3 Swift Run (2 page)

“Same old Gigi,” the beauty said, stepping in and closing the door with a snap. “Still
klutzy as ever.”

I opened and closed my mouth, but no sound came out.

“You look like a goldfish,” she observed, sauntering forward to perch on the edge
of Charlie’s desk.

How dare she? “I don’t—. What do you—? Get out, you … you bitch!” I don’t think I’d
ever called anyone that, and I only wished I’d had the nerve to use the C-word.

My words didn’t faze Heather-Anne Pawlusik, the personal trainer and home-wrecking
tramp who ran off to Costa Rica with my Les.

“Tut-tut,” Heather-Anne said, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Is that any way
to talk to a paying customer?”

“What?” I goggled at her.

“You’re a private investigator now, right?” She looked around the office, eyes skimming
Charlie’s pristine desk, glancing off the lavender in-box and ceramic figures painted
years ago by Dexter and Kendall on my desk, and lingering on Bernie, who gazed at
her with—I was sure—disapproval. “Well, I need to hire a private investigator.”

My brain unfroze sufficiently for me to ask, “Where’s Les?” I looked past her to the
door, but it remained closed.

“Now, that,” she said, “is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

It took me a minute. “You want me—us—to find Les?”

“Exactly.”

2

“Would you like some coffee?” I asked, my raised-in-the-South politeness taking over.
“I mean—” I couldn’t make myself take back the offer.

Heather-Anne curled her lip. “No, thanks. I gave up caffeine three years ago—it’s
bad for the complexion.” She ran a hand over her revoltingly smooth, unwrinkled, twentysomething
face.

About to tell her it was decaf, I bit the inside of my cheek. I didn’t owe her anything,
not even a cup of Decaffeinated Mocha Hazelnut Supremo. “You can leave now,” I said,
concentrating on sucking in my stomach as I returned to my desk. No amount of sucking—unless
it involved a liposuction tube—was going to make it as flat as Heather-Anne’s.

She looked taken aback. “What?”

“Go away. Get out.”

“Now, Gigi, I know you were probably a little pissed at me and Les—”

A little? I blinked at her. I was horribly hurt and depressed. Les leaving was the
worst thing that ever happened to me.

“—but these things happen. It’s nothing to hold a grudge over.” She looked at me like
I was being unreasonable.

I was about to tell her again to get lost, but she withdrew a roll of cash from her
purse, and I heard Charlie’s voice in my ear telling me a paying customer was a paying
customer and we didn’t have to like everyone we worked for. Sensing my hesitation,
she peeled off ten bills. “Here’s a thousand dollars to get you started.”

She held the money out to me, and I noticed her French-manicured nails were as perfect
as the rest of her, although kind of boring compared to my garnet-painted ones. “I
don’t know…”

“Oh, come off it, Gigi. Les always said this place was the worst investment he ever
made, that he’d be amazed if it was showing a profit by 2020. So don’t pretend you
don’t need this.” She dropped the bills to my desk and one fluttered to the floor.
Ben Franklin stared up at me, offering me no help with this decision.

I turned away, brushing against an acrylic box on my desk and knocking it over. Paper
clips rained to the floor. I ignored them. “No.”

“No?”

Heather-Anne acted like she’d never heard the word before. “No.” I said it louder.
“I’m not going to find Les for you.” I drew myself up, glad to be taller than Heather-Anne.

“But … but you have to!” She looked to be on the verge of tears.

Something in her voice—fear, maybe—made me ask, “Why?”

“Because he’s in danger.”

I bit my lip. Part of me wanted to say “Good!” and throw Heather-Anne out. I didn’t
want anything
really
bad to happen to Les, though, even though he’d dumped me. If he was in danger …

“What kind of danger?”

“I’m not sure exactly, but I know it’s serious. I think someone’s after him. He wouldn’t
have run off if he didn’t fear for his life. He wouldn’t!”

I eyed her uncertainly, not completely believing her but hearing real fear in her
voice. Come to think of it, there’d been people after Les when he deserted me, too:
the victims of his embezzling. Some of them would still be happy to rip his head from
his shoulders. Reluctantly, I reached for the bills and tucked them into my desk drawer,
pretending I didn’t notice Heather-Anne’s triumphant smirk. Trying to act professional,
even though I wanted to scratch her perfectly beautiful face and rip out clumps of
her perfectly highlighted hair, I pulled out my notepad. I tried to remember the sorts
of questions Charlie asked when a client came in with a missing person case. “Um,
okay, Heather-Anne. I need some information from you. What makes you think Les is
missing?”

