Swift Edge (3 page)

3

Sitting in my Subaru Outback an hour later, studying the facade of Dmitri Fane’s condo, I drank a Pepsi and shifted from one butt cheek to the other, trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t aggravate my bruised tailbone. I made some notes from my conversation—if you could call it that—with Bobrova. Two things seemed clear. One, Yuliya Bobrova knew more about Dmitri’s disappearance than she was saying. Two, my accidental fall was no accident. She’d deliberately tripped me with her cane, and I wondered why. Was she just a nasty old witch who enjoyed inflicting pain? Her treatment of Nicole Lewis supported that theory. Or was she hiding something and wanted to get rid of me? If she was hiding something, what was it? I drained the last of the Pepsi from the can and opened the door. Maybe I could find something in the condo that would put me on the right track. Wincing as I swung my legs out of the car, I stood and looked around the parking lot. Only one other car, a white RAV4, occupied a slot near the big Westhaven Condominiums sign near the entrance.

Westhaven advertised itself as being “
the
resort-style, no-maintenance housing choice” for young professionals, and the lack of people and cars in the middle of the day testified that most of the inhabitants were at work. Good. I’d need to talk to Dmitri’s neighbors later, but for now I wanted a look at his living quarters, and if I made an unorthodox entry—through a window, say—it was better to be unobserved. Nosy neighbors are both a blessing and a curse for private investigators.

Marching up the sidewalk as if I belonged there, I approached Dmitri’s condo. Each step jarred my tailbone, and I cursed Bobrova. Dmitri lived in a two-story unit in a block of four. The building was pseudo Cape Cod with gables and weathered shingles. Dark green shutters flanked multipaned windows. A covered carport with four slots, numbered and unoccupied, was across from the unit. I knew from Dara Peterson that Dmitri drove a silver Mustang, and I kept an eye out for the car but didn’t see it. I made a mental note to check with my CSPD friend, Detective Connor Montgomery, to see if the car had been ticketed or towed recently.

My steps slowed as I came level with Dmitri’s unit. Should I knock or slink around to the back and see if I could gain access through a window? I glanced around: fenced, multilevel pool, drained for the winter; management office almost out of sight on the far side of the complex;
FOR SALE
sign in the window of the connecting unit. No dog walkers or landscapers or delivery people. Wishing I had the lockpicks Gigi had bought on eBay, I approached the door and plied the brass knocker twice. Dmitri didn’t answer. Shocker. Automatically, I tried the doorknob. It turned easily and the door inched open. Surprised and wary of my luck, I glanced casually over my shoulder. Still no observers. Pulling latex gloves out of my pocket, I slipped them on, rubbed my fingerprints off the doorknob with the hem of my sweater, and pushed the door wider.

Finding myself in a small, wood-floored foyer, I shut the door on the nippy breeze and looked around. To my right was a living room–dining room combination, and to my left a flight of stairs rose to the second floor. I decided to start with the ground floor and leave the bedrooms for last. I gave myself ten minutes—staying longer would increase the chance of discovery—and set my watch alarm. Enough light filtered through the closed blinds that I didn’t need to turn on a light as I stepped into the living room. It had all the warmth of an ice rink, outfitted with a white leather sofa and recliner, a big-screen TV, and glass-topped tables with chrome legs. The dining room lacked a table but had a black metal computer desk complete with printer, fax machine–copier combo, laminating machine, and stereo components, but no computer. Two things struck me as I stood in the middle of the room, conscious of the chill in the air that said the heater hadn’t run for days. The decor and electronics were high-end, and I wondered how Dmitri afforded them. Surely, part-time catering and ice-skating didn’t add up to custom-made sofas and state-of-the art plasma televisions. My second observation raised even more questions than the first: Either Dmitri Fane was a slob, or someone else had searched his condo.

The doors on the entertainment center cabinets gaped wide, and the stack of DVDs inside was jumbled. A thin layer of loose papers obscured the floor around the computer desk. The sofa cushions were askew, and a red silk pillow, the only shot of color in the room, languished under the coffee table next to the remote. Reaching for it, I turned on the TV, and a soccer game flickered to life on ESPN. I turned it off.

