3 Swift Run (12 page)

“IT band” sounded like something to do with computers to Charlie.

“Iliotibial band,” Robyn clarified, looking pleased with her knowledge. “It runs—
Never mind. Just believe me when I say Heather-Anne should have known what it was,
and she definitely didn’t. I might as well have been talking about rubber bands, for
all she knew. Most of the women who work at the Y, especially the other trainers,
agreed with me that she didn’t know shit from shinola, but the men all thought the
sun shone out of her perky little ass.” She rolled her eyes at the gullibility of
men. “Things got a little harder for her when Sandy took over from Jake.” Robyn smiled
with remembered satisfaction. “Sandy went through all the personnel records and noticed
that some employees, Heather-Anne among them,
of course,
didn’t have documentation of their degrees and certifications and such. She insisted
that everyone update their records. Heather-Anne had one excuse after another, and
it was just about then that the first of the complaints trickled in.”

She paused, clearly wanting Charlie to respond. “What complaints?” Charlie asked.

Robyn leaned forward, pushing her mug aside, to whisper, “A member’s wife alleged
that Heather-Anne had stolen ten thousand dollars from them.”

“How?” Charlie asked skeptically. “Climbed in their bedroom window, broke into their
safe, and ran off with a bag full of cash? Stole a checkbook and forged their names?”

“Just what I said,” Robyn said, leaning back with a satisfied expression. “From what
I saw, men were more than happy to
give
Heather-Anne money. That’s probably what happened in this case: Some poor shmuck
let Heather-Anne weave her wiles and bilk him out of ten grand and then didn’t have
the balls to tell his wife what happened. There were some other complaints, but my
friend Cass who worked in the front office and overheard a lot of this left, so I’m
not quite so up on the details. A lot of it faded away after Sandy let Heather-Anne
go, too.”

“Can I talk to Cass?” Charlie jotted a few notes.

“She’s in Laos with the Peace Corps.”

A group of five women, clearly co-workers from a nearby office, squeezed past their
table carrying mugs and pastries. A heavyset brunette laughed at something one of
the others said and tilted her cup so coffee dribbled on Charlie’s blazer. Charlie
endured the flood of apologies and hands swiping at her with napkins, surveyed her
jacket ruefully, and turned back to Robyn when the group had settled themselves at
a corner table.

“Heather-Anne was training some guy named Hollis at the Y on Saturday; I saw her.”

“Get out! That’s the guy. The one whose wife said she stole their money. Hollis Sloan.
Sandy would shit a brick if she knew Heather-Anne was using the Y to train clients.
I wonder how she sneaked in?” From the expression on Robyn’s face, Charlie knew the
first thing she’d do when she got back to the Y was tell Sandy.

“Did you know any of Heather-Anne’s friends? Did she ever talk about a boyfriend?”
Charlie needed more people to interview about Heather-Anne, preferably someone who
might even know her real name and where she’d come from.

Robyn was shaking her head before Charlie finished the question. “With Heather-Anne,
there was a new boyfriend every week. You couldn’t much blame them,” she added with
an air of trying to be fair. “I mean, there she was, looking like Jennifer Aniston
and treating them like they were God’s gift to the female race. What man wouldn’t
cave? I’m sure some of them were married, too, from the way she got all sly when she
mentioned them. Toward the end there was some guy named Len Something who seemed to
be sticking around longer than most of the others, which probably just means he had
more money than they did. Dumpy little guy.”

“Les. Les Goldman.”

Robyn snapped her fingers. “Yeah. I saw them together a couple of times. He was way
gone on her. Oh! She had a roommate, too. A guy. I got the feeling they’d known each
other for a while but that there was nothing romantic going on.”

“Name?”

“Al. I don’t know if that’s short for Alexander or Alan. His last name was—” She narrowed
her eyes, trying to dredge up the memory. “Started with a B. Broadman? Broadwell?
Sorry. I only met him once.” She shrugged, then looked at her watch. “I’ve got to
get back. I’ve got a client in ten minutes.”

Charlie stood with her. “Thanks for talking to me. If you think of anything else,
please give me a call.” She handed Robyn her card.

“You bet.” Robyn swept Charlie with a professional gaze. “If you want to get back
in shape, give
me
a call. You’re holding up pretty well but starting to get a bit soft. Middle-age
spread is a bitch, isn’t it?” She walked away.

