3 Swift Run (11 page)

“Glad to see you’re not getting fitted for an orange jumpsuit,” Charlie greeted me
when I ding-donged.

“Orange is so not my color,” I said. “I can
not
go to prison. What would the kids do?” Kendall would probably move in with her friend
Angel, and they’d become groupies, following that band they were obsessed with around
the country. She’d never finish high school and would end up shacked up with some
loser in Schenectady or Amarillo when the drummer tossed her aside like a used Kleenex,
penniless and alone in a strange town. Dexter might well end up in the jail cell next
to mine for doing something dangerous and stupid with his dangerous and stupid friends.
I sighed.

Charlie beckoned me in, and I followed her through to the kitchen. She grabbed two
Pepsis from the fridge, tossed one to me, and led me back to the living room. I flopped
into her oversized armchair, thinking that the earth-toned decor was nice but a little
dull. Maybe I’d get her a yellow wall clock or a colorful mobile for her birthday.
I’d seen one in shades of bright purple and lime at the Fine Arts Center gift shop
last week. Thinking about it made me realize I didn’t know when Charlie’s birthday
was. “Charlie, when’s—”

She interrupted me. “What did the police say?”

I ran through it, taking great gulps of the Pepsi and wishing it were hot cocoa with
plenty of whipped cream on top. “So they finally let me go, but I know that Detective
Lorrimore suspects me,” I finished. “What did Detective Montgomery say?”

“That he can’t tell me anything.” Charlie looked annoyed. Her dark bangs flopped in
her eyes, and she flipped them out of the way impatiently. “He doesn’t think you murdered
Heather-Anne, though.”

“He said that?” The thought pleased me.

“No, but he’s sharp enough to realize that you couldn’t pull off … that is, that you
would never kill anyone.”

“You were going to say I’m not capable of planning a murder, weren’t you?” I don’t
know why the thought riled me, but it did. I could kill someone!

“Not being a murderer is a good thing, Gigi,” Charlie said. “Have you talked to a
lawyer?”

“You think I need one?”

Her silence answered my question.

“The only lawyer I know is my divorce lawyer,” I said morosely. “Considering how that
turned out, I think I’d rather throw a dart at the Yellow Pages than call him.”

Charlie laughed, and the sound surprised a smile out of me. She has a great laugh.
“It won’t matter,” she said, “because we’re going to track down Les and get to the
root of this so that you won’t need a lawyer. First, I’m going to talk to the people
who knew Heather-Anne, or whatever her name was, when she lived here: her roommate,
her co-workers. I need to get more of a feel for the woman. You need to get on the
computer and find out what you can about Lucinda Cheney, which is what she said her
real name was. I don’t know where she lived, but she talked about the South, so start
there.”

I made notes, happy to have a plan of attack. “I’ll think about where else Les might
be, too,” I said, “since he might know something about who would want to kill Heather-Anne.”
The look on Charlie’s face startled me. It took me a moment, but then my eyes widened.
“No. Oh, no, Charlie. He wouldn’t.”

She arched her brows skeptically. “He took up with a tramp, stole money from tons
of people, dumped you, and abandoned his kids.”

“That doesn’t make him a murderer!”

She just said, “Who else would want Heather-Anne dead?”

The first thing that came to me—wives of the men she’d lured away—wasn’t a good answer
given that I was one of those wives. “Serial killer?”

Charlie gave me a look.

“The ex-husband that was after her!” I offered triumphantly. The more I thought about
it, the better I liked that idea, mostly because it didn’t involve me or Les.

“We don’t even know that there really was a husband, ex or not. I wouldn’t exactly
bet my paycheck on Heather-Anne’s truthfulness.”

She didn’t push it, but I could see that Les was her prime suspect. I was too tired
to argue with her about it, and, truth to tell, I’d be happy to have the police looking
at anybody besides me.

14

Charlie arrived at the downtown YMCA before eight o’clock on Monday morning. Her butt
cheek was feeling much better; it didn’t even twinge as her guide led her past elliptical
machines being used by exercisers whose grim faces suggested they were working to
repel a Communist invasion rather than a few fat cells. She scanned the room but didn’t
see Hollis, Heather-Anne’s client from Saturday.

Her guide, a middle-aged woman with graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, knocked
on an office door with a sign that read
SANDRA SECHREST, DIRECTOR.
She pushed it open to reveal a desk, two metal chairs with padded seats, and a doctor’s-office-type
scale. “Sandy, this is Charlotte Smith—”

“Swift.”

