by Alina Adams
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEATH DROP
PRINTING HISTORY Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / 2006
Copyright © 2012 by Alina Adams Media.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
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DEATH DROP
PROLOGUE
At first, no one realized he was even there.
Though the Pasadena Dome in Southern California could accommodate up to fifteen thousand spectators, on the morning of the Senior Dance Compulsory run-through at the U.S. Figure Skating Championship, the only people in the arena were the five dance teams making up Practice Group "B," their coaches, a handful of parents, and about fifty hard-core skating fans — middle-aged women bundled up in sweatshirts and fur-lined parkas who believed that their All-Event Nationals Tickets really, really meant All- Event.
They had the Championship's program on their laps, a thermos full of coffee in their left hand, and a pen in their right, ready to jot down who'd deigned to attend the early morning practice, which team was skating to what music, and how their edges looked compared to their opponents' twizzles versus the other's Choctaws and Mohawks. Some of the fans even had laptop computers for on-the-spot Internet reports. They were the easiest ones to spot, since they absolutely had to be sitting next to a phone jack, and tended to get very cranky if blocked.
They also liked to sit in the front rows, since that made it easier to eavesdrop on what the coaches, standing at the barrier, were whispering to their students on the ice. The bulk of the advice seemed to be, "Push. Push. Push!" making most dance practices feel more like natural childbirth classes, especially when that advice was often followed by, "Just ignore the pain for now. It will be worth it in the end."
The dancers all listened keenly, nodded intensely, blew their noses, took a sip of bottled water, then joined hands and whipped around to — more often than not — make the same mistake, prompting the coaches to groan and that groan to echo off the cavernous arena. At that Sigh of Ultimate Despair, the skaters' parents, who previously had been sitting hunched over in their seats, trying to calculate how many hours of sleep they had lost per lifetime after a decade of racing to 5:00 a.m. practices, would snap to attention as if slapped and commence staring pointedly at their offspring, as if their focus — and their focus alone — was what might keep the kids upright for the duration of their event.
"That concludes practice time for the Paso Doble. Our next dance will be the Killian," intoned a sleepy announcer's voice as the arena was engulfed in shrill and painfully peppy music. The Killian was a march, and one of the fastest ice dances in existence. While two sequences of the Ravensburger Waltz took fifty-eight seconds to skate, and two patterns of the Tango Romantica filled a leisurely, practically restful, one minute and forty-three seconds, the Killian required six sequences to be whipped through in exactly fifty seconds.
On cue, all of the couples who'd previously been facing each other for the Paso Doble, turned so that both were facing in the same direction, the man's right hand clasping the lady's right palm and pressing it to her hip, his left hand extending her left arm across the front of his body. Their expressions of fiery, Spanish intensity morphed into mindless, noncountry-specific glee, and off they went in a counterclockwise circle, cheerfully pretending that their hearts weren't ready to explode out of their chests from exertion, or that the squishy feeling in their socks was merely wholesome sweat rather than blood from freshly opened blisters.
This time the scream emanating from their coaches was, "Cross behind! Damn it, how many times do we have to go over this? Cr! Oss! Be! Hind! Boot! Touching! Boot! It doesn't do anybody any good if you cross behind without the boots touching!"
The dancers all listened keenly, nodded intensely, blew their noses, took a sip of bottled water, and tried their best.
As the practice drew to a close, the mood in the arena grew more desperate. Coaches who'd spent the past year trying to get their points across realized that they had literally four more minutes to make an impression. Skaters who'd spent the past year just ignoring the pain, understood that they had four more minutes to get their steps right, or all that suffering would amount to nothing. Their parents were already giving up on this season and making plans for the next — maybe a new coach was in order, maybe a new partner. The spectators started typing their concluding thoughts onto the Internet. It wasn't until after "Group B" finished their run-through, and "Group A" stomped in to take their place, bringing with them a new contingent of frustrated coaches, sleepy parents, and rabid fans, that anyone even noticed the abandoned baby.
