by Alina Adams
"So there I was, no job, lots of money, and utterly no idea what to do with myself. Sure, I did all the cliché, nouveau riche things. I traveled: I went skiing, I went to the Caribbean, I walked the Great Wall of China, and I took pictures of the place where the Berlin Wall used to be. Then, once all that was out of the way, I bought a house in Silicon Valley, decorated it with the most expensive things I could buy—even if I still can't tell a Ming vase from a Renaissance damask. I went out to dinner and I went out to bars and I have a closet full of clothes people tell me are quite fashionable. But want to guess what I did most?"
"Read Silas Marner?" Bex took a guess.
He smiled, getting the reference. "Nah. Fortunately, I had a business manager to take care of the hoarding and polishing for me. What I ended up doing, mostly, and tell me if this isn't the most pathetic thing you've ever heard—I watched a lot of TV."
"A man after my own heart!" The words burst out of Bex before she'd had the chance to fully calculate how they might be interpreted. She sincerely hoped he would interpret them the way she meant for them to be interpreted now, and not the way she might have meant them a half hour ago when she was still busily pondering his tallness and his blondness.
Luckily, he didn't even seem to notice she'd spoken. Jasper went on, "And I mean, I watched anything: sitcoms, dramas, documentaries, news shows, game shows, cooking shows… One time, I even found myself watching—"
"Figure skating?"
"Yeah." Jasper shook his head, as if he couldn't quite still believe it himself. "I found myself watching figure skating."
"Football game canceled due to rain?"
"Actually, I just couldn't face another “Friends” rerun. My theory is, it's one thing when you catch yourself wondering how unemployed Monica and Rachel can afford an apartment that size in Manhattan—that's normal. You'd be odd if you didn't wonder. But, when you actually go on-line to see if cab licenses are transferable in the state of New York and thus could Phoebe really be legally driving her grandmother's hack—"
"That's a problem."
"I thought so, yes. At the rate I was going, my friends would either have needed to stage a “Friends” intervention, or I had to change the channel."
"To figure skating."
Jasper shrugged. "Look, it's not like I had anything against it or anything. I mean, I was a serious jock in college: basketball, swimming, rowing, skiing—I was on all the teams. And I respect athletes in any sport. I even have respect for the golf guys. I knew figure skaters worked hard and were amazing athletes. I just never cared to watch them do their stuff."
"So what changed your mind?"
"Erin," he said simply. The word hung over the table like Princess Leia's hologram in “Star Wars.” (Bex wasn't just a TV geek, she went to the movies occasionally.)
"She was that good?" Bex racked her brain to recall. "It sounds like you would have seen her at, what? Her first? Second worlds?"
"Her first. It was her first world championship. She was this tiny little thing in a bright yellow dress, her hair in a ponytail, the biggest smile on her face. So much excitement, so much energy. You know, of all the skaters, she was the only one who looked really thrilled to be there. She just lit up the arena when she came on. Even when she fell, she never stopped smiling."
Bex had seen the tape of the event Jasper described for a feature she helped compile on Erin. And Jasper wasn't just waxing in retrospective poetics. There really had been something special about Erin on that film. She just seemed so thrilled to be competing at her first worlds, making her mother so visibly proud, that her enthusiasm was contagious.
"She just enchanted me. And wait, wait, don't say it. I know what you're thinking: Do I also spend my nights trolling the web for kiddie porn?"
Well, she hadn't exactly been putting those words in that order... but, yeah, his phrasing wasn't that far from Lolita, et al.
"I swear to any God anyone believes in, my fondness for Erin has no sexual component. Believe me, I've done a lot of soul searching in that regard."
At least he was self-aware. That was a good thing. Wasn't it?
"She just... I know, I know, check out the ego trip on this one ... but, she just reminds me so much of me. When I was her age, I was just as enthusiastic about everything. I loved sports, loved to compete, loved to be the best, loved to win. Now that I've made it—whatever that means—people always ask me the secret of my success. And, you know, I've got to say it—I'm certain my sports background had everything to do with it. I like to win. And, more importantly, I really, really hate to lose."