In the kitchen, I found the same disarray. Drawers and cabinet doors were slightly open, and shards of glass on the floor testified to someone’s carelessness. I peeked into the cabinets and even the freezer but found nothing more interesting than plastic utensils, a drawer full of takeout menus, and a bottle of vodka. I deduced that Dmitri wasn’t much of a cook but liked to sip an icy Stoli while watching the sports event du jour. That didn’t get me very far in figuring out where he was.

I returned to his desk, looking for an address book, a calendar, doodles—anything that might give me a hint as to his location. Nada. He probably stored everything on his computer, and it was missing. I wondered if he had taken it with him, or if the earlier searcher had made off with it. Dara could probably tell me if Dmitri was in the habit of carrying a laptop around. There was likewise no phone in sight, and I figured he was one of those people who used his cell phone exclusively.

A scritch of sound made me look up. I listened carefully but heard nothing further. Probably the wind, I decided, watching aspen limbs dance outside the dining room window. I checked my watch—only two minutes left of the ten I’d allotted myself. I needed to speed things up. Maybe Dmitri’s bedroom would yield some clues. I climbed the Berber-carpeted stairs and found myself in a short hall with a room on each end. The room on the right was empty except for a twin bed—not made up—and a chest of drawers, all empty. Ditto for the closet.

The master bedroom held more potential. The door stood open, and a window on the west side of the room framed a striking view of Pikes Peak. A closet with sliding doors ran the length of the south wall. A king-sized bed draped with a navy and white comforter and a mound of pillows faced the window. Did the tidily made bed mean Dmitri had planned his absence, or was he just a neat freak? Neatness was not a character flaw, no matter what my new partner thought. The last time I’d left my bed unmade had been in response to a fire alarm when I lived in the dorms at Lackland Air Force Base. A sergeant down the hall had been using a lighter to melt shoe polish to gloss her boots and dropped it when the Kiwi tin heated up and singed her fingers.

I began my search. The bedside table nearest the door held a box of condoms, two raunchy magazines, and a gun. I stared at the snub-nosed .38 but didn’t touch it. Why did an ice-skater need a gun? For protection against burglars? It didn’t seem likely that a twenty-six-year-old man would feel unsafe living alone in an upscale community like this. Maybe he was the nervous type, or maybe he just liked guns. I slid the drawer closed and moved to the bathroom as the timer on my watch went off. Damn! I’d push my luck and take an extra couple of minutes.

The bathroom, an expanse of black and white checkerboard tile with black toilet and sink and a serviceable black shower curtain drawn around the tub, smelled faintly of some spicy aftershave. It was cleaner than I had expected of a young man living alone. The generalization might sound sexist, but I’d done enough searches, both as an Office of Special Investigations agent in the air force and as a PI, to know that a single man’s bathroom was likely to be far less sanitary than a single woman’s. I’d told my OSI boss we should be issued hazmat gear before searching a man’s quarters. Besides the generic mildew and filth resulting from an inability to aim, I’d once come across a tub full of dirt planted with marijuana, and another time found red goo that turned out to be strawberry Jell-O rimming the toilet and tub. I never asked. Some things you don’t want to know.

Nothing that interesting here. A single white towel, dry, hung from a rack. I didn’t see a comb or razor on the sink; it was looking more and more like Mr. Fane had planned his departure. I’d check for a suitcase when I rifled the closet. Opening the medicine cabinet, I heard a rustle and caught a glimpse of movement in the mirror.

I spun, but not quickly enough. An impression of surging blackness and an upraised arm blurred in my peripheral vision before something hard came down on my forehead. I fell back, striking my head against the sink, and everything went dark.

4

I regained consciousness slowly, aware of a throbbing head, the coldness of tile beneath my cheek, and a shroud draped over me. It smelled mildewy. I clawed at the fabric, feeling trapped, finally batting enough of it away that I could see again. A glance at my watch showed me that only three minutes had passed since I was attacked. The “shroud” was the shower curtain, complete with tension rod, which the intruder must have dragged down when he leaped from his hiding place in the tub. I cursed myself for not having considered the possibility that the searcher was still in the condo. I’d been careless and paid the price with an aching head and an assortment of bruises to go with my cracked tailbone. This was not turning out to be my day—it’s Mondayness was still screwing things up.

