Figure Skating Mystery Series: 5 Books in 1 Page 4

"Electrocution." Cop Number One spoke up. Maybe he was of the if you can't beat 'em, join 'em school? He indicated the dangling lightbulb above their heads, complete with pull cord. "She was standing in a puddle when she tried to turn the light on. Zap."

  "Zap?"

  "That's a police term," he offered helpfully. And smiled. So the guy wasn't impressed with television, but he did have a sense of humor. Good to know.

  "It's just one of those things. A freak accident." Cop Number Two wasn't about to let his nontheatrically minded friend steal the spotlight. He stepped in front of his colleague, effectively blocking him from Bex's view, and even made a big theatrical gesture with his arms.

  "An accident?" Bex repeated. "But, I thought... I heard—"

  "It was an accident, Bex." A voice behind her made Bex jump. Apparently, she wasn't the only one who knew how to yell "Stat" to shove through a crowd. Because, standing in the doorway, was Rupert Newman of Great Britain, the current president of the International Skating Union. That would be the union that ran the championships. Perhaps 24/7 had bought the broadcast rights, but the ISU and thus Rupert Newman owned them in perpetuity. "A tragic, tragic accident."

  “Bullshit!” Gil Cahill thundered. "This press release is total bullshit."

  Bex hadn't written the press release. She'd merely dutifully photocopied it and distributed the ISU document among the 24/7 staff, as per her job description. So, naturally, this made her responsible for its contents.

  She had, however, written the summary of the press release, which she distributed along with the original. In Bex's experience, Gil, Francis, and Diana, among others, got bored reading an entire page of something and needed the Reader's Digest version if Bex had any hope of their actually retaining even a fraction of the information. So, for the page-long challenged, Bex had neatly compressed the following: "The ISU mourns the (SFPD-ruled) accidental death of Silvana Potenza, an Italian judge of twenty-six years' standing. Potenza was electrocuted on Friday morning when she walked into the arena's refrigeration room and attempted to turn on a light while standing in a puddle."

  "And what," Gil demanded, "Was Silvana Potenza doing wandering into the refrigeration room in the middle of the ladies' exhibition practice?"

  They were both squeezed into the tiny comer at the back of the production trailer euphemistically dubbed Gil's office. Of course, the only thing separating Gil's office from the production area was a line of black tape on the floor. And the space wasn't even big enough for a functional desk. So Gil's computer was propped up on a card table. His rolling chair was tucked underneath it. Whenever anyone tried to sit on the chair, it caught the slope of the trailer and proceeded, indiscernible increment by indiscernible increment, to roll downhill until the computer was still in the office, and the person typing on it was out. This annoyed Gil to no end. He couldn't stand insubordination, even from furniture. Actually, especially from furniture. So his idea of punishing an underling was not to stuff them into a windowless trailer corner and yell at them. Gil's idea of punishing an underling was to stuff them into a windowless trailer corner and make them sit on his perennially rolling chair.

  Bex sat on it now. She was supposed to be listening to Gil. She was actually mostly concentrating on keeping her toes dug into the wooden floor so she didn't roll away.

  "Now, I'm not a researcher like you, Bex, so you tell me. Are judges generally famous for their unquenchable curiosity about any and all refrigeration rooms, or is this more of an Italian interest? Like painting on ceilings and having people whacked while they eat cannoli."

  Goodness, but there was so much for Bex to reply to in that query. She could start by pointing out his incredible lack of political correctness. Or she could remind him that in “The Godfather” (seemingly Gil's sole source of info), Pete Clemenza was not actually killed while eating cannoli, but rather after his wife had yelled after him not to forget them. She could also note that Mrs. Potenza was truly Italian, not Italian-American, and thus not covered by the stereotype. Or she could just keep her mouth shut and let Gil carry on, since, obviously, it was all he really wanted to do in the first place.

  "I don't like being played for a fool, Bex."

  "I'm not playing—"

  "Oh, I'm not talking about you, for God's sake. I'm talking about someone important. The damn ISU has been on my ass every day since we got these championships. You'd think paying an organization a barrel of millions for their precious world championships would buy you some cooperation, wouldn't you, Bex?"