He paused for a moment. Accepting their arriving lunch with a friendly smile at their waiter. And, in that moment, Bex saw a newspaper photo of Erin with a silver medal around her neck, and then a photo of Silvana Potenza's body being carried out of the refrigeration room.
Erin reminded Jasper Clarke an awful lot of himself. He related to Erin. He related to her a lot. And Jasper Clarke did not like to lose.
And now, Silvana Potenza was dead. Maybe that watching the street while they drove along strategy had been good for her, after all, because suddenly, Bex was connecting an awful lot of dots.
She asked, "How did you and the Simpsons hook up?"
"I picked up the phone and called." In response to Bex's surprise, Jasper said, "You're a researcher. You know it's really not that hard to find anyone's number when you're motivated."
Yeah. Bex bet getting Silvana Potenza's cell was a piece of cake compared to reaching Erin.
"And Patty just welcomed you to the team?" Considering that in the almost two decades she'd been coaching her, Patty had refused any offers to send Erin to another choreographer, or even a jump or spin specialist for a day or two, Bex couldn't imagine her being Ms. Open Arms to a stranger on the phone.
"Patty? Are you kidding? But, she came around. When I showed her how useful I could be, building the Web site and everything, then she really came around."
"All three of you seem pretty tight now."
"Erin is a great, great kid. Now that I've gotten to know her, I admire her so much, even outside the skating. She's got an excellent mind. Competing isn't her only interest. She's a big reader. Whenever she goes to a new country to skate, she always tries to take in some museums, picks up a little of the language. I've even been teaching her how to code HTML. She's got a lot of interests. She's an awesome young woman."
Okay. This was getting creepy again. This guy could give the obsessed girls in the elevator adoration lessons. Which brought Bex to ...
"Erin sure has a lot of devoted fans."
"She's very good with the public."
"Yes. She is. Jasper, do you think any of Erin's fans could have taken matters into their own hands? Do you think they might have been so incensed at her coming in second that they might have killed Silvana Potenza?"
It may not have seemed obvious to the untrained eye, but Bex was actually being very clever. Sure, it may have seemed like she was being clumsy and transparent, asking Erin's most obsessed fan if an obsessed fan could have committed murder for her. But, in reality, Bex was cleverly shifting the onus onto other fans, while, at the same time, gauging Jasper's reaction to the scenario. Really. She was being clever. Take her word for it.
"No." Jasper shook his head. He didn't even have to think about it. "No, I can't even imagine that being possible. Erin's fans are some of the sweetest people on earth."
His facial expression didn't change. He looked as calm and unruffled as before. This obviously meant that he was either innocent or a complete psychopath.
Gosh, but it was nice to narrow it down to only two options.
Bex asked, "Were you at the arena when Silvana died?"
"Actually, I was back at the hotel, writing code so that every time someone signs Erin's petition, they get an automatic thank-you note back."
"Oh."
"Why? Do you think I did it?"
Maybe, Bex thought.
"No!" She exclaimed,
wondering if volume would make up for honesty.
"That's all right. You have to explore all your options; it's the only logical thing to do. If you like, I'd be happy to show you the E-mails that went out. They all have a time stamp."
"Can't that be faked?"
"Yes. But, only by someone who really knew what he was doing."
"Someone like you?"
"Guilty."
Bex pushed her plate of pasta away, half-eaten. Somehow, she wasn't in the mood to finish the shoelace-length beige strands of carbohydrates with their red chunks of tomato and sprinkles of green pesto sauce. (Bex figured if she kept piling on the details, maybe she'd have another breakthrough.) "You're awfully relaxed about all this, Jasper."
"That's because I have nothing to hide." He wiped his mouth with a square cloth napkin, leaving a smudged, brownish lip print, courtesy of his roast beef and mashed potato platter. "Or maybe it's because I'm a psychopath."
