Fic: The Big Freeze (Figure Skating RPS, Johnny Weir/ Stéphane Lambiel), Part 2
The Big Freeze
Headers in Part 1
Part 2
Back at the hotel, I had nothing to do but wait. Anyone with half a mind for detective work could figure out where I was staying. I hadn’t covered my tracks and I’d dropped plenty of hints. Whoever was trying to blame me for the threats against Stéphane probably already had me in his sights.
Which was part of my plan, but still unsettling. I went out onto the balcony again and smoked a cigarette. When that one was done, I lit another and felt guilty about it. Smoking was becoming as much a part of the job as the telephoto lens on my camera, and I no longer had the lungs of a twenty-one-year-old.
Who was I kidding? The job was going to kill me long before lung cancer. I was in real danger this time. I didn’t have a plan; I didn't have a weapon. I didn't even have skates, which was probably my biggest regret. Those things could do some real damage. And to think, three years ago I wouldn’t have boarded a plane without them.
I went inside and watched television for a while, turned my mind to some thing less life threatening. I caught the World Championships on the news and saw me kissing Stéphane while the media went crazy. The kiss looked good. The moment when Stéphane gave in and kissed me back was a moment so perfect it could have been scripted.
I frowned at my complexion. I’d gotten so pale lately. If only I'd known I was going to be on television. I would have used bronzer. I changed channels, flipped over a few until I found a Family Guy marathon.
At midnight, I went downstairs for a coffee from the vending machine in the lobby. Milkless. I didn't know what they put in those machines, but it sure wasn’t dairy. The coffee didn't taste like coffee, either, but it was caffeine, and that was all that mattered. I took my plastic cup back to my room, turned out the lights, and sat on the bed waiting, sipping my coffee quietly in the dark.
I thought about the last time I saw Stéphane before the big freeze out. We were doing a show in St Petersburg. He’d read my book.
“I liked it,” he said. “Especially pages 29 to 30.” He’d gained more than one mention in the book, but those pages were probably the most detailed. Except for the names. With Stéphane, at least, I’d kept his name out of it.
“I’m being sued,” I told him.
“I know,” he said.
He came by my room after the show and we climbed naked under the covers of my bed with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire and a can of tonic.
“This is my last show,” I told him.
“You don’t mean that.”
Not wanting to sleep in a gin-soaked bed, I tried to take the bottle from him. “There has to be a last show eventually.”
“Yes,” he said. He poured the gin into the can of tonic, barely managing to avoid a spill. “But not today.”
He had the world’s most infectious optimism. For a moment, I felt like everything would be okay.
It didn’t last long. It really had been my last show.
It was getting late. When the bed began to look too inviting, I sat on the floor by the bathroom, the hard surface focusing my thoughts. In my head I ran through a list of suspects: Amodio, Trankov, Najarro, Takahashi - and Ten? Why not? He was as likely as any of the others.
And what if Boitano was wrong? What if it was someone Stéphane had refused? Figure skating was full of divas and none of them took rejection well.
I sighed and looked up at the ceiling. The dull light from outside caused the light fixture to cast a blurred shadow on the wall above the bed. It looked like an overly wide penis. Perfect.
One AM, and I needed to go to the bathroom. On a private detective’s website I’d seen an ad for a stakeout bladder. Just attach the funnel to your dick and you could pee without having to leave your post. Probably pretty kinky if you used it right, but I didn't pee anywhere there wasn't soap.
I got up and went to the bathroom, peed, washed my hands and returned to my spot on the floor. I'd been there barely ten minutes when I heard footsteps coming to a stop outside my door. There were voices too. More than one person. I tensed and concentrated on breathing through my nose.
The door opened and a shard of light fell across the floor in front of me. There was a short exchange of "thank you" and "goodnight” and I figured the bastard had convinced the hotel staff to open the door for him by either pretending to be me or slipping someone a $20. It was what I would have done.
A shadow appeared in the doorway and I got to my feet slowly. Whoever it was took a few steps forward and I jumped, threw myself at him like I was going for an axel.
I had one rule when it came to fighting: don’t. My strength was in my legs, not my fists, and I hadn’t taken the time to learn kickboxing. My one advantage was the element of surprise and I used it for all it was worth. I crashed into him and we landed in a heap on the floor, arms and legs everywhere. It was a good opening, but I hadn’t really thought it through. Before I could get up, I got a fist to my right temple and a knee to my groin. I tried to double over in pain but I was pinned by my shoulders to the floor, a weight landing on my midriff.
