by Alina Adams
"For eleven years, I come to world championship. Six years ago, federation president call me to meeting. I think maybe he send me to new rink. Warmer, better ice. He tell me, "Xenia, we think you are finished in figure skating. Your results not so good. Many, many chances, no gold medals. Russia want gold medals. Is country pride. You are country disgrace."
Over her shoulder, Bex snuck a look at the Russian federation president, he of the bad comb-over and dead-ferret-like toupee. Not for a moment did she doubt him capable of making such a blunt assessment and then sharing it with his subject.
"But, it worked out okay for you, didn't it? I mean, it must have motivated you. You won the silver the following year."
"Silver," Xenia said pointedly, "is no gold."
Alchemically speaking, she was right. But Bex had the feeling they weren't discussing merely precious metals, here.
"For six years, I work and I work and I not quit, even when my president says no more money. Even when first coach says, "I wash hands of Xenia. No more." I must to beg Sergei to take me as student, and Sergei only take because everybody else say, "Bad, bad," and Sergei, he like to be different, yes?"
”I'd heard that about him, yes."
There wasn't a soul in skating who hadn't heard of Sergei Alemazov's ... quirks. As an amateur skater, he'd been notorious for making up routines on the spot, often in the middle of a competition, the more major the better. He also snuck shots of vodka before stepping onto the ice. "Is good for blood vigor and manly juices," he explained. And, at his own Olympics, after getting marked lower than he thought he deserved on a figure, he'd skated over to the barrier and informed the referee he was retiring from the sport—right now, in the middle of his event.
"But, too bad for me, American media decide: if world championship is in America, then American must to win gold medal. 'And when judges disagree, media say, "Cheat, cheat!"
Bex wished she could argue. But she'd been in the booth with Francis and Diana.
"Actually, the judges are what I wanted to talk to you—"
Xenia said, "I know Mafia."
Bex wondered how one said non-sequitur in Russian. And then, because her brain just happened to work that way and there was nothing she could do about it, Bex wondered how you said non-sequitur in English.
And then she said, "Huh?"
"Yes. Mafia. I tell you. At rink, is all Mafia. Mafia today is same as KGB yesterday. Much money, much power. No law."
"I believe you." And Bex did. She had a standing policy to believe anyone who said they had Mafia connections. She suspected she'd live longer that way.
"I tell them to stop you, television, telling lies about me. They stop you."
There was a threat in there, Bex felt pretty sure of that. And she was also sure that Xenia, in her fury at the various large, international media conglomerates that had made what should have been the best day in her life so miserable, had decided to project a human face onto said media conglomerates. And she'd chosen Bex's mug as the scapegoat of choice.
Bex didn't think this couldn't possibly be good. Despite her mental chastising of Gil's political incorrectness earlier, she couldn't help entertaining a stereotypical thought of her own: I sure hope I don't wake up to find a Russian herring's head in my bed tomorrow.
Still, being a researcher, she had to make certain: "Are you threatening me, Xenia?"
"I know Mafia people." Xenia shrugged. "Friends. They not want to see me sad. They fix problems for me."
Problems like ... Silvana Potenza?
It was an obvious leap, and Bex would have been a coward not to pursue it directly.
On the other hand, Xenia did say she knew Mafia people, and Bex did have that policy… So maybe a little tentative hemming and hawing was in order.
"Actually, Xenia, see, the thing is, I didn't really come to talk about the fuss everyone's making about who did or didn't deserve to win. I wanted to talk to you about Silvana Potenza."
Xenia's brow furrowed. Bex bit her tongue to keep from telling her to quit it. It would cause wrinkles, and if she couldn't afford to skate at a decent ice rink, she definitely wouldn't be able to afford the necessary Botox. Life was unfair that way, you know.
Xenia said, "Silvana, she to die this morning. Sergei tells me.
"Yes. Right. She died. We're doing a story about her death. Did you know her?"
Xenia shrugged. "Judge? I see judge in hall, in elevator, I say, "Hello, how are you?" Judge says, "Fine, thank you."
"And that's it? That's all?"
"Well, maybe ... no...."
"No?" Bex repeated.
