by Alina Adams
The tape operator may have been a union guy with a job for life, but even he knew his life wouldn't be worth much if he forgot to duck when Gil started waving staplers around. There wasn't a person in the track who didn't have at least one visible scar as a result of Gil using the office tool like a silver-spitting Uzi.
He ducked. Bex ducked. And, at the same time, she asked, "Are you done with that tape of the practice, Gil?
"Why? Silvana's killer on it?"
"Actually ... possibly," (hopefully) "yes."
"Cool." Gil popped the tape out of the machine and tossed it to Bex. It's a good thing she was already ducking, because she needed to execute a base-worthy slide to catch it before it hit the floor. "Don't you go dropping the ball on me, Bex. I really get tired of hiring a new researcher every season."
Bex took her tape to the editing truck to screen. Fortunately, with the bulk of the event behind them, there were no more athlete up-close-and-personals to be cut. The only thing left were the exhibition opening montage, for which Gil had been looking for a shot of Erin and Xenia skating away from each other, and the piece on Silvana's death. But the bulk of the work had already been done on that particular segment. They had the shot of Silvana the night of the ladies' long program, looking unconcerned as the 24/7 camera zoomed in as tight as it could without actually hitting her on the forehead with the lens, and the shot of her body being carried out of the refrigeration room. Now all they needed was a shot of her killer to tie everything up. And Bex, as Gil so subtly reminded her, had better deliver.
She popped the tape into the machine, grateful that Mark had been the one scheduled to shoot that morning. Mark was a notoriously busy cameraman. He had a knack for being at the right place at the right time to get the best shot, whether it be Lian Reilly landing her one triple-triple of the day (footage they could use when Francis intoned, "Lian is one of only two women at this event boasting a triple-triple at this championship," since no way was she actually going to land one in competition), or Xenia Trubin psyching out her competition by glaring at them with such force she actually seemed capable of knocking them off their feet with vitriol alone. All season Mark had gotten Bex the shots she needed. She could only hope that their mutual luck would hold, and he'd captured something capable of blowing the whole Silvana murder thing wide open. Even if he—and, at the moment, Bex—didn't exactly know what that might be.
She rewound the tape to the beginning and punched Play.
Her first image was of Mark shooting straight down at the ice, white balancing his camera by shooting something devoid of color so that all his subsequent shots didn't come out a nauseating shade of blue green. After a minute of that, he panned up to display the still-empty ice surface. Lian Reilly hopped by the boards, doing jumping jacks to warm up and wearing her Team USA jacket over a hot-pink dress and matching gloves. The girl sure wore a lot of gloves. Almost like (hey, it was a thought) she didn't want to leave fingerprints or something. Next to her, coach Gary Gold sat in the front bleacher row, chatting amiably with Lian's mother. The happy coach and mommy scenario only emphasized how alone teammate Jordan Ares was. No mother—well, that wasn't new, Jordan was quite vocal about how happy she was to be legally emancipated and answering to no one, thank you very much. As far as Bex knew from looking at her records, no one had ever seen or talked to either Mr. or Mrs. Ares. What was more odd at the moment though, was that Jordan's coach, Igor Marchenko, was nowhere to be seen, either. He usually liked to be wherever Jordan was, if only to pry her foot out of her mouth ("The USFSA sucks," Jordan once opined at a press conference. "The money they give me wouldn't pay for a pair of skates, forget about serious training, but they want me to sit here and go on and on about how grateful I am for their support. Screw that").
Xenia wasn't in attendance, either. Neither was Sergei. Was this some Russian national holiday Bex didn't know about? An interesting development, considering Xenia swore that she and Sergei had been present.