I opened my eyes and looked up, tried to make out facial features in the dark.
I didn’t believe it. "Joubert?" I said.
"I am going to kill you!" Joubert said.
He let go of my shoulders and drew his fist back. I covered my face instinctively and tried to wriggle free. There was no escape. I got a punch to the other side of my face, right on the cheekbone. I tried to cover my eyes with my fingers and half the blow landed on the knuckle of my forefinger. It felt like squeezing my finger in a nutcracker.
"Jesus Christ, Brian!" I said. Tears streamed down my cheeks and over my hands. I couldn’t open my eyes. "I didn't even know you slept with Stéphane!"
Joubert stopped. "Stéphane?"
I didn’t get to answer him. Suddenly there were people everywhere, hands and legs in my face, shouting and screaming. There were so many of them, I was sure I would be crushed. Someone lifted Brian off me, and I curled into a ball, my hands over my face. I wished them all away, Joubert, the feet, everything. I wanted to bury my face in a bucket of ice.
"Johnny!" I could hear Joubert screaming, his voice receding. They were taking him away. "I'll kill you, Johnny!"
“Hey,” someone said, patting my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
I looked up and there was a police officer looming over me. “Owwwww,” I said.
The police officer tilted her head to the side. “Are you Johnny Weir?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Officer Cantwell,” she said. She held out her hand. I took it and she helped me to my feet. “We had an anonymous tip. Looks like we got here just in time.”
“That’s open for debate,” I said. My ears were ringing but I could swear I still heard Joubert yelling.
Cantwell leaned in to look at my face and winced. “Looks bad. Can I get you anything?”
“Whisky,” I said. Difficult though it was for me to accept, there were times when a cosmo was completely inadequate.
*
I got a ride to the police station with Cantwell. The first aid officer pronounced hospital unnecessary and gave me an ice pack to hold against my cheekbone. I alternated it from one side of my face to the other as Cantwell took my statement. No one brought me whisky.
I tried to explain how I knew about the jilted lover angle without going into my liaison with the Conglomerate, but it was a finely choreographed dance around the facts and the cops weren’t fans of the performing arts. They weren’t fans of private detectives, either, and the looks on their faces suggested they were going to keep me around all day if it meant getting the full story out of me. Fortunately, I was saved by a cop with enough detective nous to go through Joubert’s cell. On it, he found pictures of Stéphane taken everywhere from New York to London. There were pictures of me, too: at the airport, at the arena and, while the windows were open, in my hotel room.
Which made Joubert a grade A stalker. It didn’t matter what the Ontario police charged him with, his skating career was over. They tolerated queens in the ISU, but they sure as hell didn’t like perverts. He may as well be in jail.
It was morning by the time the cops let me go. Outside the police station, the streets were filling up with commuters and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. It had been a long night, in more ways than one. The dark was only beginning to lift, turning the morning into an ugly grey. I lit another cigarette and crossed the street.
Brian Joubert. What the fuck did it all mean? Had Brian and Stéphane been lovers? Surely I would have noticed if they were. In this sport, you could hide behind hotel doors or sneak meetings in broom closets, but one word, one look in the right direction, one bad performance or hissy-fit, and the gossip queens knew who screwed whom.
No one had attempted to hide more affairs than me. I’d tried everything from snubbing to over-attentiveness. As it turned out, the ruses and subterfuge trained me to be a passable private detective, even if they hadn’t fooled my competitors.
Did it really matter? As a detective, I got paid to solve cases, not mysteries. Joubert was stalking Stéphane. I didn’t need to know why.
I flicked my cigarette onto the ground. The truth was, a lot of things bugged me about this case: Joubert and Stéphane, the anonymous tip, the look on Joubert’s face when I mentioned Stéphane. The all too convenient photographs. Something was definitely off there. Who leaves that kind of stuff on their phone? Was Joubert the worst stalker in the world or just careless? I turned these thoughts over uselessly in my head as I waved down a cab and got a ride back to my hotel.
Back in my room, I checked my face in the bathroom mirror. Swollen and bruised on both sides. I wasn’t going to win a beauty pageant today. I showered and shaved and spent fifteen minutes dabbing at my face with foundation. It didn’t hide much, but at least the contrast of white and maroon wasn’t so striking.
