Swift Justice (23 page)

As I made the long drive back to Colorado Springs, wondering what Elizabeth could’ve said to Johnson to merit his comment about “smart-ass teenagers” and wishing I’d had a snappy comeback for his remark about third-rate investigators, my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number.

“Ms. Swift? Charlie?”

“Yes?” The female voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“This is Linnea Fenn. You wanted to finish our conversation, and I thought I’d let you know I could meet you during track practice right after school. Coach is out sick, and we’re just supposed to be working out on our own. No one will care if I take a break in the stands.”

“I’ll be there. Thanks for calling.”

I hung up, wondering if it’d be worth my time to track down one of the former Mrs. Johnsons and see what she had to say about Mr. Legacy. I decided to wait until after I’d talked to Linnea; unless I thought there was a good chance Johnson had fathered Elizabeth’s baby, then it wasn’t worthwhile finding his ex-wives. Anyway, given his apparent obsession with having a child, wouldn’t he have claimed Elizabeth’s baby was his if he had, in fact, fathered it? Even if he’d have to face down some scandal to do so? Or—I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel—maybe he was only interested in having a son, and Olivia, a mere girl, didn’t make the cut.

With my cell phone still out, I called information and got a number for Russell Ziegler, the adoption lawyer who’d apparently matched up Elizabeth with the Falstows. It was remotely possible Elizabeth had confided in him about the father of her child. Even if she hadn’t, he might know something that could point me in the right direction. His secretary informed me he was in court all day and asked what I was calling in reference to. I told her nothing, thanked her, and headed for downtown Colorado Springs and the courthouse. I figured I could talk with Russell Ziegler during a break in the court action and still make it to the high school track in time to talk with Linnea
after school. I called Gigi to update her on my whereabouts, but the answering machine picked up at the agency. Good . . . I hoped that meant she was out delivering summonses and beefing up our bottom line.

Gigi tucked the summons paperwork Valerie Driscoll’s paralegal had given her into the depths of her capacious purse, wedging it between the pepper spray and the plastic container of sanitary napkins she couldn’t afford to leave home without now that her period—once as punctual and regular as the
CBS News with Walter Cronkite
—stayed away for two months and then arrived without warning in a flood of Niagara proportions. Once, menopause had looked attractive because it meant she and Les could stop fussing with condoms and spermicides and their lovemaking could be more spontaneous. Now, with no Les and no sex, menopause had no upside that Gigi could see.

“How’d you break your arm?” the paralegal, an intense woman in her midthirties with her corkscrew curls corralled by a headband and wire-rimmed glasses, asked.

“Drug bust,” Gigi said.

“Oh, it must be exciting being a private detective.”

“Well, I’ve only been doing it for a bit more than a week,” Gigi said, pleased by the interest lighting the woman’s eyes,
“but so far it’s been more than I expected.”
And less
, she added to herself, returning to the elevator. She pushed away memories of Charlie’s lukewarm welcome—how could anyone object to a coffeepot, for heaven’s sake?—and the disquieting thought that her partner would be happy if she up and quit. She wouldn’t, though. She couldn’t. Not with the bills for Kendall’s skating to pay. And the maintenance and taxes on their house. At least Les had had the decency not to sell it out from under her. And college expenses looming in the future, assuming the kids managed to earn grades high enough to get admitted anywhere. She didn’t figure Les was planning on sending tuition checks from Costa Rica. And insurance, and . . .

The elevator dinged open in front of her, and she forced herself to plan a strategy—or was it a tactic?—for delivering the summons. The paralegal had assured her it would be easy. She’d handed Gigi the address and told her the woman, Connie Padgett, should be home after she’d dropped off her kids at Mountain View Elementary and Challenger Middle School until time to pick them up again in midafternoon.

“This should be a piece of cake,” the paralegal said, striking superstitious fear into Gigi’s heart.

Hiking her skirt to clamber into the Hummer, Gigi headed toward the Pine Creek subdivision on the north side of town. Twenty-five minutes later she pulled up across the street from a large house with a stone front and huge picture windows and contemplated her next move. Finding no reason why she shouldn’t just ring the doorbell and hand over the summons to whoever answered, she crossed the street, devoid of traffic at midday.

The doorbell played a snippet of something classical Gigi didn’t recognize. After a moment, the tap-tap of heels on tile told her someone was approaching. Shifting nervously from foot to foot, she bit her lip as the door swung open.

“Yes?” A woman a few years younger, but with similarly expensive hair and an immaculate manicure, dressed in a Betsey Johnson dress no one over twenty-five should have attempted, stood in the doorway, an enquiring look on her face. Before Gigi could open her mouth, the woman said, “Look, my kids are selling those Gold C books, too. Sorry.”

“But I don’t have—”

“And we’ve got a pantry full of Girl Scout cookies, so I’m afraid—”

“I’m not selling anything,” Gigi cut in, flustered. “I’ve got paperwork to serve you from—”

“That bastard,” the woman said, tears welling in her brown eyes. “He really filed? He’s throwing away eighteen years of marriage to set up house with Reed’s orthodontist? I can’t believe it!”

“I really don’t know the nature . . .” Hampered by the cast, Gigi fumbled in her purse for the envelope, reluctant to look the poor woman in the face.