Erin and Patty were there, though. Erin was the first one on the ice as soon as practice officially commenced, and she was, by far, the most dominating presence. It wasn't so much her physical presence, since Jordan was several inches taller and longer-limbed, to boot. It was more her sense of entitlement. She was the U.S. champion, the world silver medalist, and that meant she always had the right of way, no matter what. Hilariously, the attitude even carried over to her belongings. While both Lian and Jordan made do with squirreling out small personal places for themselves along the barrier, a couple of inches where they could put down their discarded skate guards, their boxes of tissues, their bottles of water, Erin practically claimed a suite for her very own. She took off her light-blue warm-up jacket—not Team USA like the other two, but "Erin Excitement!"—and draped it over the prime barrier real estate closest to the entrance. Her skate guards were laid down a few inches to the left, next to her tissue box, while her water bottle stood almost a foot away, and, finally, there were her good luck talismans: the first gold medal she ever won (as a four-year-old at a basic skills competition), a hair ribbon Patty wore to win her final national title, and a Kewpie doll dressed in a green replica of Erin's costume from last season, its little shock of hair dyed blonde and painstakingly French-braided (a gift from a fan with quite a bit of free time on her hands). Erin, Bex knew from her research, couldn't practice unless those holy three items were standing, in order, at the barrier, protecting her from harm and the ill will of other skaters.
Erin, Bex didn't feel it was appropriate to add in the research notes, was very strange.
And Xenia, Bex noted as the first twenty minutes of the practice ticked by, was still nowhere to be seen.
Now granted, practicing for an exhibition wasn't as imperative as practicing for a major competition. Bex wouldn't have blamed Xenia if, after the two pressure-cooker weeks she'd had, culminating with the entire judging brouhaha, she'd want to slack a little bit. But, the fact was, if Xenia was looking to score a major pro contract, then setting the Sunday exhibition on fire wasn't just suggested, it was practically mandatory. And the other fact was, Xenia had claimed that she was at the practice. And why, lookie here, no Xenia. The camera didn't lie.
Bex continued watching the tape, getting a little glassy-eyed from the sight of three tiny women executing, with almost military precision, a series of skate, jump, land, fall, stop by the barrier, blow nose, whisper to coach, look over shoulder to see what the competition was doing, whisper some more to coach, sip some water, blow on cold hands, skate away, try the same jump the competition just nailed, land, fall, rinse/repeat ad nauseam. It was boring to watch, and, judging by the wincing and the thigh rubbing as each girl stood up, slower and slower after each successive fall, it was downright painful to actually do.
For herself, Bex had a pithy answer whenever someone, upon hearing that she was a figure skating researcher asked, "Oh, and do you skate yourself?"
"No," was always Bex's answer. "I really don't enjoy falling down."
Erin Simpson, however, seemed positively addicted to it. She was trying a triple loop-triple-loop-triple-loop, an excruciatingly difficult maneuver that, as far as Bex knew, had never been landed by anyone, woman or man. Bex guessed that Erin was determined to do something so fantastic in the exhibition that there would remain no doubt over who should have donned the championship crown. At the moment, though, the only thing Erin had to show for her trouble was a hip and thigh so red, Bex could make out the quickly swelling bruises even through the wet mesh of Erin's tan tights. She wondered how Patty the mother (not Patty the coach) could just sit there so calmly and watch her daughter struggle, near tears, and in obvious pain.
Apparently, she couldn't. Because about twenty-two minutes (Bex loved that the tape had a time stamp) into the practice, Patty whispered something to Erin and walked out of the arena. For a minute, Erin looked lost. She glanced over at Lian, flanked by both mother and coach, and then at Jordan, coachless but seemingly perfectly content, as if trying
to decide which scenario fit her best. She bit her lip and looked toward the exit Patty had disappeared through. She then did a scan of the abandoned stands, searching for a familiar face and finding no one. Unexpectedly abandoned, Erin skated around the rink a few times, arms limply by her sides and not a triple jump in sight. She did a layback spin, then changed to a camel, dropping her free leg dejectedly before finishing the revolution.
Erin skated over to the edge of the barrier, grabbed her Erin Excitement! jacket and skate guards, slipped them on, and, without looking back, clomped out the same exit her mother had taken. Both Lian and Jordan looked after her, surprised and curious but in the end much too self-centered to really care.