Afterwards, I packed my bags and took my luggage to the lobby for storage. My flight wasn’t until later and there was a world champion yet to be crowned. That gave me around eight hours to think. Eight hours, and I already had a headache that made a hangover sound appealing.
At the arena, I took up my previous spot in the stands, twenty plus rows back. Having made the news yesterday, I was a lot more interesting today, and a few cameras pointed in my direction as I took my seat. Joubert’s story had probably gone around the crowd a couple of times too. No hiding under the anonymity of a has-been anymore. I kept my sunglasses on anyway. I would have smiled for the cameras, but my face hurt.
There was no cosmo in my hip flask today. I drank coffee and swallowed ibuprofen for lunch: a combination that kept me awake during the otherwise dull performances. Barely. I was snoozing by the time the final warm-up group came onto the ice. I woke up occasionally when the applause was loud, but went back to dozing quickly afterward.
I told the woman next to me to wake me when it was over. She dutifully squeezed my arm while the audience was still applauding the final result.
“It’s over,” she said.
“Who won?” I said.
“Chan.”
“What about Abbott?”
She shook her head. “He fell.”
Just like the Queen had said he would. I wondered what he’d gotten for his trouble.
Not that I worried about Abbott. He’d be back next year. Maybe that’s what they had planned all along? A fall this year for a Conglomerate-free season in the next. Whispers of such deals had plagued the sport for years.
I worried more for Joubert. This would have been his eighth consecutive medal placing at a World Championship. And he’d had a good season so far. Which made me think: how does a guy win medals on the Grand Prix circuit and stalk his ex-lover at the same time?
There was a saying in the private dick industry: if things don’t add up, check your calculator.
I had no idea what that meant, but something told me I had to go back to the start. And it had all started with Stéphane.
After the medal ceremony, I talked my way into the press conference. It wasn’t difficult. Yesterday I was a has-been. Today I was the story of the Championships. One member of the press even offered me a lucrative sum to tell the Joubert/Stéphane story. I declined. I still had principles. In fact, right now, principles were all I had.
I hung at the back of the room, leaning against the wall rather than taking a seat. I didn’t need to hear what the medalists had to say, I just needed a vantage point, somewhere to watch the play.
Stéphane was standing to the left of the stage with a couple of members of the Canadian team. There were pockets of nationalities in different corners of the room: the Japanese to the right, a group of American skaters and coaches in the second row, a few Chinese in the front.
An NBC reporter asked me if I would be doing a press conference. I told her no, and she gave me her card. “If you feel the need to talk,” she said.
I pocketed the card. The assistance of the press was sometimes an advantage. Maybe it would come in handy one day.
The press conference was tedious. Standing up turned out to be wise choice, as I would have fallen asleep again if I were sitting. When it ended, there was a lot of hand shaking and polite conversation, and then everyone started to leave, as orderly as they came. No fuss. No tears or recriminations. It was almost peaceful.
Stéphane spotted me across the room and waved. I nodded back, not moving from my spot against the wall. I wasn’t in a hurry to confront him. In fact, the longer it took, the easier it was going to be for both of us. Neither of us would want to have this conversation in front of an audience.
Eventually the room emptied out, and Stéphane and I were left with the stragglers and a couple of AV guys packing up the sound equipment.
“You waited for me,” he said. And then he frowned and leaned in toward my face. “You’re hurt?”
“Nothing concealer can’t hide,” I said.
“Are you all right?” He sounded genuinely concerned.
“I’m fine,” I said. “I have a headache.”
He put his fingers to his lips and winced. “I’m sorry.”
“Why would you be?” I said. “It’s not your fault.”
“I -“ He looked away for a moment. “You were protecting me.”
“As you paid me to do,” I said. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I solved the case. I take cash or check.”
He looked rebuffed. “You couldn’t send me a bill?”
“So impersonal. And I have a cash flow problem.”
“I don’t have my checkbook.”
I shrugged. “I’ve got some time to kill. I can come back to your hotel room.”
“Is this really about the money?”
It was always about the money. “I want to know who is signing my check,” I said. “I think you owe me that.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on, Stéphane,” I said, shifting my weight off the wall. “You’d have to be dead not to notice what is going on here. They’re shaking hands, smiling, laughing. I thought someone was going to burst into song. The last thing the Queen said to me was that there was a war going on. Does this look like a war to you?”
Stéphane paused. I looked at the ceiling. “She told you that?” he said eventually.
Oh, Stéphane. I had hoped he’d plead ignorance.
