Free 3 Swift Run by Laura Disilverio Page B

I … we need to get along so that Kendall and Dex aren’t …
     don’t end up in therapy for years. Dr. Phil says kids can think it’s their fault when
     parents divorce. It’s not all Les’s fault…”
    “Say what? The man cheats on you, steals from his partners, and boogies off to Costa
     Rica in the dead of night and it’s not his fault?”
    “Sounds like his fault to me,” offered the total stranger on my right.
    I stared at him, and he gave me a friendly smile over the lip of his martini glass.
    “This is a private conversation, Nico,” Albertine told him. “Do you mind?” He grinned
     at her, obviously a regular, and wandered off to join a group near the window. After
     studying me for a moment, Albertine relaxed against the stool back. “Well, okay then.
     I can see that we need to find you a new man, a rebound fling, to help you move on.”
    She swiveled to survey the room, and for one dreadful moment I thought she was going
     to beckon Nico back. My heart seized up, but she was only watching her waitstaff to
     make sure they were doing a good job. When she turned back to me, I said apologetically,
     “I’m not really the fling type.” Besides, what man was going to be interested in a
     chubby, earlyfifties, former stay-at-home mom who was so uninteresting her husband
     ran off to Costa Rica with a blond bimbo?
    “We can fix that,” Albertine said confidently.
    I didn’t know whether to be encouraged or scared.

10
    Saturday morning, after a brisk walk on the Santa Fe Trail, which ran behind her property
     and which was frequented by bikers, joggers, and walkers, even on a brisk February
     morning with the path mucky from melted snow, Charlie decided she needed a plan of
     attack for making headway on the Les Goldman case. With Les playing least-in-sight
     after giving Gigi the slip, their client, who had apparently sprung fully formed into
     existence when she arrived in Colorado Springs two-plus years ago, was the natural
     source of more information. After giving brief consideration to following Heather-Anne,
     Charlie decided a full-frontal assault would be the best bet. Surveillance took too
     long and didn’t guarantee results; in addition to which, she couldn’t face the prospect
     of another day sitting on her ass in her car or the hotel lobby.
    She dialed Heather-Anne’s number at the Embassy Suites and introduced herself when
     the woman picked up.
    “Charlotte Swift?” Heather-Anne’s voice was wary. “What happened to Gigi?”
    “She’s still on the case,” Charlie said reassuringly, “but we’ll make progress quicker—which
     I understand is important to you—with both of us working it.”
    “That makes sense, I guess,” Heather-Anne said. “Thank you.”
    “It would be helpful if we could talk.”
    “I already told Gigi everything I know.”
    “Sometimes you know things you don’t realize you know. I won’t take much of your time,
     maybe half an hour. If you could come to the office, or I could meet you—”
    “I’m doing a training session for an old client,” Heather-Anne said, a note of impatient
     acquiescence in her voice. “At the downtown YMCA. I need the money. I could talk to
     you after that.”
    “Great.”
    *   *   *
    Arriving twenty minutes early for her ten o’clock meeting with Heather-Anne, Charlie
     parked the Subaru in the garage off Kiowa Street and showed her Y membership card
     to get in. Charlie tried the cardio area first, scanning the treadmills, stairsteppers,
     and spinning bikes for anyone who might be Heather-Anne. At least three women fit
     the description Gigi had given her: early thirties, slim, blond, tanned. None of them
     appeared to be guiding a client through a fitness routine.
    Charlie made her way to the adjacent free weights area and immediately spotted her
     quarry. Heather-Anne, blond hair in a long ponytail, wore black bike shorts with green
     piping and a matching midriff-baring bra top that exposed a