With Erin gone, the mood in the arena changed. She was no longer the undisputed star and center of attention, which left Jordan and Lian to duke it out for superiority. Jordan took the lead by laying out six gorgeous split-jumps, leaping effortlessly in the air and touching her toes, seeming to be everywhere at once. The handful of fans who'd stumbled out of bed to watch the practice rewarded her with a smattering of applause and a "You go, Jordan, you go, girl!" Lian's usually perky face puckered into a frown of definite nonperkiness. She glared at her mother and Gary, as if Jordan's showboating were their fault, and stomped over to the sleepy gentleman in charge of playing music over the arena's PA.
She handed him her tape and assumed her starting position at the center of the ice. Rink etiquette dictated that whoever's music was playing got right of way. Lian figured that should be enough to get her some undivided attention. Obeying the letter of the law, Jordan moved to the side. And then, in clear violation of the spirit, proceeded to do a jaw-dropping combination spin: flying-camel/change-camel/back-sit/change-sit/layback/scratch-spin. The speed she got at the end made her look like the film had slipped the projector, it was so blurred. And it earned her another, even more enthusiastic round of applause.
Lian's frown turned to a scowl.
Fortunately, her music came on and, instinctively, she broke into a smile. It looked a great deal less sincere than the scowl had. Bex wondered if maybe, as a sort of anti-Erin, Lian should consider skating a routine whose theme was Unhappiness.
Bex was close. Lian’s exhibition routine was to “Madame Butterfly.”
Lian Reilley (Exhibition) - View The Video
At least, Bex felt pretty sure that’s what it was. She made a mental note to double-check and to ask Lian whose version of the opera she was skating to, prior to the exhibition broadcast.
Of course, sometimes asking skaters did tend to backfire. One skater had sworn he was skating to a piece by Liza Minnelli. After the show, they got seventeen letters telling them it was actually Judy Garland. Another skater, when asked the name of her long program music, had stared at Bex blankly and finally replied, "Irish."
"That's it? Just Irish? Does the song have a name?'
"I'm not sure."
"Who's the composer?"
"I'm not sure."
"Who's the performer?"
"It's Irish. I think it's Irish."
On the ice, Lian continued to emote her little pigtail off, suffering with the best of them, when Xenia Trubin finally made her grand entrance.
Talking to Igor Marchenko.
That was a most odd combination.
Granted, Marchenko was Russian. Or, actually Soviet. He'd competed for the Soviet team, even won a world bronze medal in men's singles, before defecting when still a teenager. He'd skated for the U.S., then retired to coaching at the same Connecticut Olympic Training Center that had so generously taken him in years earlier. Even after the collapse of the Berlin Wall and the Soviet Union, he remained virulently anti-Russian, even refusing to accompany his students when they competed there. He was the last man Bex would have expected to be buddy-buddy with the Russian team. And yet, he and Xenia appeared to be chatting very amiably.
Jordan saw Igor walk in and skated over to him. He said goodbye to Xenia and moved to confer with his student. With a stern jerk of the head, Igor indicated Lian and then pointed to the sound guy. Jordan dutifully picked up her own tape and skated over to stand in line for her chance to practice.
Xenia, for her part, did a few languid stretches, then sat down on a bench to tie her skates. If she was missing Sergei, she gave no indication. She didn't look either at the entrance or search the stands. As soon as her skates were tied, she stepped out onto the ice. And promptly bumped into Jordan. Neither woman fell, but both had to grab the barrier to steady themselves.
Xenia appeared to apologize.
Jordan appeared to accept it.
Neither one looked convincing.
Mark held his shot of the two until they'd skated too far apart in opposite directions to remain in the same frame. And, in that instant, Erin had apparently returned, because, all of a sudden, she was back on the ice, skating extra quickly as if to make up for the time lost.
She did one lap, weaving in and around Xenia, Jordan, and Lian, demanding her own way even though Jordan's music was actually the piece currently playing. She skated forward, then turned unexpectedly and did another lap backward. At the end of it, she skidded over to the barrier. And Patty was standing there, offering Erin her customary tissue and bottle of water.
