn’t matter what Gigi thought about me. “I wanted to let you know we found Kungfu,” I said, “in case you were worrying about him.”

  “Really?” Nutt stepped past me to his desk and closed the laptop screen. “Around here?”

  “Yes, he was still in town,” I said.

  “He’s all right?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m glad to hear it. We’ve got room for him, if he wants to come back here, and we’ve still got the stuff he left.”

  “He’s found a safe place to stay,” I said, carefully not mentioning Father Dan or St. Paul’s, “but he asked me to pick up his things. He’s working today or he’d’ve come himself.” It was a tiny white lie; I figured Aaron would’ve asked me to pick up his things if he’d known I was coming to Dellert House.

  “Sure,” Nutt said.

  He led me across the hall to the storage room. “I’ve got a funeral to attend”—he indicated his black suit and white shirt with a sweep of his hand—“and I don’t want to get all dusty, so if you wouldn’t mind…” He pointed to a stack of boxes and nudged the second one from the bottom with his shoe.

  “Of course,” I said, stooping to shift the taped boxes, which didn’t weigh much. A spider scurried to hide under a different box. I shuddered. Spiders—ugh. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Nutt sighed sadly. “One of our volunteers was murdered Saturday. It’s been a huge shock to all of us here.”

  A frisson scuttled up my spine like a spider, and I jerked, almost dropping the box I held. “Murdered?” My voice came out as a squeak.

  Nutt didn’t seem to see anything odd in my reaction. “In his apartment,” he said. “The men who bunk here, some of them have been homeless; they’re used to sleeping with one eye open, never feeling safe. Boyce, on the other hand…” He shook his head. “I’m sure it never crossed his mind that an intruder would break into his apartment.”

  Boyce Edgerton had spent time here as a volunteer. That fact clanged in my brain, almost drowning out Nutt’s next words.

  “I packed this up a couple days ago, right after Gigi was here.”

  “Is all this stuff from teens—men—who stayed here?” I asked, looking at the dozen or so boxes, most labeled with four or more names in black marker.

  “Um-hm,” Nutt said, sinking to his haunches and slicing a pocketknife through the tape. It gave with a ripping sound.

  “They just go away and leave it here?”

  “Sadly, yes. We keep it for a few weeks—in case they come back for it—and then we donate it to Goodwill or turn the clothes over to needy men staying with us.”

  That gave me a thought. Maybe Aaron’s brother had left his effects here when he disappeared. I decided it might be worth revealing part of Aaron’s story to Nutt on the chance it would net us Nate Wong’s stuff. “Did you have another Asian kid staying here?” I asked. “About a month ago?”

  Nutt looked up from the box he was digging through. Items seemed to be encased in labeled plastic bags, and he had a slippery pile of them beside him. He surveyed me for a long moment without speaking. “What are you after, Ms. Swift?” he finally asked.

  “Kungfu wasn’t really a runaway,” I said. “He was searching for his brother. The last time the boy’s mother heard from him, a month back, he was staying here.”

  Pinching at his lower lip, Nutt debated whether to tell me anything. “What was the kid’s name?” he asked. “We get a few Asians through here, not too many. It’s mostly whites and Hispanics.”

  “Wong,” I said. “Nate Wong.” Was there the remotest chance Aaron’s brother had used his true name?

  Something flickered in Nutt’s eyes.

  “What?”

  “I remember him,” Nutt said slowly. “He had a military-looking buzz cut and called me ‘sir’ every time he opened his mouth. I figured him for an army guy, maybe even a deserter. Real nervous. I don’t know if we’d still have his stuff here or if it’s already been donated.”

  I couldn’t fault the man’s instincts. He pointed to a stack of boxes in the corner, and I unstacked them until I came to one with ALLEN, NAVA, BUSSEY, NAUMAN, WONG scribbled on the side.

  “That one.” He hesitated. “Shouldn’t I be giving Wong’s effects to Kungfu? I don’t really know that you’re authorized to take them.”

  “You’re on the verge of giving them to Goodwill,” I pointed out, fairly dancing with impatience. “What does it matter if you give them to me instead?”

  For answer, he slit the tape on the box and pulled out the bulky plastic bag on top. “Here.” He handed it to me and slid it across the bag marked KUNGFU from the other stack. “You’d tell me if there was something going on I should know about, wouldn’t you?” he asked. “These boys are my responsibility while they’re here, and I take that seriously. If there’s something illegal, or dangerous, going on…”

  He trailed off and looked a question at me.