“Yeah,” I said. Of course she’d told me that. The Queen wanted to be found out. She wanted me to know what kind of power she wielded.
“I didn’t want to do it, Johnny.” He stepped closer, put his hand on my arm. I let him leave it there.
“I need to know,” I said. “Tell me everything.”
“The Canadians wanted Joubert gone,” he said. “The Conglomerate said they would do it.”
“What did Joubert do to the Canadians?”
“He refused to retire,” Stéphane said.
I nodded. When the Conglomerate told a skater to retire, they did so. Joubert was crazy to defy them. Or heroic. I couldn’t decide which.
“So they used me to take him down,” I said. “And they used you to get to me.”
“You make a good story, Johnny,” he said. “They like that about you.”
“You called the police?”
“I was worried about you,” he said earnestly.
I shook his hand off my arm. “You set Joubert up. You set me up. What did they promise you? Money? A position in the ISU?”
“You must think I’m very shallow. Do you really think I would do it for the money?”
I didn’t. Stéphane wasn’t greedy. All he really wanted was to skate. If it had been anyone else, my suspicions would have been raised much sooner. “Then why?” I said.
“For peace, Johnny,” he said. “No one wins a war. If Canada and the US are fighting, we all lose. Even you must love skating enough to not let that happen.”
I hoped they’d all blow each other to pieces. Maybe out of the rubble, something beautiful would grow.
“Joubert was arrested,” I said. “He’s only going to skate again if the Seine freezes over. And he nearly broke my face! And all so the Conglomerate could continue to rig the competitions?”
“So one day we will fix it!” he said, throwing his hands up. “We can’t do that if it’s destroyed.”
Changing the system from within. I believed that once. I also believed I could win if I skated well enough. It seemed like a long time ago now.
“You lied to me,” I said.
“I had to.”
“I could have helped you.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
He was probably right. I couldn’t even help myself.
I stared at the floor and felt bitter. This was Stéphane. Of everyone left from my old life, I trusted him the most.
I looked up and caught his eyes. “We’re through,” I said.
“You don’t mean that.”
He put his hand to my cheek, but I turned away, moved out of reach. “I have to go,” I said, and I pushed past him, nearly falling over a camera cable as I headed for the entrance. My eyes were watering and my cheeks burned. No one took my picture as I left.
*
Outside it was dark, but the streets shone from the headlights of cars leaving the parking lot. I was itching to get out of there, to leave London and put figure skating behind me once and for all. My bags were packed, my plane ticket was booked. The case was done.
I went back to the hotel to get my bags. Only, instead of getting a cab to the airport, I booked a room for another night and called Cantwell. I wasn’t done. There were too many questions left unanswered. And the Queen had used me, ruining my relationship with Stéphane in the process. Somebody owed me, and I was going to collect.
Cantwell was still on the beat, but she said she could meet me in an hour. I killed time at a diner across the street from the hotel, drinking coffee and reading the local newspapers. Pictures from Worlds covered the sports pages. Brian’s arrest took up half a page. There was a picture of me kissing Stéphane, but it was already yesterday’s news, buried under Worlds’ gossip that was probably true.
Eventually Cantwell showed up with an envelope. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to find,” she said. “It’s pretty standard stuff.”
I opened the envelope and pulled out copies of the photos found on Brian’s phone. “I’m looking for a smoking gun,” I said.
“Why?” she said. “We caught the guy.”
“I want to know why he did it.”
“I know why he did it,” she said. “He’s crazy.”
“Aren’t we all?” I said. I laid a few pictures out on the table and studied them. They were still evidence. Cantwell had brought them to me at a not insubstantial risk. “Thank you,” I said. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
She shrugged. “The case is closed,” she said. “Besides, I used to be a fan. You know, of ice skating.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking down at the pictures again. “Me too.”
*
I needed time to think, but more importantly, I needed to sleep. I went back to the hotel and checked my face in the mirror. It looked bad. I could probably frighten small children. The ibuprofen reduced the pain to a dull throb, but it was constant and I could feel it from my temples to my shoulders.
The shower washed some of the ache away. I stood under the jets and stared at the water draining into the plughole, wondering why I didn’t feel clean. Eventually I gave up staring and washed my hair with the cheap hotel shampoo-and-conditioner-in-one. I ran my hands through it afterwards, separating the knots.