Bex checked the camera's clock. Over a period of almost twenty minutes, Patty, Erin, Xenia, and Igor had been off the ice and out of sight. And Sergei—she fast-forwarded through the remainder of the tape—never showed at all. Xenia apparently gave up waiting for him and left ten minutes early.
Bex had to call Stace to make sure, but she already suspected that she would be right in her assumption. Patty, Erin, Xenia, Igor, and Sergei's unaccounted for twenty minutes were the same ones during which Silvana Potenza was killed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
And then there was still the little matter of Silvana Potenza's receipt. No, ye of little faith, Bex hadn't forgotten about it. She'd just been so busy with the E-mail and the videotape and the suspects coming and going at the most inopportune time… This detective work thing was really hard. No wonder Stace dreamed of escaping to the low-pressure land of show biz.
The fact was, Bex had been thinking about the receipt all along. Just not consciously. But it had been percolating like hot coffee, even as she did her geographic overview of San Francisco and its surrounding beachfront property.
The time stamp on the little scrap of paper that was signed by Silvana and yet somehow mysteriously materialized out of Sergei's pocket indicated that the purchases were made at the hotel boutique, roughly a half hour before Silvana died.
Bex's next step was obvious.
Around the arena and across the lobby, to the hotel boutique she went.
Bex held several truths to be self-evident:
Gil was a lunatic. Television work was thankless. Skaters always think they should have been marked higher. And a hotel is a hotel is a hotel, the only difference being what language the staff chastises you in.
Now, she had a new one: All hotel boutiques are created equal.
Walking into this latest hotel boutique, Bex might as well have been in any city in any state in any Western (and ambitious Eastern) country. There was the stand with the newspapers. There was the rack of magazines and paperbacks. There was the cooler with sodas. Hello, candy counter, makeup shelf, and feminine hygiene products.
There was the clerk behind the cash register, reading a newspaper and looking warily over the tip of his nose at her, ready to scream "Shoplifter!" at the slightest provocation. The only difference was gender—this one was male and the disparate amount of hair on his head—this one had a wispy, gray ring circling a sunburned bald spot. The suspicious expression on their faces, though, was always the same.
"Hi!" Bex said brightly.
"Hello," he looked not at Bex's face, but at her pockets, lest loot be lurking.
"I have a question for you," Bex pulled the receipt out of her pocket, smoothed it out as best she could, and placed it gently on the counter
. "You recognize this?"
He looked at her as if Bex were the stupidest person on the planet. In retrospect, she probably deserved it for asking something so obvious.
"Uhm, what I mean is," Bex stumbled over her own tongue, "Do you remember selling this stuff this morning?'"
He tore his eyes away from her potentially sticky fingers to peer at the list. He said, "Yeah, I remember. It was real early. Hate skating people staying in the hotel. Everybody gets up so damn early."
Bex didn't blame him. She asked, "The woman who bought all this—it was a woman, right?" After her dumb question of a moment earlier, the last thing Bex wanted was to have a "When you assume you make an ass out of you and me" moment.
"Yeah. A woman. Big, fur coat. When she yelled at the guy with her, it was like a fox snapping. All I could see was fur. And teeth."
Goodness, but Bex did love it when people volunteered information without her having to go fishing for it. She'd changed her mind. This detecting thing wasn't that hard after all.
"She was fighting with a man?"
"You calling me a liar?"
"No, no!" Bex wondered how she managed to insult people without trying, and yet her sarcasm often soared over the victim's head without so much as a nick. "Can you describe the man?"
"Tall."
Okay, that eliminated Rupert Newman, Tom Cruise, and that Mini-Me guy. Three down, every other man on the planet left to go.
"Anything else?"
"He talked funny."
Gil Cahill funny? Francis Howarth funny? Latka from Taxi funny?
"What do you mean funny? Was he speaking loudly? Using big words?"
