Authors: Laura DiSilverio
3 Swift Run (32 page)
“Go,” Charlie said. She noticed Adam Bart crawling toward the deck on his knees and
one hand and trotted over to head him off, holding the pool cue like a spear.
She convinced Officer Padgett to cuff Bart by pointing out that the gun recovered
from beneath the couch was his and by suggesting that Detective Lorrimore would want
to interrogate him about Heather-Anne’s death. Bart shot Charlie a venomous look but
refused to say anything at all as Officer Padgett dragged him to his feet. He bit
out a curse when she pulled on his injured hand to cuff him, and she had him loaded
into a separate ambulance with a policeman to accompany him to the hospital.
A thumping sound came from the direction of the basement stairs, and Charlie spun
around. So did half a dozen cops, guns leveled. They stared in astonishment as a man,
feet bound with hot pink duct tape, hopped into the kitchen. With his hands bound
behind him, he stumbled but managed to stay upright. A piece of duct tape dangled
from his face where he’d managed to mostly scrape it off his mouth. “I’ve really gotta
take a piss,” he announced.
38
For most of a week, I thought I was going to jail again, but then Charlie looked at
that little notebook I found in the bedroom after Les ran off the second time, and
she rubbed a pencil lightly over the top page. Turns out, Les had used it to write
down the number of his offshore bank account. Charlie talked me out of turning it
over to the police right away and went to visit Dreiser. I’m not sure exactly what
she said to him, but I know she offered to repay him the money Les had stolen from
him, plus interest. I think she pointed out it might be months, or even never, before
he got his money back if he waited for the police to sort through everything and decide
who got how much from the account. Dreiser dropped the kidnapping charges. Thank goodness!
So now the police have the notebook, and they’re trying to figure out what money belongs
to the investors Les embezzled from and what belongs to the people swindled by Adam
Bart and Heather-Anne. (I just can’t call her Annie because that name makes me think
of the musical and that darling curly-headed orphan who would not have grown up to
be anything like Heather-Anne.) Her brother’s in jail, awaiting trial for her murder
(among other things), and the district attorney told me I’ll have to testify. The
thought makes me nervous—I never want to see that man again!—but I can do it if I
have to. I’m thinking about wearing the blue Chanel suit, the one with the bouclé
jacket, but only if the trial comes up in the winter. I’d need a new cami to wear
under it, though, and maybe a brooch big enough to make a statement …
Kendall’s been to see Les in jail a couple of times, but Dexter won’t go. They’re
both mad at me for not transferring the money from Les’s offshore account to our account.
“It’s not our money,” I told them again and again. “It belongs to the investors your
dad cheated and the men or their families who Heather-Anne and her brother cheated.”
“Some of it’s got to be ours,” Kendall said, “since Dad took all of our money, too.”
“Probably. The police will sort it out and … and be fair.”
“But that won’t be in time for you to buy me a car for my sixteenth birthday,” Kendall
objected.
“You’re not even old enough for a permit yet,” Dexter said.
Kendall stamped off, muttering about vile, loathsome brothers and the selfishness
of insensitive parents. I sighed.
“Don’t worry about her, Mom,” Dexter said. “Now that I’ve got the Beemer back, I can
drive her where she needs to go.”
I looked at him, surprised. “Oh, Dexter, honey, thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”
Silence fell between us as we split a cinnamon roll at the kitchen table. We both
shifted in our seats, and finally Dexter said, “You know, I called the cops on Dad
because I couldn’t stand the thought that you might take him back after he treated
you the way he did.” He kept his eyes on his plate, where he was crumbling a bit of
cinnamon bun into sandy grains. His hair hung down over his eyes. “You wouldn’t have,
would you?”
My mind darted back a couple of days to when I’d last visited Les in his hospital
room. He’d still been hooked up to all sorts of beeping machines, but his color was
much better than on the day he had his attack, and he was sitting up in bed eating
a Fudgsicle when I came in. Little bits of chocolate clung to his mustache. It scraggled
down over his lips since no one had trimmed it. That nice Officer Padgett had been
on guard duty outside his door, and she’d said they’d be moving him to the jail the
next day.
“I hear you’re moving,” I said, sitting in the chair beside his bed.
“Oh, Gigi,” he said, giving me a tired smile, “everything’s gone wrong since I left
you.” He reached for my hand.
I let him hold it for a moment. My heart didn’t go pitty-pat like it used to when
he was affectionate with me.
“I made a horrible mistake when I left you.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yes, you made a big mistake,” I said. “In fact, you made lots of them.”
“That’s all water under the bridge,” he said, clinging to my hand when I tried to
pull it back. “It’s not too late. We can start again.”
“No and yes.”
“What?”
“No, we can’t start again, and yes, it’s too late.” I smiled a huge, relieved smile.
I didn’t want Les back. My life might not be perfect now, and I might spend lots of
time worried about money and how to handle the kids, but I liked being a private investigator,
and I liked being friends with women like Charlie and Albertine. I even kind of liked
driving that awful Hummer, although if I could afford it, a Miata convertible might
be more fun. “I’m sorry you’re going to prison, Les, and I’ll come visit you now and
then, but I’m over you.”
“What!”
He sounded so disbelieving that I giggled. I felt like someone had blown up a big
balloon inside me, so light that I could float away. I stood up. “Buh-bye, Les.”
I walked toward the door.
“But, Gigi, I need you. You don’t want to walk away—”
Officer Padgett gave me a thumbs-up as I came through the door, and I was momentarily
embarrassed since she’d clearly heard every word. “Way to go, Gigi. Ma’am,” she said.
“Hey, I like that nail polish. What’s it called?”
“Mischievous Mint.”
* * *
I ducked my head now so I could see up into Dexter’s face. “No, I wouldn’t get back
together with your dad. I’ve moved on.”
Dexter nodded, and I could see his shoulders relax. “Good.” He scraped back his chair
and stood up. “You deserve someone nicer.”
I blinked back tears, knowing my son would get grossed out if I started crying. “Thanks,”
I said, my voice all squeaky. He shrugged one shoulder and slammed through the garage
door. My son thought I deserved someone nice. That must mean he thought I was nice.
The thought warmed me until I remembered I had resolved to practice being meaner.
Tomorrow. There was always time for meaner tomorrow.
Also by Laura DiSilverio
Swift Edge
Swift Justice
About the Author
LAURA DiSILVERIO spent twenty years as a U.S. Air Force intelligence officer—serving
as a squadron commander, and with the National Reconnaissance Office, as well as with
a fighter wing—before retiring to parent and write full time. She resides in Colorado
with her hubby, teenaged daughters, and dog.
Visit her Web site at
www.lauradisilverio.com
.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed
in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SWIFT RUN
. Copyright © 2012 by Laura DiSilverio. All rights reserved. For information, address
St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
DiSilverio, Laura A. H.
Swift run: a mystery / Laura DiSilverio.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-62381-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-01732-1 (e-book)
1. Women private investigators—Fiction. 2. Mystery fiction. I. Title.
PS3604.I85S97 2012
813'.6—dc23
2012033907
e-ISBN 9781250017321
First Edition: December 2012
