Figure Skating Mystery Series: 5 Books in 1

by Alina Adams

  He didn't say anything while they danced, the music taking a leap forward from 1965 to the next decade, as the group launched into their ode to disco. Bex probably could not have heard Sasha even if he had tried to say anything, but the fact that he didn't feel compelled to make idle chatter somehow made him seem even more adult.

  Somewhere in the middle of "Last Dance," they both turned their heads at the same time, and ended up face-to-face. Again. Bex felt herself flushing hotter, as even her elbows joined the sweaty limb parade. Sasha didn't seem perturbed at all. Instead, he looked as if he'd been expecting it. Not hoping for, but patiently expecting, all along.

  He leaned over and kissed Bex on the lips. Gently, politely, but not at all shyly. And then he leaned back. And waited for her to make the next move.

  What a shame Bex had no next move to make.

  She felt she should definitely say something now. But she knew she wouldn't be heard. She felt she should do something to indicate how she felt about the kiss. She did wish she knew how she felt about the kiss.

  She stopped dancing. Not by choice, she was just rooted to the ground. Like a radish. She turned around and headed out of the club. It was only when she'd pushed her way through the dancing crowd to the door that Bex thought it might have been helpful if she'd gestured for Sasha to follow her. Because she did want him to follow her. At least, she thought she did.

  She could no longer see him.

  She wondered if he thought she'd run away.

  She wondered if she had run away.

  She stood outside the door to the club, on the street, without her coat. How very Cinderella-ish. Only instead of leaving a glass slipper behind, she'd left her bulky parka. Who said life wasn't a fairy tale?

  Sasha said, "You are angry, again."

  He'd come out, also without a coat, and stood behind her.

  "No," Bex denied automatically, even before she'd fully processed his question. "I'm not angry. Not now."

  "You were angry with me before. I did not understand why."

  "You mean when you told me about how Russians lie about everything?"

  "Yes."

  "It's very confusing."

  "I am sorry."

  "I mean, how am I supposed to know when you're lying and when you're telling the truth? You just kissed me right now. Does that mean you like me, or are you, I don't know, using me for something, like you said all Russians do?"

  "I like you, Bex," he said.

  "And I'm just supposed to believe you?"

  Sasha shrugged. "I am sorry it is so confusing for you. I am not confused."

  "Shurik!" A male voice calling from across the street prompted both of them to turn their heads. Bex because it was a welcome, piercing noise to distract from the uncomfortable silence, and Sasha because the holler had apparently been for him.

  A young man about Sasha's age ducked around three angry, honking cars to jog across the street and sweep Sasha into a bear hug, followed by a manly kiss on both cheeks. They chatted gleefully in Russian, with Sasha pointing once in Bex's direction and the other young man nodding approvingly. At least, Bex hoped it was approvingly. She didn't know who this guy was or what they were talking about. But she still wanted the tacit approval. She was pretty needy that way.

  After a few minutes, the pair slapped each other heartily on the back, more manly kissing, and then the new guy disappeared into the bowels of the club. With one more—approving?—glance at Bex.

  She asked, "Who was that?"

  "Old friend," Sasha said. "From my orphanage. We were youths together. We played on the same soccer team. It is very good to see him. Very good. So many boys from my orphanage, their lives, they are not so good. No work. No hope. Not like me. I am fortunate. I have ambition. A dream. This is important."

  Bex asked, "He didn't call you Sasha. He called you something else."

  "Shurik." Sasha nodded his head. "That is what they called me in orphanage. It is name my father called me. After I am graduated, I do not want to be that person. I do not want to be poor, sad, little Shurik with no parents, anymore. So I change my name. I am Sasha. Sasha is new name for new life."

  "Did you have to change it legally?" Bex couldn't believe the two of them were actually having a calm discussion about Russia's identity laws. But she guessed it beat babbling incoherently, which was her only other alternative.