Who also did a little mind reading on the side, apparently. Great. Just what Bex needed.
"That's not funny," Bex snapped.
"I'm sorry." His apology was instantaneous and sounded much more sincere than her earlier denial had. "I truly am. You're right, this isn't funny in the slightest. I may not have been a fan of Silvana Potenza, but the woman is dead. And, what's even more frightening, her killer is walking around, thinking they got away with it."
"Who do you think did it?" Bex figured if she couldn't nail him as a suspect, she might as well take advantage and do a little picking inside a brain smart enough to get out of the stock market before it needed a Zamboni to wipe up after it.
"I think it's obvious: Cui bono?"
"Who benefits?" Bex translated.
"I'm impressed!" Jasper raised an eyebrow. "Not a lot of people your age are so quick with the Latin turn of phrase."
"I know a lot of useless stuff," Bex explained. "I went to Sarah Lawrence."
"A fine school. I'm a Stanford man, myself."
"So who do you think benefits from Silvana's death?"
"Well, the Russians, obviously. Now that she's dead, no one will ever be able to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Silvana fixed the vote. The ISU won't have grounds to strip Xenia of her gold medal."
"What about your petition?"
"Oh. That. I must admit, that's more to keep Erin's spirits up than anything else. I don't expect it to do much good. Under the best, best, best circumstances, they might decide to award Erin her own gold. But they'll never take Xenia's away from her. And I know my Erin; she's not a big fan of consolation prizes."
"So you think it would have been better for Erin if Silvana were still alive?"
"Absolutely! Silvana was the only one who could testify to robbing Erin. I think that would have been so important for her. She's been working so hard. She needs the validation."
"Xenia has been working pretty hard, too, these past ten years."
"Oh, Xenia." Jasper managed to dismiss the other woman's sweat and determination with the wave of a hand. "Xenia doesn't care about the skating. She only cares about the money."
Deja elevator vu.
"Why does everyone keep saying that?"
"Because Xenia says it. She says it to anyone who asks. Read any of her interviews. She can't stop talking about the prize money and how happy she is that amateur skaters can win prize money now. That's why she's stayed in this long. It's not for the title, it's not for the love of it. It's so she can make some quick bucks."
"But what's wrong with that?" Bex pressed. "I mean, skating is her job. Why shouldn't she get paid for doing her job?"
Frankly, Bex had come up against the same issue herself. She'd lost count of the number of times 24/7 had been accused of putting a lousy skating broadcast on the air, with the last line of the angry letter or E-mail reading, "Of course, you're only in it for the money; 24/7 does anything for a buck. No one there is a real!!!! figure skating fan." Bex wondered what Catholic world was this where poverty equaled dedication? By that logic, no one should take a salary for doing any profession, lest they be accused of not being truly devoted to it. Gil wouldn't let her, but Bex was really itching to write back and ask if the poison-pen pals got paid for doing their own job, or did they volunteer for free, to demonstrate their love?
"Erin skates because she loves it. Patty, too. Think about it. When Erin was first starting out, long before prize money was even a possibility, think of all the money Patty gave up to coach her. I mean, Patty coaches for a living; that's the only livelihood she and Erin have ever had. She could have made a lot more giving lessons to other kids. Patty didn't make a cent coaching Erin. But, she did it because both she and Erin love their sport."
Bex asked, "Have you ever seen the musical “Gypsy,” Jasper?"
A twinkle of respect danced in his eyes, but he was, nevertheless, quick to defend. "It isn't like that. You've seen Erin on the ice. You've seen that smile of hers. Is that a kid being forced to skate against her will?"
"I don't know," Bex conceded. Mainly because all the skaters' smiles looked the same.
"Well, take my word for it. Erin is a happy camper."
"Unlike Xenia?"