He was so tiny, he couldn't even hold his head up in his car seat, needing to be propped up by one of the straps. He wore a newborn-size blue snowsuit with a hood, gloves, and booties, and seemed not so much scared as befuddled by the crowd that gathered around him after the first yelp. He blinked, sleepy and unfocused, then arched his back, yawned, stretched, and smacked his lips.
"He's hungry," one of the skating moms said. But seemed stymied over what to do about that fact.
"He looks like he's all by himself," came another statement of the obvious.
"We should call someone."
"I wonder where his mother is."
"We should get someone."
"Yes. Someone should get someone."
Eventually it was the referee who decided that his authority to make all calls for a given event included determining the fate of a baby abandoned on his watch. He picked up the surprisingly light car seat and moved toward the Championship's accounting office. He called the police, telling them they had an unaccompanied infant on their hands, with no idea of who or where the mother might be.
However, twenty minutes later, when the LAPD arrived, the referee nervously had to tell them that now he actually did have some idea of who, and even where, the mother might be.
He thought she might be Allison Adler, a nineteen-year- old former national ice-dancing champion who was now hanging, dead, from the ceiling of the costume room, a red leather belt with sparkles on the buckle tightened around her neck.
CHAPTER ONE
Rebecca "Bex" Levy, crack 24/7 Television Network figure skating researcher, was in the arena when the abandoned baby was discovered. She was, however, at the other practice ice surface, the one hosting Ladies Practice Group "A," rather than at the one for Compulsory Dance Practice Group "B." There was a very good reason for that. It was because nobody cared about Ice Dance.
Well, that wasn't 100 percent true, technically. The skaters cared. Their parents cared. So did their coaches, and even a few hard-core fans. What Bex meant to say was that television didn't care about ice dance. Which meant it barely existed as part of the National Championship.
Certainly, 24/7 broadcast the Free Dances, which were worth 50 percent of the score. Well, the top three free dances (the top two if the Bronze medal girl wasn't pretty enough for close-ups). But they didn't even show the Original Dance, which was worth 30 percent, so they certainly weren't going to show the two Compulsory Dances, which were worth 10 percent apiece and featured every single couple skating the exact same steps, with only three pieces of music to choose from, besides.
Though Bex's boss, Gil Cahill, usually insisted she attend all the practices — regardless of the fact that there were always two going on at the same time — even Gil made an exception for the compulsory dances. Gil wasn't interested in the criteria and rules used to judge them, so he decreed that no one in the audience would be either. He told Bex that she could go ahead and skip that "Special Olympics exhibition" to focus on the Ladies, who were, after all, the marquee event.
This Nationals featured a particularly exciting (read: ratings worthy) match up, with the defending Silver and Bronze Medallists from the year before gunning for the newly vacated U.S. Ladies' title. And since Jordan Ares
and Lian Reilly were both in the practice group scheduled for the same time as the compulsories, that's where Bex was, sitting in the stands, dutifully taking notes on the teenagers' jump content.
At least that's what she should have been doing. Wrapped in her red, white, and blue 24/7 parka, a knit black cap pulled down over her ears, and clutching a pen in one gloved hand as she balanced her notebook on her lap, it certainly did look to the world as if that was exactly what Bex was doing.
In actuality, after scribbling down, "Lian landed one out of every six triple-triple combinations she tried," and "If Jordan keeps doing her triple Lutz that close to the boards she'll end up in the judges' laps... maybe that's the point?" the bulk of Bex's attention was occupied by observing the most recent personal development in the Life of Reilly.
Lian, it seemed, had a new boyfriend.
Now, usually that wouldn't be such a big deal. In the real world, eighteen-year-old girls were known for getting new boyfriends. Some were known for getting a new boyfriend every week. But in this case, Bex was willing to bet the strapping young hunk in question was also Lian Reilly's first-ever boyfriend. Because this, after all, was skating. And it was Lian.
