Chapter One
Mondays suck, especially when they happen on Thursdays.
And this Thursday was shaping up to be the Monday from
hell.
I'd had a flat tire on the way to my office, Swift
Investigations, and changed it on the shoulder, crouched
in
two inches of grimy snow left over from the storm we'd
had
on New Year's Eve, and pelted by the slush and grit
kicked
up by passing cars. I'd missed my eight o'clock
appointment. Now that I'm unwillingly splitting the
firm's
meager profits with a partner, Gigi Goldman, I couldn't
afford to alienate a potential client, even one who
wanted
me to tail his daughter and her boyfriend to make sure
they
weren't "doing the nasty" (his words). I'd reluctantly
agreed to meet with the man even though he sounded
nuttier
than a squirrel convention, but he was gone when I parked
my Subaru Outback in front of my office at eight-twenty.
I
sighed and unlocked the door, recoiling at the smell of
burned coffee. Not again.
Flipping the lights on, I saw that Kendall Goldman, my
partner's fourteen-year-old daughter and our part-time
receptionist during Christmas vacation, had neglected to
turn off the coffee pot for the third time in as many
weeks. A half-inch of tarry sludge caked the bottom of
the
carafe. Grrr. The replacement cost was coming out of
Kendall's wages, I decided, mentally over-riding the
objections Gigi would make. Better yet . . . I stalked
across the room and yanked the coffee maker's cord out of
the wall. Picking up the whole contraption, I dropped it
from shoulder height into the trash can. Clang. I
didn't
drink coffee anyway. With grim satisfaction, I opened
the
mini fridge behind my desk and yanked a can of Pepsi from
the door. It exploded when I popped the top, raining
caramel-colored spots on my white turtleneck and the
papers
on my desk.
"Shit, shit, double shit!" I yelled, trying to slurp
Pepsi from the lid of the can before more of it bubbled
over.
"Is this a bad time?" A voice from the doorway
stopped
me in mid-slurp.
"Not at all," I said, forcing a smile. I hoped I
didn't
have a Pepsi mustache. "Just give me a moment." I
blotted
my face, blouse and desk with paper towels from the small
bathroom and shook hands with my visitor. She was young-
-
late teens or early twenties--with dark hair pulled into
a
high ponytail. She had an air of confidence as glossy as
her hair. Huge blue eyes, so dark they looked navy,
dominated her heart-shaped face. Shorter than my five-
foot-
three, she looked ethereal at first glance, but her
handshake was firm and the slim legs showing beneath a
short denim skirt had an athlete's muscle definition.
Clunky Ugg boots were her only concession to the January
weather. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed.
I gestured to the trash can. "I'm afraid I can't
offer
you coffee." Not that I would have anyway. I don't like
to encourage clients to linger and had objected when Gigi
installed the coffee maker.
"Not a problem. Coach wants me to limit my caffeine,
anyway."
Aha! I was right: she was an athlete. I hoped she
was
also a paying client.
"I'm Charlotte Swift," I said, motioning her to the
chair in front of my desk. "How can I help you, Ms--?"
"I'm Dara Peterson."
She paused as if expecting me to comment. When I
merely
raised my brows, she continued, slightly disconcerted.
"My
partner is missing. Your web page says you specialize in
missing persons and I want to hire you to find him."
The web page was new--Gigi's brainchild--but I had to
admit it was paying off. Mr. "Nasty" had also found
Swift
Investigations on-line. "I do," I told Ms. Peterson,
turning to an un-Pepsied page in my legal pad. "Tell me
about your partner. How long has he been missing?"
"Five days. I haven't seen him, he hasn't been in
touch, since Saturday."
I made a note. "And when you say ‘partner'--he's your
boyfriend? Business partner?" I was betting on
boyfriend. She looked too young to be running a
business.
"He's Dmitri Fane," she said, with an undertone of
"duh"
in her voice. "Peterson and Fane?"
Clearly, she thought I should recognize the names, but
I
didn't. Maybe they were singers, like Sonny and Cher or
The Captain and Tenille. I didn't really know what young
adults were listening to these days. My mind cycled
through other famous pairs: Rowan and Martin, Starsky
and
Hutch, Siegfried and Roy. She didn't strike me as the
animal trainer type.
I resorted to honesty, always the best policy except
when a lie will work better. "Never heard of you."
A wrinkle appeared between her brows. "Really? We're
skaters. We're the reigning world champions--we've held
the title for three years. We were Junior world champs
the
two years before that."
"So you're like Torvill and Dean?" I asked, proudly
dredging up the only skating names I knew besides Dorothy
Hamill and Scott Hamilton (who I was pretty sure didn't
skate together).
"They're ice dancers." She rolled her eyes
contemptuously, whether at my ignorance or ice dancers, I
wasn't sure. "We're pairs skaters. Much more
dangerous."
Puh-leeze. Scuba diving with great whites is
dangerous. Teaching high school is dangerous. Ice
skating? Hardly. "I'll take your word for it. So, you
haven't seen your partner in five days. Is that
unusual?"
"We're in training! I mean, the Olympics are right
around the corner! He wouldn't disappear like this, not
now. Something's happened to him."
What appeared to be genuine worry smudged her self-
confidence. She chewed away the pink lip gloss from her
lower lip. "The police won't do anything. They say he's
a
grown man and he's entitled to take a few days off if he
wants. They treated me like I was a jealous girlfriend."
She crossed her arms over her chest, seething.
"Are you?"
My question startled her. "Me and Dmitri? Not
hardly.
He's gay."
"I assume you've talked to his friends, maybe his
parents? Has anyone else heard from him?"
She shook her head, setting her ponytail
swinging. "Nobody. His dad died in a car crash a couple
months ago and his mom's in Detroit. I called her--nada.
Yuliya--our coach, Yuliya Bobrova--was royally pissed
when
he didn't show on Monday. Ice time isn't free, you know.
I called a couple of his friends, but no one's seen him.
I'm really worried, Miss Swift--"
"Charlie."
"Do you think you can find him?"
"I can't guarantee anything, but I'll do my best." I
figured this case would be relatively easy. A high-
profile
athlete would find it difficult to stay hidden for long.
Maybe he'd checked himself into an addiction treatment
center, or maybe he'd gone off with a boyfriend Dara
didn't
know about. Maybe he was burned out and I'd find him
holed
up at a resort in Aspen or on the beach in Cancun.
Either
way, it shouldn't be too hard to pick up his trail.
I grilled Dara for another half hour on Dmitri's
friends, habits and background and accepted her retainer
check. "Try not to worry," I said, shaking her hand.
She'd remained tense throughout our conversation and I
wanted to reassure her. "Hopefully, I'll have something
positive to report in a few days."
Her eyes narrowed. "If he's not back by the start of
Nationals next week, he'd better just stay gone because
I'll kill him if we don't make the team."
"Team?"
She gusted a put-upon sigh. "The Olympics?"
So sue me. I'm not that into sports, and even though
the Olympic Training Center is here in Colorado Springs,
I
probably couldn't name four Olympic athletes. I couldn't
tell you where the Super Bowl was being played this year
or
who won the World Series, either. I know where the
Kentucky Derby is, though, because I'd gone with a friend
one year and echoes of the mint julep hangover I'd
suffered
made my head hurt whenever anyone mentioned the state.
"The U.S. Figure Skating Championships here in the
Springs next week doubles as the team trials for the
Olympics. I've been working for this since I was eight.
If we don't make the team because Dmitri's pulling a--"
"Pulling a what?" I prompted her when she stopped.
"Nothing," she muttered. She slung her purse over her
shoulder and crossed to the door.
"Just find him, okay?"