“Because he hasn’t come home.”

“In how long?”

“Four days.”

“And where is home? I mean, I know from his lawyer that Les went to Costa Rica, but
where exactly?”

“A little town on the coast. Tamarindo. It’s paradise. We’ve got a place on the beach—”

“Address?” I choked on the word, trying to block out the images her words brought
up: my Les and Perfect Miss Skinny sunbathing, splashing in the surf, drinking mai
tais on the lanai or whatever they called a veranda in Costa Rica.

She gave it to me, and I wrote it down carefully. “We’ll need copies of his last several
credit card bills, his ATM and bank records, his phone bill—” I noticed she was looking
a little uncomfortable, twirling a strand of honey hair around her finger. “What?”

“Les and I kept our finances separate,” she said airily. “I don’t have access to that
stuff.”

“The bills didn’t come to your house?” I widened my eyes at this evidence of … what?
Les might have set up housekeeping with Heather-Anne, but he hadn’t trusted her. Hah!
At least we’d shared a joint checking account. Which enabled him to clean out every
penny when he took off.

“He has a postal box. So do I. I do have this.” She pulled out a cell phone bill and
handed it to me. “He left it on his desk after he paid it. Usually he shredded things.”
She slid off the desk and wandered the office, twiddling with the blinds wand, brushing
her fingers across the ficus leaves, clinking the letter opener and markers in my
Hello Kitty pencil holder.

I clicked the pen against my teeth, trying to figure out what else Charlie would ask
if she were here. The heck with it. This was a golden opportunity to snoop into Les’s
personal life post-me, and I didn’t even try to resist temptation.

“I apologize, Heather-Anne,” I said, not one bit sorry, “but I’ve got to ask you some
personal questions. Were you and Les … having difficulties?” They must be—right?—if
Les had run off. “Financial issues? Was he seeing, that is, was there another woman?”
What goes around comes around,
I told her in my head, almost hoping Les had taken up with some Costa Rican sexpot.

Heather-Anne’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? I came to you because
I figured of all the PIs in this town, you were the one most likely to have insight
into Les, to be able to track him down, because, well, because you were married to
him for longer than I’ve been alive. I didn’t think you were the kind of person to
taunt me, to try and make me feel bad—”

“I’m not! I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” she said, wiping at her eyes, even though I hadn’t noticed any tears.
“I understand.”

“It’s just that if you want us to find Les, I’ve got to know some things.”

Heather-Anne raised her chin, shaking her hair back. “No, there weren’t any other
women, and no, we weren’t having problems. We were blissfully happy, insanely in love
with one another. In bed—”

I definitely did not want to hear about their sex life, so I jumped up and went to
pour myself a cup of coffee. The carafe chattered against the mug. “What about money?”
I asked loudly. Returning to my desk, I set the mug down carefully.

“Financially, well—”

I looked a question at her when she hesitated.

“Les seemed … worried the past few weeks.”

“Worried? About what?”

“Well, you know that when we went to Costa Rica there were some … questions about
his financial dealings on this end.”

“He embezzled from several of his companies and there’s a warrant out for his arrest,
if that’s what you mean.” The people he’d cheated had been harassing me, making my
life miserable, since he left. The angry calls had petered out the last couple of
months, maybe because they’d realized you couldn’t get blood out of a turnip.

She nodded. “Right. Well, I got the feeling that maybe some of his former business
partners were taking matters into their own hands, that they were tired of waiting
for the justice system to catch up with Les.”

“Oh, no.” My hand flew to my mouth. “Did someone threaten him? Is that what you meant
about him being in danger?”

“I don’t know about that, exactly,” Heather-Anne hedged, “but he was edgy recently,
seemed to be looking over his shoulder, got more secretive, and made a point of going
outside to take phone calls.”

“You have no idea what was going on?”

“None.” Heather-Anne widened her eyes at me. Her expression reminded me of something …
Kendall! She looked just like my daughter did when she told me she’d “lost” the report
card I was supposed to sign.

I wrinkled my brow. “What makes you think he’s in this area? I mean, why come to Colorado
to hire an investigator, rather than L.A. or Chicago? Do you think he wanted to see
the kids?” I held my breath. Maybe he was regretting the divorce … maybe he really
wanted to see me.

Heather-Anne snorted, and my hopes crumpled like a balloon stuck with a pin. “Not
hardly. I … I knew his card number and password, and I got the credit card company
to send me this.” The piece of paper she handed me had a highlighted entry for an
airline charge for a flight from San José, Costa Rica, to Denver.

“One way,” I said. The paper trembled in my shaking hand. Had he bought a one-way
ticket because he wasn’t going back, because he was returning to me and the kids?
If so, why hadn’t he called?

“Just find him. Please.” Real worry showed on Heather-Anne’s face. “And it’s got to
be soon.”

“Why?”

“Because … because I miss him so much. Here.” Heather-Anne thrust a card at me. On
the front was her name and the words
PERSONAL TRAINER.
On the back she had scribbled
Embassy Suites, Rm 115,
and a phone number. “Call me there when you have news.”

Before I could think of anything else to ask her, she was striding through the door,
bumping into Albertine on her way out so Albertine had to juggle the beignets she
was carrying. A gust of chilly wind blasted in. The last few days had been in the
fifties, but typical February weather had returned today.

Albertine set the napkin of beignets on my desk and helped herself to one. She’s a
tall woman with shiny black skin, even fatter than me. I’ve never asked her age, but
I think she’s in her late fifties or early sixties. She’s got a Louisiana accent thicker
than molasses-drenched grits, and the best smile this side of the Mississippi. She
moved to Colorado after Hurricane Katrina and has opened three restaurants. Even though
we only met last August when I became a PI, she’s one of my best friends.

“Was that an actual client, Gigi?”

“Yes,” I said glumly. I reached for a beignet and bit into the soft, doughy goodness.
Albertine could cook like nobody’s business.

Albertine shot me a look, dusting powdered sugar off her turquoise tunic-length sweater.
“That is not the reaction I’d’ve expected,” she said, “from a businesswoman with a
rent check to write.”

“That was Heather-Anne Pawlusik,” I said. At Albertine’s questioning look, I added,
“Les’s Heather-Anne.”

“Say what, girlfriend?” Albertine’s brows snapped together. “That skinny white woman
is the skank who ran off with your lawfully wedded husband?”

Skank.
I liked the sound of it. “Uh-huh.” Putting my elbows on the desk, I let my chin fall
into my cupped hands.

“And she sashayed in here like sugar wouldn’t melt in her mouth and had the nerve
to try and hire you for something?”

“Yes.”

“You gave her what-for, I hope?” Albertine eyed me doubtfully, knowing I wasn’t the
“what-for” type.

“She gave us a thousand-dollar retainer.”

“Money isn’t everything, girlfriend.” When I didn’t answer, she asked, “What’d the
skinny bitch want?”

“To find Les.”

Albertine burst out laughing, a sound as rich as pecan pie that made me smile despite
myself. “At least you had more pride than to try and hunt him down when he ran out
on you.”

It wasn’t pride. I’d had no money to hire a PI, and by the time I got the idea of
being one myself, well, it seemed like too much water had gushed under that bridge.
Besides, I basically knew where he was … and with who.

“I guess there’s something to be said for finding Les,” Albertine mused. “If you catch
up with his criminal white ass you might pry some of the child support he owes you
out of him.”

“Unlikely.” Les had so far not paid one cent of the court-ordered support.

“I know where I can get a cattle prod. Or you can sic the cops on him.”

“Ooh, I couldn’t do that!”

Albertine glared at me. “Why the hell not? Aren’t you angry at that scum-sucking lowlife?”

“It doesn’t do any good to get mad.” That’s what my mama always said when my daddy’d
been drinking down at the stripper club.

Albertine’s eyes about popped out of her head. “Say what? That’s the dumbest thing
I ever heard,” she said without waiting for me to answer. “Gettin’ angry’s healthy.
Let me help you get your mad on, girlfriend.”

I had to smile at her enthusiasm. “Maybe later.”