Lian was special. Or so her mother, Amanda, kept telling anybody who would listen. Lian was destined for greatness. And Lian had decided, at a painfully early age, that greatness meant becoming a skating legend. From age three, Lian had spent every afternoon, then every afternoon and morning, then every afternoon, morning, and whatever time could be squeezed in between, at the rink. She made her mother drive her to ballet lessons and costume fittings and stylists. She made her mother chaperone her to local and international competitions. And she allowed her mother to pick up the tab for the privilege. At first, Amanda endured the insane lifestyle because she loved her darling girl beyond reason (having adopted Lian from a Chinese orphanage as an infant, Amanda believed they were destined to be family). But even she eventually reached her limit and rebelled. Amanda made a deal with her daughter: Lian would have to win the upcoming Nationals, or they were quitting and going home. Lian agreed, because she saw that, this time, Mom meant what she said, and Lian had no choice. Which meant that, this season, Lian had put even more effort than anyone previously guessed possible into her training. Which made it extra surprising that along with the extra work, she'd also somehow managed to sneak a boyfriend onto the schedule.
And not just any boyfriend. Little Lian had gotten herself the pick of the litter: Cooper Devaney, U.S. National Men's Champion, or, as his fans liked to scream from the stands when he came out onto the ice, "Super Cooper!"
He was twenty-two years old, six feet tall, with wavy, sandy brown hair, hazel eyes, a dimple in his chin, biceps to make Popeye weep, and a butt so tight he didn't even incur a mandatory costume deduction for wearing tights. (The latter was two years ago for an ill-advised Romeo and Juliet routine. Since then, Coop had switched coaches and choreographers and now preferred simple, tight black pants, and red, tight T-shirts that showed off all his best assets simultaneously.) In the real world, Cooper Devaney would have been a heck of a catch. In skating, he was a god.
Which made it even odder that Lian had somehow landed him. Unlike her, Coop had a rep for being quite the player. According to notes a former researcher recorded in his file from a Nationals ten years earlier, "The standout in the Novice Men's event was Southern California's Cooper "Coop" Devaney. Solid jumps (three triples), nice spins, good footwork, but the charisma!!!! Twelve years old, and he had girls screaming for him in the audience at exhibition! Watch this kid. He's going to be a star!!!" According to gossip, he'd dated half the Junior World Team until he made his first Senior one, then promptly traded up — and never looked back. His previous girlfriend was Allison Adler, the ice-dance champion. But that ended, as far as Bex knew, almost a year ago, when she quit skating. Asked to make a bet on which girl he'd go for next, Bex would have put her money on Jordan Ares. While Coop had been working his way through the female side of the Senior World Team, Jordan had been doing the same with the male (to be fair, her options were much more limited, and she had been forced to go for a few coaches and officials just to keep things competitive). It was about time they hooked up, if only so both could check the other off their to-do (literally) lists.
Except that, surprise! it was Lian whom Coop went for, not Jordan. And the newly knighted girlfriend could not have looked more thrilled. Even half an arena away, Bex recognized the infatuation. Lian didn't land a single jump without glancing over her shoulder at Coop. She waved to him from the barrier while she was supposed to be catching her breath and listening to her coach. Twice, she skated over to another girl on the practice, casually struck up a conversation, then giggled, covered her mouth with one hand, and pretended to surreptitiously point Coop out in the stands. He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up both times, utterly unembarrassed by the attention, which, of course, made Lian giggle more.
Neither Lian's coach nor her mother appeared as amused by the performance art as Bex was; but, for probably the first time in her life, Lian did not really seem to care.
"They're not having sex yet."
The sweeping Anna Karenina coat, complete with gold, gilded buttons down the front and a fur collar to match the trimming on the sleeves, not to mention the "Seven Sisters Sorority" accent most certainly belonged to Mrs. Diana Howarth, skating's grand dame and half of 24/7's announcing team. But the sentiment expressed did not exactly gel with the persona she'd spent thirty years cultivating. Diana was often referred to as the Grace Kelly of skating. She was blond, refined, poised, and elegant. She wasn't someone you expected to observe, "That girl hasn't been popped, I'd put money on it."