  "Oh, no. No. Because I do not change my name written in my passport. Sasha is just nickname. I simply to change my nickname, this is allowed. Like Bex is nickname for Rebecca, and Fedya for Fedor, Sasha is nickname for Alexander."

  Bex froze. And this time, it had nothing to do with the weather or the season or her lack of parka. It didn't even have to do with her trying to avoid talking about what had just happened between them.

  Slowly, she repeated, "Sasha is a nickname for Alexander?'

  "Yes… It is."

  "And that other name he called you—"

  "Shurik?"

  "Yes, Shurik. That's a nickname for Alexander, too?"

  "Yes."

  Bex grabbed Sasha's hand, squeezing his fingers and practically hopping up and down with excitement. "Sasha!" she exclaimed. "I know who killed Igor Marchenko!"

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sasha was right there with her. Whatever he'd been thinking about or planning for earlier seemingly went out the window when confronted with Bex's enthusiasm. He allowed her to keep hopping as he clutched her hand and asked, equally pumped, "Who?"

  She stopped jumping. She said, "I just have to make one phone call, first."

  They barely paused to retrieve their jackets from the coat-check before rushing back to Bex's hotel room. Bex was feeling so awesome she even managed a smile and a cheery wave for their floor matron. The woman just stared at her suspiciously.

  Bex had her fingers on the phone's touch pad as soon as she crossed the threshold, leaving Sasha to close her door behind them. She dialed the number from memory, and, because of the time difference with Colorado Springs, Colorado, was happy to get an answer on the second ring. Bex asked her question. Sasha, listening, cocked his head in surprise. She made a gesture with her arm that Bex hoped translated as, “Trust me."

  "Are you sure?" Bex asked the U.S. Figure Skating Association Museum's curator. "Yeah, why don't you go ahead and double-check. I'll hold."

  Seeing that Bex was just waiting, Sasha started to ask a question. Bex shook her head. This was too good. She didn't want to break the spell.

  "It is there?" Bex sighed with relief "Great. Thank you. Thank you so much!"

  She hung up the phone and turned back to Sasha, grinning. She might have begun hopping up and down again if she weren't sitting on her bed at a most uncomfortable angle. She also might have taken a moment to feel embarrassed that Sasha was seeing her hotel room in all its unkempt glory, including the clothes she'd worn yesterday lying in a heap on a chair in the corner and her T-shirt nightgown crumpled at the foot of the bed. But, Bex had no time for such pettiness now.

  She told Sasha, "Igor Marchenko's World Bronze medal is hanging at the USFSA museum, just like Gary Gold said it was!"

  Sasha nodded. He peeled off his jacket as well as the sweater underneath and took a seat next to Bex on the bed. He courteously pretended not to notice the balled up T-shirt nightgown. He said, "And this is evidence pointing at who killed Marchenko?"

  "Sort of," Bex said. "Gary Gold told me the night Igor defected, he was so angry at his coach, he threw his Bronze medal in the toilet."

  "Yes, that is why Shura said Russians are so angry with Igor. Because he insulted his country and his people."

  "But how did Shura know that? The medal didn't stay in the toilet. It's hanging in the USFSA Museum. And I've read a ton of press about Igor's defection. No one ever mentioned that detail. So the only people who knew what Igor did were Igor, Gary, and his coach, Alexandr Troika."

  "Alexandr Troika." As soon as Bex spelled it out for him, Sasha saw where she was going. That seemed to b
e another thing they had in common. "Alexandr. Shura."

  "Yes!" Bex wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him. And some of it was even because she was really happy about figuring out who killed Igor. "Shura, the arena manger, has got to be the coach, Alexandr Troika. How else would he know about Igor's medal?"

  "Perhaps Alexandr Troika told him? Or Alexandr Troika told Konstantin and he told Shura, or—"

  Bex said, "I have to make one more phone call."

  This time, she had to look up the phone number. And this time, without the time difference, the person on the other end wasn't nearly as gracious about hearing from her at two a.m. He did, however, grudgingly, give Bex the answer she needed.