Charlie stared after her, incensed.
Middle-aged?
Thirty-seven wasn’t middle-aged! She wasn’t soft, either, just less hard than usual
due to the bullet in the butt that had severely limited her workouts. A bullet she’d
taken saving a young teen’s life, thank you very much. Arms crossed over her chest,
she glared after Robyn until a patron said, “Excuse me,” and tried to squeeze past
her. Charlie sucked her abs in and headed for the door and sunshine.

15

I overslept and only woke up Monday when the doorbell rang. Who in the world—? “Dexter,
get that,” I called before looking at the clock and realizing the kids were already
at school. I hoped. The bell rang again, playing that stupid classical piece—
duh-duh-duh-DUH
—that Les had thought was so clever. It drove me batty.

“Coming!” I leaped out of bed, avoided looking at my sleep-mussed hair and the bags
under my eyes, and threw on the pink velour robe hanging from the back of my door.
It didn’t match my nightie with the parrots on it, but I tied the sash around my waist
and headed down the stairs as
duh-duh-duh-DUH
sounded again. How much would it cost to get my doorbell ringtone changed? I was
wondering who I could call to find out when I pulled the door open to find Detective
Lorrimore and two uniformed police officers standing there. I gaped at them.

“Good morning, Mrs. Goldman,” Detective Lorrimore said politely. She wore a tan pantsuit
that did nothing for her—you’d think any woman who’d ever seen a photo of Hillary
Clinton would ban pantsuits from her wardrobe—and had her reddish hair held back with
a tortoiseshell headband. One of the cops behind her slipped his sunglasses on and
nudged his partner. I looked down to see that my robe had come open and my yellow
nightie fluttered in the morning breeze. I gave him an indignant look: The parrots
weren’t
that
bright.

“Would you like to come in?” I wanted to bite my tongue as soon as the words were
out of my mouth. My southern upbringing tripped me up every time. If I invited the
police in, was that the same as giving them permission to search my house? Is that
what they were here for? I eyed them uncertainly.

“Actually, Mrs. Goldman,” Detective Lorrimore said, “we were looking for your son,
Dexter. Is he here?”

“Dexter?” I caught my breath, feeling suddenly dizzy. “Why do you want Dexter?” My
mind flashed to the other times the police had shown up looking for Dexter. There’d
been the shoplifting charge that Les had fixed by talking to the store owner, the
time he’d been clocked doing 120 on the Hancock Expressway—Les had nearly blown a
gasket over that one—the misunderstanding with the Lockes, and that Halloween incident
a couple of years back. “Let me get my checkbook,” I said, resigned.

Detective Lorrimore’s brows twitched together. “We need to talk to your son.”

Something in her voice told me this wasn’t about somebody’s light-up Christmas reindeer
rearranged in “lewd positions that undermined the family values of the entire cul-de-sac,”
as the homeowners association chairwoman put it. My mouth felt dry. “Why?”

With a heavy sigh, the detective said, “We think he might have some information about
Ms. Pawlusik’s death.”

I slammed the door shut and leaned my back against it. My heart beat faster than a
hummingbird’s. What kind of information could Dexter have about Heather-Anne’s death?
The doorbell played again, and fists hammered on the door. Sheepishly, I opened it
to see the three police persons staring at me incredulously.

“Sorry,” I said. “I had to sneeze.” I dragged a shredded tissue from my pocket and
sniffled into it. “Uh, Dexter’s in school,” I said. “Can we make an appointment for
this afternoon?” That would give me time to—

“No.” Detective Lorrimore sounded as firm as my Nana Fitterling when she told me and
my brothers we couldn’t have five dollars to visit the Pet Parlor and host a neighborhood
goldfish-swallowing contest. “You may accompany us to the school and sign Dexter out.
I’ll wait here while you dress.” She signaled to the patrol officers, and they climbed
into a police car and departed. I craned my neck to see if any of my neighbors were
watching. Detective Lorrimore crossed to her SUV and sat in the driver’s seat with
the door open.

“I’ll be just a minute,” I said, seeing no way out of it.