"Sometimes she say, "Xenia, you should to work more on this jump," or "Xenia, maybe you change little piece of music at end of program to make more exciting finish."
Oh. Hardly the stuff exposes were made of. Bex mashed down her disappointment. "And that's really all?"
Another shrug. This time more dismissive. And then, like a spotlight going on for an exhibition number, Xenia's face glowed with newfound enlightenment. She turned to fully face Bex for the first time since their conversation began. She reached forward with her right hand, simultaneously beckoning Bex closer and grabbing the power position in their discussion. Earlier, Bex had the questions and expected Xenia to provide her with answers.
Now, Xenia was in charge.
She smiled. The way soap opera characters did right before they maliciously revealed being pregnant with their brother-in-law's baby. Bex wasn't expecting a surprise nearly as juicy. But the smile did get her hopes up. And really freaked her out.
Xenia said, "Silvana is dead. ISU say was accident. Was not accident."
"How do you know that?" The words were out of Bex's mouth before she realized that probably qualified as giving away too much. And then she wondered if Xenia had also promised Stace a moment in the sun in exchange for inside info. Or maybe her Mafia friends did.
"Accident," Xenia snorted. "Stupid, stupid ISU. What judge go for to freezing room? Is stupid. You know skating, you know accident is stupid lie."
Bex said, "I'm trying to find out who killed her."
This was the part where, Bex figured, your average Joe American would have responded with, "Since when are you a cop?" or "What right do you have to do that? What right do you even have to be asking me questions?" But Xenia the Russian, who'd in the past decade seen her country go from an iron fist where crimes were defined and undefined on the whim of a mercurial government to a virtual anarchy where crimes were defined and undefined on the whim of a mercurial ... something, didn't seem to find it odd at all that a middling television researcher had dubbed herself detective and was going around questioning suspects with all the authority vested in her by no one.
Xenia said, "Maybe ISU kill her."
Well, it was a thought... except for: "Why would they do that?"
"Embarrass. She embarrass them. She no go on television and say, I judge fair, I no cheat, Xenia is winner, Erin Simpson loser. Everyone say bad about ISU. So ISU fix problem."
"Maybe ..." Bex let the thought trail off as she pondered the most delicate way to phrase her next query. "Except that I don't think anyone from the ISU was at the arena when Silvana died. They were all at some press conference. I know, because I was supposed to go do a report on it, but I had to be at a production meeting, and as I keep telling Gil, I can't be in two places at the same time, no matter how much he may want me to be, so ..." Xenia's face radiated the Russian equivalent of Now tell me why the hell I should care about your personal problems? so Bex wisely ended her digressive trail of thought and refocused on the issue at hand. "Anyway, no one from the ISU was at the arena the morning Silvana died. But, actually, Xenia, you and Sergei were. Right? You had a practice for the exhibition on Sunday. And that's when Silvana was killed. During that practice time."
"You think I kill her." It was a statement not a question. And it came complete with flaring nostrils and cheekbones flushing almost the exact shade of Xenia's hair.
&nb
sp; "Well, actually, I'm just trying to figure out where everyone—"
"Use your stupid head! Silvana vote me winner! Why I should kill her? I should say thank you! Erin Simpson! Erin Simpson is angry one!"
Actually, at the moment, Bex could certainly argue the veracity of that statement. Not that she really wanted to. Xenia's raising her voice had already drawn a few curious stares from the other skaters and officials. The gentleman with the boa even stopped using it as a boy-toy lasso to look over and see what the fuss was about. Comrade Ferret Head put down his wineglass and did the same thing. Bex was tempted to pull out her research credential, wield the badge, and announce, "Nothing to see here, move it along, move it along." Mainly because she wasn't interested in everyone knowing her extracurricular interests until she was ready to spring the news in a classy and clever manner. And also because she thought it would be a really neat thing to do, and, honestly, how often in life would she get the opportunity?
Having Xenia scream it to the universe was neither classy nor very clever.
"Shhhhh ..." Bex flapped her arms like she was trying to put out a fire in Xenia's lap. Also neither classy nor clever. But, it got the job done. Xenia lowered her voice. Bex suspected she wasn't too interested in putting on an off-ice show, either.