"This whole fiasco has cost her a bundle. Xenia is getting up there in years. How much longer do you think she can skate? Her tendons must be ripped off the bone by now. Everyone knows she was just holding on to win a world tide, figuring it would translate to big bucks on the professional circuit. Well, now she has her title, but the ultimate prize—the top spot with Francis and Diana's 'Harmony on Ice?'—they've offered it to Erin."
"Really?" Bex hadn't heard.
"Yeah. Patty got the call right before we ran into you. She's considering it as we speak. It's a very generous offer. To be honest, it's much higher than it probably would have been even if Erin had won. Without the controversy, I mean."
"Wow. So this is working out pretty well for your girl."
Jasper shook his head and, as if lecturing a child, patiently explained. "No. No, you haven't been listening to me. This isn't about the money for Erin. She could care less about that. It's the honor. It's the winning. It's the recognition of being the best. That was taken away from her. And now the poor kid can never, ever get it back. I'll level with you, Bex. I know it sounds harsh, but frankly the way I feel is: Whoever killed Silvana should be charged with two offenses. The lesser one is the murder. It's what they did to poor Erin that's the real crime here."
CHAPTER SIX
Bex worried. And not merely because she may have just finished having lunch with a cold-blooded killer. Or because, earlier, she'd been alone in a hotel room with a coldblooded killer. Or even because she very possibly had no idea who the cold-blooded killer really was, which, in her well-read opinion, really raised the odds of said coldblooded killer deciding to practice a bit more of his coldblooded killing, this time in her direction.
No. What worried Bex most upon her return back to the official hotel was the fact that the cold-blooded killer's victim had been found with a printed out E-mail in her purse. An E-mail that could very well hold the key to what exactly happened to her and who exactly might have helped it happen. If Bex could only figure out where and when Silvana printed out the E-mail, it would go a long way toward answering several questions. For instance, if Silvana printed the E-mail out after the ladies' competition, it could hardly have influenced her judging decisions. On the other hand, if she'd printed it out before, then the possibility of a fix loomed much stronger.
But Bex could only pin down when Silvana did her printing if she could figure out where she'd done it. Most computers kept records of that sort of thing. Records that were very difficult to fix unless you were willing to screw up the entire system. And screwing up the entire system left tracks of its own. Bex already knew that Silvana never visited the hotel's media center for her printing needs. Which left several options. The most obvious was that the judge traveled with her own laptop and portable printer (which would also explain the European-size
d paper). Personally, Bex found that to be too much of a hassle—simply being stopped by airport security and asked to take all the electronics out of her bag and plug them in to prove that no bomb was involved was daunting enough, much less the sheer weight of hefting several bulky pounds on her back and hip—but she did know people who swore by it.
So, obviously, her first course of action should be finding out if that was the case with Silvana. Since Bex doubted the woman would have carried it alongside the hard candy, empty tissue packet, and cell phone in her purse, odds were the printer wasn't down at the police station with the rest of her things.
Okay, then. So where was it? In fact, now that she was asking such a vital question, Bex felt obligated to ask: Where was all of Silvana's stuff? Had anyone thought to go into her hotel room and pack up her things for shipment back to Italy alongside her body?
Bex prided herself on being a nice person. She'd been a Girl Scout in the second grade (until her mother called it a paramilitary organization with cookies, and pulled the plug).
She'd volunteered as a grammar-school reading teacher while in high school. In college, she mentored several underclassmen. And she always told herself that she would donate to the United Way—as soon as she earned enough money. So, really, Bex was terribly, terribly nice; even if she did say so herself. And terribly nice people, in Bex's experience, did not wait to be asked to volunteer. They saw a need and stepped right in to fix it.
Bex picked up her metaphorical torch and prepared to go forth and be a hero.
Alas, the hotel staff did not quite see things her way.
"We can't let you into Mrs. Potenza's room, Ms. Levy," said the manager, who'd only agreed to see her because the front desk clerk and the concierge and the head of housekeeping couldn't take it anymore and had decided none of them got paid enough to listen to Bex's combination of logic and Good Samaritan arguments.
"But all I want to do is get her things together so we can return them to her family."