My brain fizzed with questions as I got dressed, did my hair, and put on my makeup.
I chose the red-and-white-striped Hilfiger sweater because red makes me feel braver.
Kendall says it makes me look like a candy cane, but I think candy canes are fun.
My hair needed washing, but I didn’t have time. A few minutes with the curling iron
would have to do. Feeling rushed and only half put together, I hurried down the stairs,
grabbed a slice of lemon pound cake from the kitchen, and burst out the front door.
Only twenty-seven minutes had gone by. Detective Lorrimore looked at her watch in
a “what took you so long?” kind of way and started her engine.

I followed her to Cheyenne Mountain High School in the Hummer. She let me go first
as we entered the school, and I approached the student sign-out window nervously.
“I’m Gigi Goldman, and I need to pick up Dexter for … for an appointment,” I said,
conscious of Detective Lorrimore listening to every word. A bell rang just then, making
me jump, and high schoolers poured into the halls.

The woman behind the desk, who doesn’t think much of Dexter, looked at me over the
top of her reading glasses. “Mrs. Goldman, Dexter isn’t here today.”

“What?” I glanced over my shoulder at Detective Lorrimore, who had stiffened. “But
he has to be; it’s a school day.”

She shook her head, the chains that dangled from her glasses clicking. Shuffling through
a pile of papers, she pulled one out. “Your daughter turned in this note, signed by
you, saying Dexter was ill today. Scarlet fever, it says,” she added in a snippy tone,
accusing finger pointing to the phrase.

The signature looked a lot like mine, and I wondered how often Dexter had signed my
name to similar notes and not been found out. “Oh,” I stuttered. “Um, can I speak
to Kendall for a moment?” The attendance lady sent a student runner to find Kendall,
and I turned around to face Detective Lorrimore.

“I heard,” she said, before I could say anything. “Do you have any idea where he could
be?”

I shook my head miserably.

“This looks bad,” the detective said. “If he’s done a runner…”

“He hasn’t ‘done a runner,’” I said, getting more worried by the second. “Maybe Kendall—”
My daughter came around the corner then, biology book (which I’d never seen before)
tucked under her arm, blond hair French-braided.

“Your hair looks cute, honey,” I said, leaning over to kiss her.

She turned her face away with a “Mo-om” and gave Detective Lorrimore an interested
look. “What’s up? It’s Dexter, I’ll bet.”

“Where is your brother?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Dunno. He dropped me at school and took off. Said he had something
to do.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” I asked.

She gave me a disgusted look. “I’m not a tattletale.”

Detective Lorrimore stepped forward. “Your brother could be in serious trouble, Miss
Goldman. If you know where he is—”

“I don’t,” she insisted, eyes widening at how stern the detective sounded. “Are you
a cop? What’s he done now?”

Detective Lorrimore studied her for a moment and apparently decided she was telling
the truth. “Okay, you can go on to class.”

“I can help you look for Dex,” Kendall volunteered.

“Thanks, sweetie,” I said, kissing her before she could duck away, “but it’s nothing
for you to worry about.” I crossed my fingers, hoping against hope that I was telling
the truth.

Detective Lorrimore and I left the school, and I let the bright sun on my face cheer
me for a moment, right up until the detective said, “I’m not prepared to issue an
APB and get every cop in the state looking for your son. Yet. But I need you to promise
you’ll bring him in the second—the
second
—he shows up.” She stood beside the open door of her car, fingers drumming on the
roof.

I nodded vigorously and almost made the cross-my-heart sign. “I promise.” As she slid
into the car, I asked, “Why do you need to talk to Dex? What do you think he’s do—
What do you think has happened?”

Giving me a look that was straight out of one of those
Law & Order
shows, she hesitated for a moment, then said, “Follow me to the station and I’ll
show you.”

Show me?

16

Standing outside the Pikes Perk, Charlie had flipped a mental coin to decide whether
to track down Hollis Sloan and see what he could tell her about Heather-Anne or to
get a line on the woman’s former roommate. Deciding to cruise past the house Heather-Anne
had lived in before decamping with Les—Gigi had supplied the address, which her lawyer’s
investigator had provided—Charlie had headed east on 24 to Powers and then north to
a newish housing area called Wolf Ranch. Her MapQuested directions took her around
a traffic circle and past a fountain with water cascading down a ridged rock wall.
The housing area was built on former prairie and lacked the mature trees that made
the downtown area so gracious. Charlie hummed “Home on the Range” as she looked for
the house number on a street called Adamants.