Holding on to the sink, I staggered to my feet and surveyed the damage in the mirror. Blood trickled from a cut over my eye where a lump the size of a Ping-Pong ball would soon turn purple. Great. I’m not particularly vain, but I didn’t want to scare small children when I walked down the street, either. With my fingertips, I probed under my hair at the back of my skull and found another lump where I’d smacked my head on the sink. At least it didn’t seem to be bleeding. I helped myself to some Tylenol from the medicine cabinet and scanned the rest of its contents from habit. Nothing more interesting than prescription bottles of oxycodone and Vicodin, along with shaving cream, deodorant, and a sunless tan gel. Dampening Dmitri’s white washcloth, I dabbed at the cut on my forehead, then held the cold cloth to the lump as I looked around. I didn’t see the attacker’s weapon, but when I bundled the shower curtain into the tub, a long-handled back brush fell out. Clearly, he’d used the first weapon that came to hand. I was lucky it wasn’t the gun in the bedside table.

On the thought, I hurried back into the bedroom and opened the drawer. The gun was gone. Mega-shit. Now my attacker was armed. I sank onto the bed and closed my eyes, trying to see him in my mind’s eye. I had an impression of height—the back brush had clearly descended down onto my forehead—and the blurred image of a white face. I couldn’t focus on a hair color—maybe he’d worn a hat? There’d been a smell, too, something familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I gave it up after a moment.

With effort, I pulled myself free of the bed’s embrace and stood, feeling wobbly. As I took a step toward the door, the unmistakable sound of footsteps sounded on the stairs. What was this place—Grand Central Station? Wishing I’d had the foresight to bring my H&K 9 mm, I ducked into the closet. With no time to slide the door closed, I wiggled my way backward through a layer of hanging clothes until my back pressed against the wall. Just in time. The footsteps paused at the doorway. The door squeaked wider. I felt rather than heard the vibrations of footsteps crossing the room.

Soft cottons and scratchy wools pressed against me in my hiding place. The scents of mothballs and Dmitri’s aftershave tickled my nose. I breathed shallowly, afraid a deep breath would set the wire hangers jangling and betray me. I strained my ears to hear. The footsteps had stopped. What was the newcomer doing? Maybe it was the old intruder, come back to finish me off. A sighing sound puzzled me until I realized it was the same sound the mattress made when I sat on it. Who the hell broke into someone’s house to take a nap? Goldilocks?

I stretched cautiously to the right, trying to see into the bedroom. From my vantage point, all I could see was the end of the bed and a slice of window. My neck was getting a crick from the strange angle, but as I watched, a pair of legs, visible only from midshin down, settled onto the bed. Wait a minute … I knew those pink cowboy boots. I had seen them earlier that morning. Uncaring of the noise I made now, I pushed past the jangling hangers and popped out of the closet.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Kendall Goldman sat upright with a shriek. Both hands went to her mouth, but she lowered them when she recognized me. “I was … I was just…”

I glared at her, partly because she’d scared me and partly because I knew she must have gone through the notes I’d made after my conversation with Dara Peterson. I’d created a Fane folder and stuck them in there.

“I got the address from the file,” she admitted, swinging her legs off the bed, “and I came over here thinking I could help, that maybe he’d be here.”

“How is it helping to break in and snuggle up on his bed?”

“The door was open!” she said.

She didn’t try to explain lolling on Fane’s bed, and I realized she must have a crush on the skater as big (and unrequited, if Dara was right about his sexual preferences) as the one I had on Tom Cruise when I was her age. I was his from the moment he rocked out in his Fruit of the Looms in
Risky Business.
“Unlocked?”

“No, standing wide open.”

My attacker must have been in a real hurry after he bopped me with the back scrubber. “How’d you get here?” I asked. “Is your mom outside?” Just what I needed—Gigi camped out front in her yellow Hummer, the equivalent of a flashing neon sign to draw attention to the condo and our illicit presence.

“Nah. Dex dropped me.”

Dexter, Gigi’s seventeen-year-old son, did not commonly go out of his way to help anyone. I raised my brows.

“I paid him five bucks,” Kendall admitted. Her sheepishness gave way to a narrow-eyed stare as she regained her sangfroid. “How did
you
get in? And what happened to your face?”