"Why you talk to me?" Xenia snapped. "You talk to Erin Simpson! Erin is also on same exhibition practice. And Jordan. And Lian. Everybody at practice. You go to talk to them."
"Actually, the person I would really like to talk to is Sergei."
"Sergei not only coach at arena. Also Igor and Gary, and, of course, Patty. Patty look at me with evil eye. She say to Erin to bump into me on practice. Try and hurt me."
Xenia stood several inches taller than Erin and actually looked like a woman rather than an adolescent. It was difficult to imagine what sort of damage Erin could do to her. But the fact was, when people were zipping around at top speed wearing knives strapped to their feet, size really didn't matter. Intimidation came from those willing to wield it. Bex had seen a tiny ice dancer take down the hulking male half of her main competition simply by stopping a split second too late. Oh, of course, she'd burst into tears immediately afterward and defended herself by pointing to the injury she herself had sustained from that horrible, horrible, unexpected and unpreventable accident. The tiny tenor had a scratch across her forearm. Her opponent's thigh was sliced down to the bone. He was out for the season. Oops.
Of course, it was a far cry from a tussle on the ice to a corpse in the refrigeration room.
Or was it, really?
These were weird people she was dealing with. They had their own priorities, their own logic. And their own reasons for making someone else look bad.
Bex filed away Xenia's accusation about Patty and Erin and resolved to look into it. But she was far from buying the Simpsons-equals-devils scenario quite yet.
"Well, thank you for your time, Xenia." Bex attempted to back out quietly and carefully. With no clue as to when the next fit of accusation hysteria might strike Xenia, Bex figured it would be best to remove the trigger, i.e., herself.
"I don't kill Silvana Potenza." Thank God Xenia decided to whisper rather than shout that final missive. Obviously, she understood that everyone knowing about Bex's extracurricular interests wouldn't do her a world of good, either. After all, it was one thing to be suspected of winning your gold medal unfairly. Murder was a whole other thing.
Even in the skating world.
"Okay," Bex said. Because, as far as she knew, the only tangible response to such a declaration would have to be I believe you or As if! At the moment, she felt ill prepared to back up either option.
Xenia picked up on Bex's ambivalence. Because she repeated, for emphasis, "Me and Sergei not only people in arena. Erin and Patty, Jordan and Igor, Lian and Gary. You ask them. Ask them about Silvana. They know. They all know the truth."
CHAPTER FOUR
So Erin and Patty, Jordan and Igor, and Lian and Gary, they all knew the truth. Fabulous. Bex felt like she was halfway home. Now, all she needed to do was figure out what exactly the scope of their knowledge might be, and this case was as good as solved. And people went to detective school to learn how to do this?
Naturally, Xenia was no help in the matter. Following her rather cryptic statement, she simply stood up and walked past Bex to take a seat next to the Russian federation president. Considering how Xenia felt about the man (and Bex was actually extrapolating how one would feel about a man who'd called you a national disgrace and then cut your funding, to boot), Bex could only presume that, at the moment, Xenia nevertheless found him a safer and more pleasant companion. Which was very interesting and obviously meant something. The question was: What? Was Xenia afraid because Bex was on the right track about the motive behind Silvana Potenza's murder? Or was she simply trying to get away from more questions by hiding behind the ferret toupee? And if she was trying to get away from more questions, then why? Because Bex was on the right track about the motive behind Silvana Potenza's murder, or because the conversation was boring her? Or maybe she was just hungry and wanted lunch. The cold cuts and sandwich buffet did still look good, even if the Swiss cheese was starting to go a little dry and curly around the edges.
Actually, now that she thought about it, Bex could see how having done a semester or two in detective school might have helped her answer some of the questions currently swimming about her brain like blind guppies with a distinct lack of direction.