  She hung up and told Sasha, "It doesn't matter who told whom what about Igor's medal being thrown in the toilet. Shura is definitely Alexandr Troika. Konstantin claims he didn't tell me that before because he assumed I knew about it. And because I didn't ask." This was often the biggest problem in her investigations. Not so much that Bex got the wrong answers, but that she forgot to ask the right questions.

  "Shura is Alexandr Troika," Sasha agreed. "How does this prove he is the killer of Igor Marchenko?"

  Bex sighed. And got ready to make some more phone calls.

  By breakfast the next morning—Bex was very proud of herself for having waited until all of six a.m. before she commenced dialing—Bex had accumulated several more answers to advance her theory.

  Sveta and Luba confirmed that while the threatening voice on the phone told them he was Valeri Konstantin, they had no actual proof that it was, in fact, Konstantin calling. Neither had spoken to the man in years, so they didn't remember too clearly what his voice sounded like. So, yes, in theory, it could have been Troika on the phone, pretending to be Konstantin in order to keep the two women away from the arena, where they might have seen him and recognized Igor's former coach as their more recent tormenter. It made sense that, if Shura were plotting to kill Igor, he wouldn't want anyone around who could point him out to the victim in advance.

  Bex's next stop was back out on the street with Fedya the knife-wielder. When she asked him if Shura might have bought some digitalis from him, Fedya nodded. "Of course. He buys from me regularly. A bad heart, he has."

  "Why didn't you tell me this before, when I wanted to know if anybody from the arena had bought digitalis prior to Marchenko's death?"

  Fedya replied, "You asked me if any new people, from the skating competition, buy from me. You did not ask about people who buy regularly. I told you, I have many regular clients inside the arena."

  And so he had.

  Bex thanked Fedya. And she told Sasha over breakfast in the hotel dining room, "He's our man, I'm sure of it."

  "So what is then the next step?"

  Bex said, "We go to the police with what we've found out. We tell them that a man who had threatened to kill Igor Marchenko on several occasions purchased the drug used to kill him a few days before his death. Even in Russia, that ought to be enough to have him brought in for questioning, oughtn't it?"

  "I believe this, yes."

  Bex grinned, imagining how Gil would be forced to grudgingly—and publicly—compliment her, as she wondered, "What do you think is the best time of day to contact the police so that they come arrest Shura during the long program broadcast tonight?"

  Sasha asked, "This will be big story on the news, then?"

  "Oh, yes. I definitely think so. I mean, do you remember all the press that was here the first day? This will get a lot of play. Not just in Russia, all over the world. Gil is going to love me for this. This is guaranteed ratings gold!"

  Sasha said, "Bex..."

  "What?" She may have ostensibly been having this conversation with him but, in all honesty, Bex had been spinning giddily in her own world, counting her Emmy Awards before they were hatched. She hadn't noticed Sasha's growing anxiety. Which was odd in and off itself, since he always seemed so confident in whatever he was doing.

  "I have to ask you, Bex, a question."

  "What?" she repeated, the food in her throat turning into a cactus needle. Why is he looking so serious? What have I missed!

  "I am asking you, please do not tell Mr. Cahill about Shura."

  "Why not?"

  "Because. I would like you to allow me to tell someone else."

  "You mean you want to warn Shura?"

  He was actually blushing. Bex didn't realize he knew how. "There is a television station. It is here, in Moscow. Many times, I have asked for position there. Many times, the boss, he has told me, no. He says I do not know enough people. I cannot to bring him important news stories before everyone else."

  Now it was Bex's turn to, once again, figure out the big picture based on some clearly spelled out clues. She summarized, "You want me to let you bring this guy my exclusive, so you can get a job at his TV station."

  Sasha nodded. And looked pleadingly at Bex.

  She said, "Why should I believe you?"

  He blinked. "I do not understand. You do not believe me?"