  Oh, this was tricky. Rhetorical or actually in need of an answer? And, if the latter, in need of an honest answer, or just a rote one? And if the latter-latter, which rote one to whip out?

  Thankfully, Gil spared Bex further deliberation. He answered his own question. Less chance of getting it wrong that way.

  "It buys you nothing! All I asked was for a couple of reasonable things, to make it a better show for all of us. That random draw thing they do for the short program, right? Who needs it? I mean, they've already done the qualifying rounds, so they pretty much know who's a contender for this thing and who's going to stink it up big time. So would it be so awful to just group 'em like that? Put the good ones together, so it's easier for us to shoot? But they wouldn't go for it! Can you believe they wouldn't even put the three American girls last, so we could get some tension going? They're killing my show, here. They're friggin' killing me!"

  "You and Silvana Potenza." Bex couldn't help it. Sometimes her mouth worked ahead of her brain. She really, really needed to work on that.

  But, then again, who'd have guessed it was just the right thing to say?

  "Exactly!" Bex had worked for Gil since the season started in the fall. In seven months, this was the first time he'd ever smiled at her. "Exactly, that's my point. This stonewalling about Potenza is just another way for them to screw my show. They know it's what the whole country—hell, the whole world!—is talking about. They know that our exhibition ratings are going to go through the roof as soon as people find out we're going to blow this judge mess wide open."

  "But," Bex offered timidly, "doesn't the ISU want the ratings to be high? I mean, it's their world championship we're promoting. The more people who watch, the more people—"

  "The more people will plant their eyeballs on all that ISU dirty laundry! Are you kidding me? Those droopy pinkies in the ISU are flaking in their sequined panties about the kind of dirt a real investigation could dredge up!"

  Again, most, most politically incorrect. Though, this time, not factually inaccurate. Gil, in his bellicose way, did seem to be on to something, here.

  "But, without ISU cooperation, I don't know how we could find out any—"

  "Did Woodward and Bernstein get cooperation out of Tricky Dicky?"

  "Well... to this day no one knows who Deep Throat really was."

  "Did Upton Sinclair get help from the cows when he wrote about that bad beef?"

  "Now you're just testing me, right? To see if I know who Upton Sinclair was?"

  He waved his hands in the air. "All right, all right, we all know you went to college. This isn't the time to be showing off, Bex."

  "Right. Sorry."

  "Here's the deal: Those ISU bastards want to kill my show. I've got no intention of letting them get away with this crap, not with the money we're paying them. They can put out all the press releases they want, and scream "accident" until each and every one of them sounds like Harvey Fierstein—and I especially mean the women. But, we're going to cut them off at the ice skates. You with me, Bex?"

  "Uhm ... Gil, you mean you want me to—"

  "Find out who the hell killed this Silvana Potenza. Damn it, Bex, do I have to draw you a figure eight?"

  "Gil, I'm not sure if I know how.... I mean, even the police are saying it's an accident."

  "Are the police figure skating experts?"

  "I would be willing to bet no on that one."

  "Are you?"

  "Am I what?"

&nbs
p; "Are you a figure skating expert?"

  Oh, goodie, another possibly rhetorical question. And this time, an even stickier one. Because, the truth was, Bex wasn't exactly sure what to call herself. Not that she'd lied on her resume or during her job interview or anything. Bex had been totally upfront about how her bachelor's degree from Sarah Lawrence was in "general knowledge," which did include a heavy research component. But not in figure skating. Upon graduation, Bex would have been hard-pressed to tell an Axel jump from a Salchow, much less a Mohawk from a Choctaw. But then, in a year of bumming around as a freelance writer, selling her skills to the highest bidder and waxing poetic on topics ranging from "How a Bill Becomes a Law 2002" (this time with no singing) to "Your Tractor & You: A Guide to Regular Oil Changes for the Small Farmer," Bex met an extraordinary senior citizen named Antonia Wright. Bex profiled Toni for Maturity magazine, detailing her World War II-era battle to break the color line in professional figure skating and her subsequent success as the first African-American ice show star. Along the way, Bex also learned about Axels and Salchows. And Mohawks and Choctaws. And lasso lifts, and serpentine footwork sequences, and the Fourteenstep and Charlotte spirals. And, also along the way, when Toni recommended her for the 24/7 research job, praising Bex's writing and research ability, not to mention her ability to learn fast and work cheap, Bex added up her student loans, her car payments, and the cost of renting in New York City, and accepted the position.