Bex turned around in time to see Diana and her husband, Francis, grandly occupy the two seats directly behind Bex. Francis leaned over her shoulder for a peek at Bex's notes. He pulled a pen out from his inside black blazer pocket and proceeded to scribble Bex's observations into his own research binder so that, in several hours, Francis could sincerely believe he'd actually watched the entire practice and come to those conclusions on his own. Diana, meanwhile, whispered conspiratorially and, if Bex did say so herself, rather gleefully, into Bex's ear, "You can always tell a virgin by the way she skates."
"Hm," Bex replied, noncommittal, actually eager to hear the scoop, but afraid that Diana was just testing to see if Bex would take the bait — a sort of Princess and the Pea assessment of class-worthiness.
If it was a test, then Bex must have passed something, because Diana went on, "Look at Jordan Ares over there. Nothing virginal about that girl. Look how relaxed she is when she skates; it's like she's had a full-body massage. She is one fluid, languid bit of slowly dripping syrup, head to toe."
Bex nodded. And prayed very hard that Diana wouldn't decide to repeat her metaphor on the air during the Ladies' Short Program. Bex could already imagine Gil screaming at her through the headset in response, "What the fuck is she talking about? Are we selling Mrs. Butterworth here? Am I supposed to put Jordan Ares on my pancakes? Has Diana lost her mind? Bex! Do something!"
"Now, Lian Reilly, on the other hand," Diana said, "look at how she skates. Short, tight little steps. Jumps that barely get off the ground. Pinched face, darting eyes. She nods her head in time to the music, goodness — you can actually see her counting the beats instead of letting it wash over her and succumbing to the rhythm. She's ready to burst, but with no place to go. A bottle of champagne with the stopper jammed down its throat and glued for good measure."
"A bottle of champagne?" the imaginary Gil's voice in Bex's head shrieked, "Now it's 'Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve'? Have you all lost your minds down there?"
Diana said, "Lucian Pryce, he's a coach out in Colorado, ever met him, Bex?"
Bex nodded. "He's Toni Wright's former pair partner and Rachel Rose and Robby Sharpton's old coach. I interviewed him for my piece on skaters who dropped out of sight right when it seemed they were at the top of their game."
That piece had been Bex's first attempt at field-producing, and it was supposed to be screened during this Nationals broadcast.
"Lucian," Diana said, "always encouraged his girl skaters to sleep around. Not have a steady boyfriend, mind you — that would distract them from training, and nobody wants that. But he encouraged them to cat around, no commitments, like a boy. Lucian believed it made them skate better. He liked to say: Nothing duller than a tightened-twat virgin on the ice. I must admit, I agree with him."
Bex immediately stopped praying that Diana would decide to call Jordan syrup or Lian champagne, and told God both were okay — as long as the expression tightened-twat never occupied the air between Diana's lips and a 24/7 microphone.
"But look at that lovely boy." Francis finished copying Bex's notes and surfaced into the conversation as if newly awake. He indicated Coop, sitting in the stands across from them. "Cooper Devaney practically erupts with an erotic charge from every pore. Surely you don't think an Adonis like that is allowing his vigor to go to waste?"
Bex thought it was bad enough when her parents gave her the obligatory birds and bees talk in the fourth grade. Hearing Francis and Diana Howarth, both sixty-plus years old, use the words "twat," "dripping," "erotic charge," and "vigor" was enough to make Bex want to cover her ears with both hands and loudly yodel.
Fortunately, she was saved from doing a Sound of Music medley or listening to any more of their disturbing discussion by the sandstorm of gossip that was washing over their section of the arena like a quickly creeping fog.
Gossip, Bex had learned after more than a year on the job, could be — and often was — a physical, tangible thing. It started with one person, then grew at a nuclear rate until it became a life force of its own, an audible hum picked up by dogs, seismographs, and people whose livelihoods depended on knowing everything that was going on in a ten-acre radius.