She pondered her next step. Logic dictated that this was the spot where a reasonable person might acknowledge being in over her sleepy head and perhaps pass the investigation on to someone more qualified. Which, at this point, included anyone and everyone both on and off the premises. But, if Bex had possessed a tiny iota of logic, she'd also have pursued a more reasonable major in college. Like anything with an actual title. "General knowledge," after all, could only take you so far. No one taught Homicide 101 at Sarah Lawrence. Only critical thinking. Which Bex was, at the moment, doing intensely. When her B-minus knowledge of the subject told Bex to press on with the Sam Spade I- work-alone bit, she did pause for a period to wonder if she were making the right choice. But by then it was too late.
She was already standing outside the door of Sergei Alemazov's hotel room.
When she remembered that a B-minus really meant just a fraction above average—and an average person would recognize the folly of what she was doing, wouldn't she?—then it was really too late.
Sergei Alemazov had opened the door and was standing directly in front of her.
Or maybe Bex should have used the word looming. Because, in skating terms, the former Russian and European champ was a giant. The problem with trying to gauge a person's height while they were standing on the ice was the fact that, out all alone surrounded just by white on either side, there was no frame of reference to compare with. And, since skaters tended to have long, fluid limbs, it was easy to assume that all the men were a minimum of six feet tall. They weren't. Most of them barely reached five ten and even that was frequently a combination of standing on skates and having really pouffy hair.
Not Sergei, though. He had to be at least six foot two, with each forearm the size of a small hippo's leg, and each thigh the size of a Communist revolution cannon. He wore a bright blue track-suit circa 1970, with a zipper that once may have been gleaming white, but now showed dull, silver nicks and tears. His sneakers, however, were American high-tops, brand-new. Obviously, this was a man who had his priorities straight.
At this point, Bex was getting used to the ruddy facial tinge boasted by most Russian men. She'd even made a game out of guessing how long before the slightly sunburned look would be replaced for each by the blue-vein relief map of a bulbous nose and broken capillaries under the eyes. Knowing of Sergei's propensity towards pre-competition carbo-loading that came in liquid form and was good for "vitality and the manly juices," Bex had been expecting a particularly detailed cartography demonstration. That's
where he surprised her. His complexion was quite clear, youthful even, and the only redness about his head came from his thick, curly hair. Bex wondered if his had been the shade Xenia was actually trying to match when she fell into the vat of hell-burning carrots. At the same time, Bex also understood why Sergei had never done as well in front of Western judges as a Russian champion might have expected to. She guessed it would be difficult to take seriously a high-concept free program about how all men were brothers under the skin who must band together to overthrow their common enemy, when it was being performed by someone who looked like the product of a forbidden love affair between Popeye the sailorman and Ronald McDonald. (Not that there was anything wrong with that.)
"Hello," he said. Which, under the circumstances, was a perfectly reasonable thing to do.
What a shame Bex was failing to come up with something equally pithy.
"Uh—hello. Hello, Sergei. Hello."
And here, they'd come to the crux of another burning issue. Bex was twenty-four years old. Growing up, she'd been drilled by her parents that the only proper way to address strangers who were older than you, was using Mr., Mrs., or Miss. Maybe Ms., but preferably only if the person in question either ran a magazine of the same name or was somehow related to PacMan. Calling older strangers by their first names wasn't even an option in the Levy household.
Alas, the world of skating took place primarily outside the Levy household.
And in the world of skating, first names were de rigueur. For a number of reasons. One of them was standing in front of Bex right now. A Russian. Russians had first names. Russians had last names. Often long and difficult to pronounce last names—but they had them. However, Russians were not called Mr., Mrs., Miss/Ms. and then their last names. If you wished to address an older Russian person with respect, you would call them by their first name, and then by their patronymic, which was actually a complicated distortion of their father's first name. In other words, if Bex were addressing a man named Ivan whose father's name was Peter, she would be compelled to call him Ivan Petrov. If she were addressing Ivan's sister, Marusya, she would be Marusya Petrovna. If Bex were then addressing Peter himself, and his father's name was Boris, Peter would be Peter Borisovitch. His sister, Ludmilla, would be Ludmilla Borisovna. And so on and so on, with various names having different conjugations depending on their gender and their final letters. It was all quite logical once you actually bit the bullet, knuckled down and, like Bex did her first week on the job, studied it. But it wasn't easy. And television, Gil explained to Bex her second week on the job, likes things easy.