  "Oh, I believe you know a guy who promised you a TV job if you can get him an exclusive about Marchenko. I'm sure that part is true. What I mean is, how do I know this hasn't been your plan all along?"

  "But..." Sasha stammered. "This has been my plan all along."

  Well, he had her there. It was pretty hard to remain accusatory and self-righteous when your subject was confirming all the accusations.

  Sasha reminded, "I tell you this, first day we are meeting. I tell you I desire to find employment in television."

  And so he had. "But you didn't tell me you intended to use me to do it!"

  "Yes, I did," he insisted.

  She was getting a headache.

  Amazing how Bex could spend days sifting through lies, and lies to cover up lies, and lies about things no one had any good reason to be lying about, all the while keeping her head clear and focused on the task at hand. Ten minutes of talking to Sasha, and Bex felt like her brain was having a coughing fit.

  She asked, "Why should I do this for you?"

  "Because. You are nice person."

  "I'll be a nice person without a job if Gil ever finds out. Big story exclusives are all he cares about. Maybe this will make your career, but it will ruin mine."

  "I realize this," Sasha said. And yet he didn't look like he planned to withdraw his request anytime soon.

  "Is that why you kissed me?" Bex figured she might as well ask exactly what was on her mind. Especially since

  that question was so dominant, her mind was proving incapable of coming up with any other query to push the former back into queue.

  "No." Sasha did not hesitate.

  "Are you telling the truth?"

  He didn't reply.

  He simply smiled.

  EPILOGUE

  The arrest came at five p.m. local time. Too early for 24/7's broadcast, but just in time to be the lead, live story on the Moscow news.

  Shura didn't deny a thing. The last Bex saw of him, he was ranting in Russian to no one in particular as he was shoved into the back of a police car, the on-the-spot camera crew pushing its way through the gathering crowd to record every word. Bex saw Sasha in the crowd. He was standing a few feet behind the camera, right next to a man Bex guessed was the segment's producer. They both looked very happy.

  Gil Cahill, however, did not.

  He came out as soon as a sycophantic production assistant gave him a heads-up about the excitement. He headed straight for Bex.

  "What the hell is going on here. Miss Crack-Shot Researcher?"

  "The arena manager is being arrested for the murder of Igor Marchenko. Turns out he's Igor's old coach. Alexandr Troika, a.k.a. Shura, never forgave Igor for defecting and ruining his life. He was forbidden from coaching, demoted to working as a janitor at the same arena where he'd once trained champions. It took him twenty years just to work his way up to arena manager, but even that was hardly what he once expected to do with his life.
So, when Shura finally got his chance, he poisoned Marchenko. He tried to pin the blame on Gary, claiming he saw Gary with Igor's gloves. Gary, by the way, isn't one of Shura's favorite people, either. But it was Shura all along."

  "And why the hell is this story going exclusive to some nothing Russian network instead of the one that's, at least for now, paying your salary?"

  "Well, see, that's a funny story, Gil." Bex took a step back so that they might have a better view of the rooftop on the building directly across the street from the arena. "Turns out, by a weird coincidence, one of our 24/7 crews was up on the roof, shooting the beautiful Moscow scenery. They got the whole thing, from the police car coming up, to Shura being led out in handcuffs, to his on-air confession. Not only will we be the first Western outlet to have this story, but we'll also have it from a camera angle no one else has, so it will look totally different. Pretty lucky for us, isn't it?"

  Gil stared at Bex for what felt like an eternity. She stared back, smiling sweetly. It was a trick she'd recently picked up from a close friend.

  Finally, Gil grunted, "Beginner's luck, kid. Dumb, old beginner's luck."

  And then he went inside to call the network and let them know about his foresight in putting a camera crew up on the roof to insure their exclusive.

  The hubbub was dying down. Sasha looked over the crowd and met Bex's eyes.

  He blew her a kiss.

  She kept smiling.

  THE END

  Death Drop

  OTHER ALINA ADAMS TITLES

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN