Swift Edge (23 page)

Gigi berated herself inwardly for not having considered the possibility that Irena might have acquired a new phone after handing hers over to Charlie at Dmitri’s condo. She knew Charlie would confiscate this phone, saying it was for the client’s safety, but Gigi didn’t feel comfortable snatching it from the woman’s hand. What would she do if Irena mentioned that she was at Gigi’s house? She fidgeted from foot to foot as Irena talked.

The thirty-second conversation from Irena’s side consisted of yeses, nos, and a few ums, accompanied by sidelong looks at Gigi. “You, too,” she said in a wrapping-it-up tone, adding, “I’m at—”

“No!” Gigi yelled, leaning across the counter to swipe at the phone.

Irena reared back, astonished, as the timer on the oven went off with a loud, droning
beep.
She swayed on the stool. The phone clattered to the floor.

“You can’t tell anyone where you are,” Gigi said over the beeping. She hurried to the oven and punched at the timer button. Sliding a mitt over her hand, she pulled the cookie tin out.

Irena slid gracefully off the stool and retrieved the phone. “He’s gone,” she said, snapping it shut. “I can tell my son where I am, I think. He does not pose a threat to me.”

“That was Dmitri?” Gigi’s eyes widened. “Do you know where he is?”

“He is taking care of a few things,” Irena said, lids half-shuttering her eyes. “He says we will not have to worry anymore after tonight.”

Gigi thought about trying to wrest the cell phone from Irena to check the phone number of the last incoming call. She couldn’t quite work up the nerve to tackle the smaller woman, especially since she was a guest in her home. Flinging one’s guests to the floor and forcibly removing their communications devices didn’t fit the southern notion of hospitality Gigi had grown up with.

“Since it seems like I’m going to be stuck here most of the day, what will we do?” Irena looked at Gigi as if expecting her to produce a first-run movie or a chamber ensemble for her entertainment.

Gigi disappeared into the walk-in pantry, emerging a moment later with a mop and a feather duster. “Mop or dust?” she asked.

26

I flipped a mental coin to decide whether I should revisit Czarina Catering first or head for Dellert House to check it out. Czarina Catering won, so I headed downtown, planning to swing by Dellert House afterward. Parking in the lot behind the champagne-colored Victorian, I entered Czarina Catering by way of the kitchen and found Gary Chemerkin pouring ingredients into an industrial-sized floor mixer that was almost as tall as I was. The door closed behind me with a quiet
snick.

“Be with you in a moment,” he said, not looking around. He coughed as the huge bag of flour he was spilling into the bowl poofed up a white cloud.

“That’s one heap big mixer,” I said.

He turned to look at me. His round glasses showed a hint of condensation, and sweat sheened his forehead. “Sixty quarts. What can I do for you now, Ms. Swift? I’m shorthanded and busy, so I don’t have a lot of time.” He wiped his hands on the white apron he wore over tan slacks and a pale green shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Shiny cordovan-colored loafers showed a film of flour. He didn’t look like he’d come to work planning to slave in the kitchen.

“I’m still looking for Dmitri,” I said, leaning back against one of the stainless steel counters. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen or heard from him?”

“No,” Chemerkin said shortly, “and I don’t expect to. I’ve had it with that prima donna. He’s fired.” He flipped a switch, and the mixer started doing its thing.

“Dmitri being gone and Edgerton being dead must put quite a hole in your lineup.”

He shot me a sharp look. “Boyce’s death is a tragedy. We’ll miss him here at Czarina. We’re donating a cake for the postfuneral reception. Very tasteful. White cake and icing with real lilies for decoration. The family is still deciding on the text they want—probably his name and the dates.”

Like a headstone. I shuddered at the thought of cutting into such a cake. “I suppose the publicity about Boyce’s drug dealing hasn’t done your business a lot of good.”

“No one can convince me that Boyce was a dealer,” Chemerkin said. He passed a hand over his neat beard. “He smoked a little weed now and then, sure, but dealing? No way. The police told me, of course, that they found a stash in Boyce’s apartment, but that doesn’t prove Boyce put it there.”

“You think he was framed?” I considered the idea. “By whom?”

“How would I know that?” he asked testily.

“Dmitri?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

The idea intrigued me, and I was silent for a moment, thinking. Maybe Dmitri wasn’t the victim here. Hell, he’d admitted to credit card fraud. Could he and Edgerton also have been in the drug business together? Had he disappeared because he thought Chemerkin or the police were on to them? That didn’t explain the exploding cabin, though, or a shooter raining bullets on Irena and me. A few stolen credit card numbers or a drug stash small enough to hide in a toilet tank wasn’t worth murdering over. I scrambled some of my assumptions. Maybe the drugs were a sideline or, as Chemerkin suggested, for personal use only. Perhaps Dmitri and Edgerton were part of a more sophisticated theft ring, one that used the catering business as a cover to systematically steal credit card data and used the stolen numbers to buy valuables that were later sold via eBay or Craigslist. I knew a lot of stolen merchandise got fenced on those sites. Or, since Dmitri had copped to transporting fake IDs … I thought about it: What kinds of data might be available in someone’s kitchen, easily snatchable by a crooked caterer? I kept my bills and bank statements in a tray by the phone on the kitchen counter, and I had friends who kept all their paperwork on built-in kitchen desks. Some people even kept laptops there. Was it possible that Dmitri and Boyce could’ve carried out such thefts over the long term without Chemerkin noticing? I studied the man with his graying blond hair and slight paunch.

“I suppose Dmitri’s credit card thefts would be even worse for business, if word got around.”

His face flushed a brick red. “If you dare even
hint
at such a thing, I’ll have you in court so fast your head will spin.”

I found it interesting that he didn’t outright deny Dmitri was a thief. I held up a placating hand. “I’m not planning to mention it to anyone, even though Dmitri told me he’s been stealing credit card data from your clients for several months.”

“You talked to Dmitri? Recently?” Interest sharpened Chemerkin’s tone.

“Last night.” Chemerkin’s reaction seemed too intense, and I tried to read his expression, a mix of surprise, avidity, and something else I couldn’t define.

As if aware that he’d aroused my suspicions, the man made a disgusted noise, turned back to study the mixing bowl’s contents, and said, “If you see him again, tell him he’s fired.”

“Sure,” I said, still trying to figure out his reaction. “Do you have a copy of your client list from the last year?” I thought it might be worth checking to see if any of Czarina’s clients had reported being victims of identity theft.

He gave me a “fat chance” look. “Of course, but I’m not sharing it with you. My clients have a right to their privacy.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “It’s not like you’re a lawyer or a therapist.”

“Nevertheless.”

Recognizing a stone wall when I ran into one, I shrugged. “Thanks for your time. If Dmitri does show up here”—I didn’t think it likely—“will you give me a call?” I handed him my business card.

He took it reluctantly. “I don’t expect him.” An undertone of hurt colored the words, and I wondered suddenly if Chemerkin was in love with Dmitri. He was reacting more like a spurned lover than an irate boss.

“Nevertheless.”

He expelled a sharp “heh” that might have been a laugh and tucked the card into his apron pocket. Wending my way around the steel counters, I had almost reached the door when a thought occurred to me. “Is Fiona around?”

A scowl corrugated his brow. “She’s the reason I’m shorthanded. She didn’t come in this morning.”

His words made me catch my breath. Fiona had described Dmitri as her best friend. Had she become a target for whoever was intent on teaching Dmitri a lesson, the people who had attacked Bobrova, killed Boyce, and shot at me and Irena? Fiona had a young daughter … “Where does she live?” I asked sharply.

“Beats me,” Chemerkin said. “She moved apartments a few weeks ago, and I don’t have the new address.”

“Cell phone?”

He hesitated, sighed, and rattled it off from memory. “If you get hold of her, tell her to get here yesterday or she’s fired, too.”

The way Chemerkin flung the F-word around, he might be auditioning to replace Donald Trump on
The Apprentice.

I thanked him and headed for my car, punching Fiona’s number into my phone. It rang once and went straight to voice mail. Worried about the young woman, I backed carefully out of the lot and headed down Tejon, wondering how long it would take me to come up with an address for someone with the common last name of Campbell. I was about to call Gigi and put her to work on it when I spotted a slim figure in dark jeans and a teal sweater walking fast on the other side of the street, shoulders hunched against the chilly wind. Relief melted through me. Making a U-turn, I pulled the car up beside her, earning a wary glance and a quickened pace until I buzzed down the window. “Fiona!”

Fiona halted briefly, then kept walking. “I’ve got to get to work,” she said as I kept pace with her, earning a honk from the car behind me.

“I’ll give you a ride.” Pushing open the passenger door, I invited her in.

Obviously torn, she finally slid onto the seat. The faint odor of cigarette smoke came with her. “I’m really late,” she confessed. “I had to take the bus. Gary’s going to be PO’d.”

“He’ll get over it,” I said, confident that the man who’d lost two employees in the last week couldn’t afford to fire a third for being tardy. Since she was clearly perfectly okay, I wondered if I should warn her that she might be in danger because of her association with Dmitri Fane. I decided to approach the topic obliquely. “Have you heard from Dmitri since we talked?” I asked.

She pulled at a strand of gelled hair. “Did you hear about Boyce Edgerton?”

Something in her expression and the way she ducked my question convinced me she’d been in touch with Dmitri. Wait a minute … “Why did you have to ride the bus today?” I asked.

“Car trouble.”

“You loaned your car to Dmitri, didn’t you?” Irena had said Dmitri had borrowed a car “from a friend” when he loaned her the Mustang.

“No! I’m still mad at him.”

Right. She probably
was
still mad at him, but that hadn’t made her turn down his request for her vehicle. I felt a new spurt of anger at Dmitri; he knew his friends were being attacked, and yet he’d put Fiona and her daughter in danger by getting in touch.

Running the palms of her hands up and down her jeaned thighs, Fiona slanted a look at me. “He only needed it for a day,” she said.

I pulled to the curb a block shy of Czarina Catering and pivoted in the seat to face her. “Fiona, Dmitri’s mixed up with some bad people. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but you and your daughter might be in danger.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, but the words lacked conviction, and she looked over her shoulder at the cars coming up behind us. Her clavicle bones stood out, thin as bird bones, and she seemed young and vulnerable.

“Do you have someplace safe to stay?”

“Tanya and I moved in with my folks a month ago,” she said. “It’s a gated community.”

At least she had people around. “Did Dmitri say anything about where he might be going today, what he was doing?”

She shook her head, the wispy ends of her pixie cut dancing around her ears. “He called last night and asked if he could borrow my car for a day or so. I met him at the Arby’s down the road from my folks’ house, and he drove me back. I told him I really needed the car back by tomorrow, and he said it shouldn’t be a problem, that after tonight things would get back to normal.”

“What’s happening tonight?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “He didn’t say. I told him Tanya missed him, and he said maybe we could drive up to Dave and Buster’s with her weekend after next.”

I compressed my lips. Either Dmitri was living in la-la land or he was deliberately misleading Fiona. I couldn’t see any way he’d be gallivanting up to a family fun center in Denver next weekend, not with criminals and the police on his tail. “Don’t tell anyone at work you’ve talked to Dmitri,” I cautioned.

“All right,” she agreed, opening the door. “I’ve really got to get in there before Gary shits a brick.”

Delaying her with a hand on her arm, I asked, “Do you think you could get hold of the company’s client list? Say, the names of the people you’ve catered for over the past year?”

“Piece of cake,” she said.

I passed her a business card with my fax number and e-mail on it. “Punny.”

She stared at me a moment, then giggled. Putting a hand to her mouth, as if to stop the unfamiliar sound, she said, “I’ll call you when I’ve got the list.”

“Be careful,” I said as she strode away. She didn’t respond, and I watched until her petite, straight-backed form disappeared around the corner of Czarina Catering.

*   *   *

Giving Gigi a quick call to make sure nothing disastrous had happened with Irena Fane, I told her I was going to Dellert House.

“Why?” she asked.

“To see if there might be a connection between Dmitri and someone at the halfway house. What did you say was the name of the guy who runs the place?”

“Roger Nutt,” Gigi said, dismay in her voice, “but he can’t be mixed up in this. He’s much too nice, and he really cares about those boys. I’m seeing him tonight.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Ant-cay alk-tay ow-nay.”

“What?” I stared at my cell, thinking something had interfered with the connection.

“Ig-pay atin-lay,” she said, still whispering.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Gigi! If you’re worried about someone—Irena or the kids—listening in, go to another room.”