  Which all neatly brought them to the question at hand.

  "Are you a figure skating expert, Bex?"

  "Well, Gil, I—"

  "I don't think so."

  Okay. That solved that. It opened up a whole other can of worms, but it certainly did solve that.

  "Your work this season, I have to say, has been less than stellar. For instance, remember when we were broadcasting the Europeans live from Nottingham, and I asked you how many English women had ever won a medal of any color at the world championship, and that include ladies' singles, pairs, and dance? I think it took you until we'd come out of the commercial break to get that statistic for me. That's sloppy work, Bex, very, very sloppy. Frankly, at this rate, I don't know about hiring you back next year, I really don't. My announcers need to be confident in the information that they're given. And if you can't provide that info—"

  "Gil?"

  "Yes, Bex?"

  "I'll find out who killed Silvana Potenza for you. You'll have the information in time for the exhibition broadcast on Sunday."

  "Why, thank you, Bex." Gil actually put his hand out to stop her chair from rolling away. "That's very kind of you to volunteer. Shows real team spirit. We like that here at 24/7. We like that a lot."

  Bex’s first plan for figuring out who lured Silvana Potenza into the refrigeration room and/or toward her puddle of slushy doom involved getting her 24/7 credential, the one that said Bex Levy—Researcher next to her sleep-deprived picture, and walking up to every single person in the arena with the polite query, "Hello, my name is Bex Levy, I'm the 24/7 researcher, as you can clearly see by my ID. Excuse me, did you kill Silvana Potenza? No? Do you know who did? No? Well, thank you very much for your time."

  She gave up the notion when she realized its impracticality. Like anybody would ever tell the truth to a researcher. Why, people's tendency to lie to her was what made this job the profession of kings! So, that left Plan B.

  Go to the police.

  Ask them stuff.

  Bex had never been to a police station before. Honestly, why would the opportunity have come up? She'd seen an awful lot of them on TV, though.

  Hence, her extreme sense of disappointment when Cop Number Two, who turned out to have a name, Stace Hale Jr., as a matter of fact, and a small office in the back, which looked, not like the set of “Hill Street Blues” or “NYPD Blue “ or even “Barney Miller,” but like a messy college dorm room, complete with a trash can full of coffee cups and MacDonald's wrappers, a three-hole binder on the desk, and a school—University of California at Davis—flag on the wall.

  "What can I do for you, Bex?" Stace gestured for her to take a seat. When he realized that the folding chair, which presumably usually stood there, had been seemingly requisitioned for other purposes, the gesture turned more into a Please feel free to lean against my wall.

  Bex asked, "Silvana Potenza. You said her death was an accident."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "No sign of foul play. If someone tried to force her to stand in that puddle and turn on the light switch, they'd have gotten electrocuted, too, just from touching her."

  "Couldn't they have held a gun on her or something? Make her do that?"

  "I suppose it's possible. But the position of the body is consistent with someone just walking in and reaching for the light. It's automatic, don't you think?"

  "What if someone lured her there? Told her to meet them. Isn't that possible?"

  "Yes, it surely is."

  "Aren't you going to investigate?"

  "What would you like us to do, Bex, walk up to everyone in the arena, flash our police badges, and ask, "Excuse me, did you kill Silvana Potenza? No? Do you know who did?"

  "Would you, please?"

  Stace smiled. "I like TV people. You're funny."

  "Listen," Bex was now falling back on her many years of detective training: undergrad by Nancy Drew, master's by Columbo, Ph.D. by Agatha Christie. "Can I ask you a favor?"

  "No sales tax on asking."

  "Except for her clothes, did Silvana Potenza have anything with her? Like maybe an appointment book, or a diary, or ... or ... a list of people out to get her?"