  “Not that I know of,” I said honestly. I didn’t know anything, and I wouldn’t have confided in Roger Nutt if I did. He seemed harmless, caring even, but that didn’t count for much. I cradled both plastic bags awkwardly and said good-bye. Nutt walked me to the foyer—almost as if he didn’t trust me not to snoop around on my own—and opened the door for me. The snow on the porch was deeper, and I eyed it with dismay.

  “Tell Gigi I’m looking forward to this evening,” he said with a smile.

  “I will,” I said, wondering if he really liked Gigi. If so, maybe he’d marry her and she could go back to being a housewife instead of a PI … Okay, it might be a bit early to speculate about marriage, but two dates was practically a long-term relationship in my book. “Thanks for your help.”

  * * *

  Walking to my car, parked on the street a block away, I wished I’d worn my snow boots. Snow squished over the sides of my low-heeled pumps, and my feet were soaked by the time I climbed into the car. Cranking the heat, I shucked off my shoes and knee-highs, wiggling my bare toes in front of the vent. With dry feet, I tore at the masking tape sealing Nate’s bag. I wondered fleetingly if I should let Aaron do this but decided time was of the essence. The bag yielded pitifully little. One pair of cargo shorts, two T-shirts, a pair of socks, a webbed belt, and a thin wallet containing a photo of a young brunette, a military ID card in the name of Nathaniel N. Wong, and three dollars. Holding the wallet in my
hands, I felt real uneasiness. Who would voluntarily go off and leave a wallet? I tried to tell myself Nate had ditched all remnants of his former identity when he got his new identity papers and headed for Canada, but the uneasiness remained. I slid the photo out of the plastic sleeve, and a slip of paper fell into my lap. Flipping the photo over, I read, “To Nate, Love Alisha.” A girlfriend. Aaron hadn’t mentioned her, and I wondered if Nate had met her at his military base.

  I fished the scrap of paper out of my lap and unfolded it. A telephone number. Alisha’s? No area code, so I didn’t know if the number was local or for California or somewhere else. On impulse, I punched the numbers into my cell phone and let it ring. Finally, a harried voice answered. “Czarina Catering.”

  I hung up without saying anything, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold traveling down my spine. Here was a concrete link between Dmitri Fane and Dellert House. For some reason, Nate Wong, a young man looking for a new identity, had Dmitri’s number in his wallet. Well, it wasn’t actually Dmitri’s number; it was Boyce’s, too, come to think of it. I tamped down my excitement and put the car in gear, driving barefoot. What did I really know?

  One: Dmitri Fane was a credit-card-stealing crook mixed up in couriering fake IDs for unnamed Mr. X. Two: Mr. X and/or other parties wanted something from Dmitri badly enough to beat up his coach and shoot at his mother. Three: Nate Wong told his mother that he was at Dellert House and knew where to get fake identity papers. He didn’t mention Dmitri or Tattoo4U, but he had the Czarina Catering phone number in his wallet. Four: Aaron Wong arrived at Dellert House, let it be known he wanted a new identity, and someone directed him to Tattoo4U. Five: Boyce Edgerton volunteered at Dellert House. He was my candidate for most likely note leaver. Six: Someone, possibly Dmitri Fane, called the FBI and said he had evidence of an identity theft ring in the area providing new IDs for criminals and other undesirables.

  The car swerved on a slick spot as I got off I-25 onto Woodmen, and I slowed to a crawl. A line of cars trailed back all the way from the intersection with Academy. Damn snow. I realized, sitting in the traffic jam, that I had no solid connection between Dmitri Fane and anything. I didn’t know that the Wongs’ search for new identities was linked to Dmitri at all, although it seemed likely. The closest thing I had to a link was the phone number in Nate’s wallet—maybe he wanted to order a cake, or maybe he and Boyce had struck up a friendship. If that had been the case, though, wouldn’t Boyce have given Nate his home number? I couldn’t see Montgomery getting a court order to search either Tattoo4U or Czarina Catering for evidence of identity theft based on this thin web of almost-connections I had. I might be working two completely separate cases or they might be tied together. I blew an exasperated raspberry as I finally edged into the parking lot at Swift Investigations.