I got dressed and sat on the floor, spreading the pictures out in front of me. The pictures of me were taken with a moderately powerful zoom lens. Not something you’d find on a cell phone. I was in a different room tonight, but I had an idea of where they were taken. There was a parking structure on the next block. Maybe two hundred yards away. The hotel would be visible from the top floor.
There were photos of Stéphane in Newark. I recognised the street where we had waited in a parking lot for my anonymous contact and the dry cleaner’s below my office. If the pictures had anything in common, it was that they were not particularly good. They were blurred, dark and in some cases nearly avoiding their subject altogether. In one picture it looked like Stéphane was a happy accident in the scene.
They were certainly not pictures taken by someone with a love for their subject. Obsessives took greater care, concentrating on getting a certain look or movement. These pictures had been taken in haste.
It didn’t help me much. I knew Brian hadn’t taken the pictures and I knew who had set him up. I just needed proof. I bundled the pictures back into a pile and stuffed them in the envelope again.
In the morning, I skipped breakfast and bought takeaway coffee from the diner across the street. I took the coffee to the parking structure and climbed the stairs to the top. My former room was visible from the west side, one of four facing the car park. They looked like black squares from up here. I couldn’t even tell if the curtains were drawn. I held up my cell and worked the zoom, trying to get as close as I could. I hadn’t gotten a close look at Brian’s cell in the police station, but I was pretty sure we both owned an iPhone. And it wasn’t powerful enough to see inside my room.
I contemplated taking this information to Cantwell. There were flaws in the argument, but it was good enough to cast a shadow of doubt. With the make and model of Brian’s phone, she could construct a more compelling case.
On my way back down, I passed a security guard on the stairs. I introduced myself and showed him my card. “Did you see anyone taking pictures from up here recently?” I asked him.
“No,” he said. “But you should ask across the street. They have a good view of the top levels.”
On the ground floor, I noticed an office building on the next block. About eight levels. Slightly taller than the parking structure. The windows were tinted to see out but not in.
I went across the street and took the elevator to the top level, deciding to work my way down. The office at the top was a courier delivery company and they looked at me like I was an alien before suggesting I leave before they called security. I fared better on the next floor, where a husband-and-wife team ran an interior design business out of rooms facing the parking structure. They both said they’d seen a balding man in a brightly coloured parka taking pictures on the top level.
“He seemed to be talking to himself,” the woman said.
The man nodded. “He seemed very colourful.”
“I think he was smoking a cigar,” the woman said.
Boitano, I thought. Bingo.
I took their cards, and told them the police might call on them if they needed further information.
“Hey,” the man said, as I was leaving. “Aren’t you that ice skater?”
“Not anymore,” I said.
*
I caught a flight back to New York that afternoon and was grateful to return to my laundry-powder-smelling office the next day. There was something comforting about the thin layer of dust forming on the exposed surfaces. If I polished the desk, bleached the bathroom and dusted the vents, I could spend all day cleaning the office.
I procrastinated productively. I knew a handful of private detectives and none of them had offices as clean as mine.
Unfortunately, today I had a bigger mess to clean up. One that wouldn’t disappear with the crisp scent of lemon Fabulous. Still, I allowed myself a couple of hours of dusting before going home and packing the car for DC. It soothed my nerves.
I got to DC in the fading light of the evening. It was a clear day. Warmer than yesterday. In the past, this time of the year had left me with mixed feelings of relief and loss. Now it was just spring. Yellow and green and grey.
Outside Ford’s Theatre again, I looked for the building Ryan had taken to me just over a week ago. When I found it, I hovered outside, wondering what my next move would be. Unwilling to make Ryan do my dirty work twice in one year, I was escortless this time. My plan was mostly to let all good things come to those who wait and just hang outside until someone let me in. I lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. Two tourist buses and a police-escorted convoy went past while I waited. As always, it was a lousy plan.
After an hour, Cohen came by, carrying dry cleaning over her arm. She looked only mildly surprised to see me. “Weir,” she said, nodding. She was wearing jeans, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. The dry cleaning contained a couple of evening dresses and a tux. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to see the Queen,” I said.
“She won’t see you.”
“Call her.”
Cohen frowned, but she got out her cell. “What are you up to, Weir?” she said, shaking her head. She walked a little further up the street to where I couldn’t hear her. The conversation was short and she returned quickly, motioning me inside the building. “Apparently, she’ll see you,” she said.
It was quiet in the club. Just Cohen, the bartender and the Queen. Cohen gave the Queen one of the dresses and then disappeared behind the doors at the side of the bar.