  "I've been watching TV, Bex, your 24/7, in fact. Sure sounds to me like everyone in that competition was out to get her."

  "You're not helping, here, Stace."

  "Sorry."

  "So, did she have anything with her?"

  "A purse."

  "Really? Great! What was in it?"

  He hesitated.

  "Look," Bex said, "You just told me her death was an accident."

  "That's what the department decided."

  "Which means it wasn't a homicide. Which means her belongings aren't evidence."

  "No, but they are her belongings."

  "Isn't being alive possession by nine-tenths of the law if the other party, well, isn't?"

  "Now see, there you go being funny again."

  "Come on, Stace." Bex gave up logic and went straight to the last refuge of the truly desperate: whining. It never worked when she was a child. Bex wasn't sure why she thought it could abracadabra some magic now. Except for the fact that an alleged grown-up whining was much, much more annoying than a child. "Just let me see what was in her bag, and I'll—I'll—" Bex didn't know what to offer him, sex or money. Not because she had an aversion to either, but because she honestly couldn't guess which he might prefer and she didn't want to guess wrong.

  "I've got an idea," Stace said. He stood up and left the room.

  Bex didn't know if he was going to get her Silvana's bag or come back with a warrant for her arrest on the charge of trying to bribe an officer. Even if she hadn't quite gotten around to the actual bribing yet.

  Neither, as it turned out. Stace came back with a manila envelope. He sat back down behind his desk and riffled around in the middle drawer. Finally, he withdrew a glossy white sheet of paper and slipped it into the envelope. Only then did Stace pass it on to Bex.

  She looked at him, all sorts of scenarios swimming through her mind, all of them scary, all of them from television. Was she supposed to open the envelope? Was it some kind of coded message he wanted her to deliver to another officer? Could it be incriminating information for another case that he wanted her to destroy? Was he testing her? Was he—?

  "It's okay. You can open it."

  Well, at least the test was getting easier. Bex slid her hand into the envelope, expecting everything from a booby trap to illegal narcotics to the aforementioned ar
rest warrant.

  It was a head shot. An eight-by-ten, black-and-white, glossy headshot. Of Stace Hale Jr. And all of his perfectly capped teeth.

  Stace said, "You think you could pass it on to someone at 24/7? In case they, you know, ever need an expert witness for one of their news shows. That's a pretty good way to get your face out there, isn't it? I figure, any exposure is good exposure, right?"

  Bex said, "You're an actor." It wasn't a question. She'd guessed as much back in the refrigeration room.

  "Not exclusively. I also do stand-up."

  "Bet this place gives you lots of material."

  "It's an angle. And everyone's afraid to heckle me. That's a nice bonus."

  "You'll let me look in Silvana Potenza's purse if I pass on your head shot?"

  "What do you call that in show business? Reciprocity?"

  "Actually, we call it blackmail," Bex said, then brightened. "Not that there's anything wrong with that. Stace, I would be happy to pass on your head shot."

  He smiled. "I'll be right back."

  This time, Stace returned with a plastic bag tucked loosely under his arm. Inside was a brown suede bag with a golden clasp and a strap long enough to throw over your shoulder. Now that she was looking at it, Bex recognized the bag as a part of Silvana's ensemble. She never went anywhere without it.

  Bex eagerly flipped open the clasp and reached inside. Her first discovery was an empty tissue packet. Oooh, Bex, alert the media, this is earthshaking stuff.

  The sarcastic retort flitted through her head before Bex realized the irony. Hey, she was the media. Well, better alert herself, then.

  Her next discovery was even more exciting. A half-eaten packet of lemon-flavored hard candy. Now, in a traditional murder mystery, Bex might have insisted on having it checked for poison. But, as far as she knew, the pharmacology world had yet to develop an elixir which, when mixed with sugar and food coloring drove otherwise sensible women to fling themselves into puddles while clutching electric light cords.

  Next came a tube of lipstick. Same issues as the candy.

  A bottle of ibuprofen and a bottle of aspirin, both extra- strength. Obviously, the previous night's accusations had taken quite a physical toll on Silvana, and she wasn't expecting the new day to be any better.