As Gigi dragged the packet free, Connie Padgett suddenly whirled and sprinted into the depths of the house, yelling, “I won’t take it. You can’t make me.”

Without thinking, Gigi plunged into the house after her, following the clicking of the woman’s heels. A door slammed, and Gigi skidded around a corner into the kitchen in time to see Connie Padgett taking the stairs down from her deck two at a time and racing across the backyard. Gigi followed, grateful
she was wearing her low-heeled Joan and David pumps and not the Stella McCartney vegan sandals she’d considered when dressing that morning. Clutching the rail, she made it down the deck stairs and started across the yard, lifting her royal blue skirt to midthigh as she hurdled down the shallow terraces to the open gate in the back fence. She paused for breath at the opening, her head swiveling from side to side.

The smooth green expanses of the Pine Creek golf course lay before her, dotted with golfers and carts. A commotion from the left caught her attention, and she started in that direction, pretty sure Connie must have run afoul of the foursome in the middle of the nearest fairway. An octogenarian golfer was shaking his 9-iron in the direction of a figure disappearing from view over a hill. Gigi trotted after her target, her breath coming in gasps. She really needed to get back to her cardio step classes; yoga was just not keeping her fit enough. Coming level with the irritated golfer, now lining up his shot, Gigi got an idea.

She paused respectfully to let him hit the ball—Les just about took her head off when she made a noise during his backswing—and then darted toward the empty golf cart. “So sorry,” she said, climbing in and depressing the pedal. “It’s an emergency.” Before the startled golfers could react, she sped across the fairway, the two sets of clubs in the back of the cart threatening to fall out with every jounce. Cresting the hill, she saw Connie running pell-mell down the middle of the fairway, now carrying her shoes in her hands.

Gigi pointed the cart downhill and floored the pedal. The breeze generated by the cart’s movement tossed her hair, and she felt herself flush with the thrill of the chase. Or maybe it
was another hot flash. As she gained on the fleeing woman, exhilaration coursed through her. She felt like an olden-times posse chasing an outlaw, or a U.S. Marshal pursuing a fugitive—like the character Jennifer Lopez played in the movie where she got to make out with George Clooney. Gigi wondered if J-Lo had done the movie for free, just for the opportunity to kiss Clooney. She would. Not that anyone would hire her as an actress. J-Lo’s bum was trim compared to hers, and just look how much grief the media gave her about it.
Out of Sight
, that was the movie.

Gigi’s quarry looked over her shoulder and cut toward a pond. Was she going to swim to freedom?

“Connie, stop,” Gigi called.

In response, something thudded onto the roof of the cart, and Gigi ducked. What was— A second shoe came flying at Gigi, landing in her lap. A blue python Jimmy Choo. The woman was really desperate.

“It’s not worth this, Connie,” she said, almost abreast of her, the pond to their left. Geese honked at them, and turquoise dragonflies skimmed the surface of the water. A ball plopped into the murky depths, and an irritated “Shit!” came from the parallel fairway. Connie held up her middle finger and jogged on, but she was losing steam. Gigi kept pace with her until she slowed to a walk. Climbing out of the cart, Gigi descended the incline sloping toward the pond and put her good arm around the now crying woman.

“It’ll be okay, sugar,” she said. “My husband did the exact same thing to me, and I survived it.”

“He did?” Connie looked up, black streaks on each cheek where mascaraed lashes had bled.

Gigi nodded. “Only he went to Costa Rica with his personal trainer, not an orthodontist. Left me with nothing but the kids, the house, and his Hummer.”

“That bastard,” Connie whispered, struggling to her feet.

“They’re all bastards—”

Connie’s startled scream cut her off. Gigi turned to look in the direction of Connie’s stabbing finger. The golf cart, previously parked at the top of a slight rise, was trundling toward them, gaining speed as it came. The two women leapt aside as the cart hurtled past, spewing clubs from the bags strapped in the back, and drowned itself in the lake.

Gigi lay on her stomach, heart thudding and arm aching, stunned by her narrow escape from the runaway cart.

“Goose shit!” Connie wailed.

That struck Gigi as a strange expletive until she pushed herself up and surveyed the splotches on her St. John top and skirt. It was too gross, as Kendall would say. Her suit was ruined, her arm hurt, she’d failed in her attempt to deliver the summons, and she’d probably be sued by the golf course for borrowing the cart and letting it commit suicide in the water hazard. Gigi felt like following its example but bit back her tears, used her good hand to haul Connie to her feet, and began the long walk back to the clubhouse under the amused or appalled gazes of assorted golfers, homeowners, and triumphant geese.

I was mounting the stairs to the courthouse, a rosy brick building with a clock tower surmounted by a cupola, before I realized I had no idea what Russell Ziegler looked like. I asked
a guy in a lawyerly three-piece suit if he knew him and got “The dude ain’t representin’ me” in return. Oops. Who knew it was so hard to tell the lawyers from the criminals?

I got luckier the second time around, asking one of the uniformed security guards about Ziegler. “Medium height, buzz-cut hair, glasses,” she said. “Try Courtroom Four.”

I thanked her and slid into the courtroom, scanning the crowd. Apparently the judge had just declared a late lunch recess, because the few people in the room were straggling toward the door. I returned to the hall and snagged a man fitting the guard’s description. “Russell Ziegler?”