“She’s a detective, and she needs to talk to you about Heather-Anne Pawlusik.” Curiosity
vibrated in her voice.

“Thank you, Maureen,” the woman said, rising. Charlie edged past Maureen, still blocking
the doorway, to shake hands with the taller woman. In her early forties maybe, a few
years older than Charlie, she had a distinct air of command; Charlie wouldn’t have
been surprised to learn the woman had been in the military before becoming the Y’s
director. She wore a blue YMCA golf shirt over close-fitting black slacks. Maureen
hadn’t budged, clearly interested in hearing what Charlie had to say about Heather-Anne,
and Sandy dislodged her with a “Close the door on your way out, Maureen.”

As soon as the door clicked shut, she turned her narrowed gaze on Charlie. “Heather-Anne
Pawlusik has not been employed by the YMCA for going on eight months now,” she said,
“so if there’s a complaint—”

When the woman didn’t finish her thought, Charlie prompted, “What kind of complaint
would you expect?”

Sandy covered her discomfort by sitting behind her desk and motioning for Charlie
to sit. As she did, she scanned the desk for clues to Sandy’s interests, but the two
framed photos faced inward, and the inspirational prints on the office were standard
YMCA fare and had probably been there well before Sandy moved in. “Well. I just figured
there must have been a complaint of some kind if the police were showing up to question
a former employer.”

Interesting, Charlie thought, that she would immediately assume a criminal complaint
had been lodged against Heather-Anne. “I’m not with the police,” she said, handing
over her business card. Colorado didn’t license PIs, so the best she could do for
identification purposes was the card. “I’m a private investigator.”

The YMCA director arched well-defined brows. “You’re not a cop?”

Charlie shook her head. She wasn’t above letting interviewees think she was a cop
on occasion, but Sandy Sechrest struck her as the type to demand a badge before saying
anything. Sandy rose again. “Then I’m afraid I can’t talk to you.” Her posture and
expression made it clear she was inviting Charlie to leave.

Charlie relaxed into her chair—hard to do with its inhospitable metal back digging
into her neck—to make it plain she wasn’t leaving yet. “If I were a cop, what would
you have told me?”

“Why is a private detective looking for Heather-Anne?” Sandy countered, admitting
temporary defeat by sitting again. A small diamond on her left hand caught the light
as she smoothed back her maple-syrup-colored hair.

No wonder she was slim, Charlie thought, with all that up and down. “I’m not looking
for Heather-Anne. She’s dead.”

“What!” Sandy popped up again. “Dead? Who killed—? How—?”

“Why would you assume she was killed?” Charlie asked.

“I assumed … I mean, she’s so young and healthy, so I assumed—” She sank back into
her chair.

“You were right the first time,” Charlie said. “Someone strangled her.”

“Here? I mean, in Colorado Springs? I thought she’d moved on, gone to Belize or someplace.
I’d never been more grateful to see the back of someone in my life.” The shock of
hearing about Heather-Anne’s death was loosening Sandy’s tongue.

“Costa Rica. Why were you glad she left?”

“Because—” Sandy’s eyes narrowed as she assessed Charlie. “I really can’t talk about
an employee.”

“Former employee,” Charlie reminded her. “Dead former employee.”

“Even so.”

“Were you ever in the military?” Charlie asked.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I spent seven years in the air force, OSI. I just thought you might have served.”

“Navy,” Sandy admitted after a moment. “Five years. Payback for Annapolis.”

“A grad, huh? I went the ROTC route. Why’d you leave?”

“I never intended to stay. I joined for the education, did my time, and donated my
uniforms to the thrift shop without a single qualm. Six to nine months at sea, followed
by a year or so in San Diego or Norfolk or the Pentagon, didn’t have much appeal.
I applied to the Naval Academy solely to get out of Liverpool. That’s West Virginia,
not England.” Sandy whiffed out a sharp breath.

Just when Charlie was congratulating herself on the success of her “build rapport
with the witness” strategy, Sandy stood again with a finality that told Charlie she
was on the verge of eviction. “None of which has anything to do with the case at hand,”
Sandy said. “I can’t talk about Heather-Anne or the pending litigation.” Walking past
Charlie to the door, she pulled it open.

