Free Swift Edge by Laura Disilverio Page A

now!”
    “I think they’ll have to,” I said, finishing my Pepsi. “No way will Bobrova be doing any coaching in the next couple of months, even if she lives.”
    “You mean she might die ?” Kendall stared at me openmouthed, obviously shocked by the idea.
    Was there actually a film of tears in her eyes? Maybe she wasn’t as heartless as I thought. The girl sank back into her chair, playing abstractedly with a strand of golden hair, and I briefed Gigi on Dan’s case. As was her habit, she took copious notes.
    “I should start by talking to some of his friends at the halfway house, don’t you think?” she asked when I finished.
    “Yeah. I think he’s probably moved on for good, but I told Dan we’d look into it. Do you know where Dellert’s is?” I gave her directions to the house in Old Colorado City, west of I-25 and downtown proper, watching with amusement as she tucked the notebook into today’s purse, a purple suede creation large enough to hold the complete works of Barbara Cartland, one of her favorite authors.
    “Kendall, you’re with me,” I said, startling the girl.
    “What?” Gigi and Kendall asked together.
    “You’re going to tell me everything there is to know about the international skating scene,” I said, “with a particular emphasis on gossip about Dmitri Fane, Dara Peterson, and Yuliya Bobrova.”
    “Does that mean I’m like an expert witness?” She tried to sound blasé, but her interest peeped through.
    “More like a consultant.”
    “How much do consultants get paid?”
    “The same as part-time receptionists who show up late and ruin coffeepots.”
    She pouted, but I could tell she was intrigued by the idea and a bit proud to think that her knowledge was valuable. “Let me change,” I said, “and we’ll hit the road.”

10
    Gigi Goldman looked around at the scattering of men and teens in the Dellert House dining room. The room was simply furnished with a trestle-style table and mismatched chairs, obviously donated or rescued from Goodwill bins. No two looked alike, and there’d been a brief squabble between two teens for the most comfortable chair, a wing chair with rose-covered upholstery over thick padding. The housemaster, Roger Nutt, a short man in his early sixties, broke it up. Gigi was glad he stayed, his shoulders propped against the doorjamb, surveying his charges with paternal tolerance. Pale sunlight filtered through miniblinds that could have used a good dusting, but it failed to warm the atmosphere in the room. The four inhabitants chilled the space with their expressions. Ranging in age from maybe seventeen to late twenties, they surveyed her with varying degrees of boredom or hostility. All wore jeans and chips on their shoulders. Gigi, feeling overdressed and out of her league, nervously patted her hair. Why had she thought she could connect with these boys—men, really—just because she had a seventeen-year-old son?
    “Well,” she started brightly. “I’m Georgia Goldman, but you can call me Gigi. G. G. for Georgia Goldman … get it?”
    Total silence.
    She cleared her throat. “I’m here because one of the inmates here … I mean, customers … er, boarders has gone missing and people are concerned.”
    A rude noise came from the slim black teen seated closest to the door.
    “Did you say something?” Gigi asked.
    The teenager eyed her, debating whether or not to favor her with an answer. “Ain’t no one gives a shit about us,” he said finally.
    “Now, William, how can that be true?” Roger Nutt asked from the doorway. A smile curved the full lips half hidden by a gray mustache and beard. “When you live in a luxurious spot like this?” He gestured to the shabby room.
    Loud hoots greeted the gentle attempt at humor, and Gigi smiled her thanks at Roger.
    “Who’s missing, then?” asked William, leaning forward with his hands hanging between his knees. “Brothers come and brothers go … how come one’s more missing than