3 Swift Run Read Free Page A

told me she’d “lost” the report
     card I was supposed to sign.
    I wrinkled my brow. “What makes you think he’s in this area? I mean, why come to Colorado
     to hire an investigator, rather than L.A. or Chicago? Do you think he wanted to see
     the kids?” I held my breath. Maybe he was regretting the divorce … maybe he really
     wanted to see me.
    Heather-Anne snorted, and my hopes crumpled like a balloon stuck with a pin. “Not
     hardly. I … I knew his card number and password, and I got the credit card company
     to send me this.” The piece of paper she handed me had a highlighted entry for an
     airline charge for a flight from San José, Costa Rica, to Denver.
    “One way,” I said. The paper trembled in my shaking hand. Had he bought a one-way
     ticket because he wasn’t going back, because he was returning to me and the kids?
     If so, why hadn’t he called?
    “Just find him. Please.” Real worry showed on Heather-Anne’s face. “And it’s got to
     be soon.”
    “Why?”
    “Because … because I miss him so much. Here.” Heather-Anne thrust a card at me. On
     the front was her name and the words PERSONAL TRAINER. On the back she had scribbled Embassy Suites, Rm 115, and a phone number. “Call me there when you have news.”
    Before I could think of anything else to ask her, she was striding through the door,
     bumping into Albertine on her way out so Albertine had to juggle the beignets she
     was carrying. A gust of chilly wind blasted in. The last few days had been in the
     fifties, but typical February weather had returned today.
    Albertine set the napkin of beignets on my desk and helped herself to one. She’s a
     tall woman with shiny black skin, even fatter than me. I’ve never asked her age, but
     I think she’s in her late fifties or early sixties. She’s got a Louisiana accent thicker
     than molasses-drenched grits, and the best smile this side of the Mississippi. She
     moved to Colorado after Hurricane Katrina and has opened three restaurants. Even though
     we only met last August when I became a PI, she’s one of my best friends.
    “Was that an actual client, Gigi?”
    “Yes,” I said glumly. I reached for a beignet and bit into the soft, doughy goodness.
     Albertine could cook like nobody’s business.
    Albertine shot me a look, dusting powdered sugar off her turquoise tunic-length sweater.
     “That is not the reaction I’d’ve expected,” she said, “from a businesswoman with a
     rent check to write.”
    “That was Heather-Anne Pawlusik,” I said. At Albertine’s questioning look, I added,
     “Les’s Heather-Anne.”
    “Say what, girlfriend?” Albertine’s brows snapped together. “That skinny white woman
     is the skank who ran off with your lawfully wedded husband?”
    Skank. I liked the sound of it. “Uh-huh.” Putting my elbows on the desk, I let my chin fall
     into my cupped hands.
    “And she sashayed in here like sugar wouldn’t melt in her mouth and had the nerve
     to try and hire you for something?”
    “Yes.”
    “You gave her what-for, I hope?” Albertine eyed me doubtfully, knowing I wasn’t the
     “what-for” type.
    “She gave us a thousand-dollar retainer.”
    “Money isn’t everything, girlfriend.” When I didn’t answer, she asked, “What’d the
     skinny bitch want?”
    “To find Les.”
    Albertine burst out laughing, a sound as rich as pecan pie that made me smile despite
     myself. “At least you had more pride than to try and hunt him down when he ran out
     on you.”
    It wasn’t pride. I’d had no money to hire a PI, and by the time I got the idea of
     being one myself, well, it seemed like too much water had gushed under that bridge.
     Besides, I basically knew where he was … and with who.
    “I guess there’s something to be said for finding Les,” Albertine mused. “If you catch
     up with his criminal white ass you might pry some of the child support he owes you
     out of him.”
    “Unlikely.” Les had so far not