Charlie rose stiffly and unconsciously rubbed at her hip. “Thanks for your time,”
she said, moving toward Sandy and offering her hand once again.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” Sandy asked, sharp eyes assessing Charlie’s gait.

“A bullet in my gluteus maximus,” Charlie said, grinning slightly. “Or, as Forrest
Gump would say, in my but-tock.”

“I trained as a physical therapist after I left the navy,” Sandy said. “Come back
if you want help getting back in shape.”

Charlie had no doubt Sandy Sechrest could run her into the ground. “Thanks,” she said.
“I just might do that.”

She stepped into the hall, but a half-motion or a slight sound made her turn back
to face Sandy Sechrest. After a brief hesitation, the woman said, “You might want
to talk to Robyn. She was here when Heather-Anne was hired; I didn’t arrive until
almost a year after that.”

“Thank you,” Charlie said with real gratitude, recognizing that the Y director was
trying to help her without compromising her organization. Employers needed to be cagey
about releasing information about their employees for fear of lawsuits.

Robyn, apparently another personal trainer, was with a client but would be done in
fifteen minutes, Maureen informed Charlie when she stopped at the front desk. Charlie
jotted a quick note for Robyn and decided to wait for her outside. Propping her shoulders
on the wall beside the exit door, Charlie gazed at the parking structure that held
her Subaru and wondered what tack to take with Robyn. Clear skies and a brilliant
sun added up to an almost springlike day, one of the things Charlie liked best about
living in Colorado. Even though it could get bitterly cold, it didn’t stay that way.
It might snow three feet one day, but the sun would almost certainly pop out within
a day or two, so you were never trapped at home for long, unlike spots in Minnesota
or Michigan or the Dakotas where the snow might fall in late September and still be
on the ground in May.

The door beside her squeaked open and a pair of businessmen exited, followed by a
short, muscular woman wearing one of the ubiquitous blue golf shirts and a puzzled
look. “Miss Swift? You wanted to talk to me?” She waved the note Charlie had left.

“Call me Charlie. You must be Robyn.”

The woman jerked her head down once, setting brown corkscrew curls threaded with gray
bouncing. “Is it true Heather-Anne’s dead?”

Charlie nodded.

The older woman fidgeted, one hand tugging at her ear, the other fingering the YMCA
name tag pinned to her blue shirt. She looked like she was dying to gossip about Heather-Anne
but couldn’t quite bring herself to speak ill of the dead.

“Are you on break?” Charlie asked. “I could buy you a cup of coffee.”

*   *   *

Robyn chose the Pikes Perk on Tejon, several blocks from the Y, and Charlie wondered
if she picked a coffee shop that far away to avoid running into co-workers. Charlie
paid for her muffin and Robyn’s chai tea, thinking that it smelled like Christmas
with its heavy cinnamon and clove scent, and carried them to the table where Robyn
sat. Blinds-filtered sunlight striped the warm wood. The personal trainer fussed with
the tea after Charlie set it down, giving Charlie a chance to study her. Fiftyish,
or maybe a bit more, she had a plain face with slightly chipmunky cheeks and skin
that showed traces of long-ago acne problems. Scraggly brows made an almost straight
line over makeup-less eyes, but her mouth was surprisingly pretty, full lipped and
with a natural pink color that warmed her whole face. Her body was fitness-champ tight
and ripped, making a good advertisement for her personal trainer skills.

“Were you and Heather-Anne close?” Charlie knew at once she’d made a mistake as Robyn
snorted.

“Do I look like a rich old guy who thinks with his dick?” she asked.

“Only around the ears,” Charlie shot back, surprising a tiny smile out of the other
woman.

“Well, if you weren’t male, and willing to hand over the password to your bank account
for a little flattery and silicone tits rubbing up against your arm while she showed
you how to do lat pulldowns, and maybe more outside the Y for all I know, then she
didn’t know you were alive.”

Charlie occupied herself with tearing a bite off her banana nut muffin, not wanting
to interrupt the flow of Robyn’s words.

They sprayed out of her like soda out of a shaken bottle. “I knew she was trouble
when she first walked through the door two years back. Trouble with a capital
T.
But Jake—he was the director then—he hired her on straight away. She said she had
all sorts of personal trainer credentials, but I never believed it. I was studying
for my AFAA certification then, and when I tried to get her to quiz me before an exam,
it was clear she didn’t even know what the IT band was.” Robyn said it as if Heather-Anne
had failed to recognize the name of the nation’s first president.