“Is Cohen your errand girl now?” I said to the Queen.
“We’re friends,” the Queen said. She was dressed in black today: short black dress, black leggings and black heels. Her hair was parted very slightly to the side. “Friends collect each other’s dry cleaning.”
They weren’t friends. There were no friends in this place.
I took the seat at the bar next to the Queen. “You used me,” I said.
“You stopped a war,” she said. “Some might say you’re a hero.”
“I saved your asses. And in case you haven’t noticed, no one is throwing me a parade.”
“You solved a crime,” she said. “Very publicly too. Must be good for business.”
Since the London incident, I’d received four calls. That was more in two days than I’d received in the last two weeks. It was heartening, but it wasn’t how I wanted to become solvent.
“You owe me answers,” I said.
“We don’t owe you anything,” she said. “And you don’t owe us. Isn’t that how you like it?”
“What will happen to Joubert?”
The Queen shrugged. “That’s up to the Ontario justice system. I imagine he’ll face charges of stalking and assault. You can probably help him out with the assault charge, but those pictures on his cell were pretty incriminating.”
“I can help him with those too,” I said. “I’m a lot better at this game than you think I am.”
The Queen beckoned the bartender over. “Sounds riveting,” she said. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me about it over a drink.”
“Business before pleasure.” I produced the pictures Cantwell had given me from the inside of my jacket and gave them to the Queen. “There were photos on Joubert’s camera. Pictures of me and Stéphane. Kind of incriminating if you’re being accused of threatening to kill someone.”
“What can I say?” the Queen said. She spread the pictures out on the bar in front of her. “There are some sick people out there.”
“And in here,” I said. “Boitano took those pictures.” I pointed to a picture of me in my hotel room. “He took these from a parking structure near my hotel.”
“Joubert took those pictures,” she said. The bartender placed a Manhattan in front of her and she took a ladylike sip. “Do you think anyone will listen to you if you say otherwise?”
“No me,” I said. “But my witnesses are very credible.”
She put her Manhattan down on the bar. “I don’t believe you.”
“You can backstab and play politics behind the scenes like Cold War operatives,” I said, “but when it comes to basic private detective work, you stink. Boitano left a trail big enough for two small children looking for a gingerbread house to follow.” I pulled out the card the NBC journalist had given me and put it on the bar. “And I’ve already got a buyer for the story.”
The Queen gave me a cool look. As always, she was unflappable. “So what now, Weir?” she said. “You bring us down? Ruin figure skating forever?”
I’d thought about it. But despite my bitterness, I really didn’t want to see the figure skating world burn. A part of me still wondered if maybe Stéphane was right and the only way to change things was from within.
But Stéphane was never meant to get his hands dirty. “I want a deal,” I said. “I want Stéphane out. And anyone he coaches.”
“Is that all?” she said.
“And I want to be paid.” I had principles, but I also had bills. “It was you that hired me, and I solved your case. You owe me.”
“Fine,” she said. “Send me a bill.”
“What about Stéphane?”
“He’s out.”
I nodded. “In that case,” I said, “I’ll have that drink now.”
She motioned at the bartender. “Bring him one of these,” she said, pointing to her drink.
I took the Manhattan when it came to me. It was too early for cocktails, but I’d earned my right to drink with the Queen. “The heel was a nice touch,” I said.
“It was a message,” she said. “Apparently, you didn’t get it.”
I got it all right. I wasn’t off their radar. That much was clear. “Maybe try Twitter next time,” I said.
“I’ve been lenient with you, Johnny,” she said. “You won’t always be so lucky.”
Luck was relative. Joubert had nearly killed me. “What did you tell Joubert?”
“We didn’t tell him anything,” she said. “We let a rumour slip that you were working for us and we’d ordered you to sabotage his career. You know, sometimes the truth is the best lie.”
I should have known it was about me. Joubert probably still thought I’d set him up. And thanks to my bargain with the Queen, I wasn’t able to tell him otherwise. Turned out, I’d sold my soul after all.
“You planned this,” I said.
She laughed. “You think far too highly of me, Johnny,” she said. “I knew you needed money. And credibility. I didn’t know you’d turn out to be such a romantic.”
Maybe I believed her. Maybe I didn’t. It didn’t matter in the end.
I drank the rest of my Manhattan, placed the glass on the bar and stood up. “You don’t know me at all,” I said.
“I know one thing,” she said. “You’ll be back.”
“I’ll shop at Walmart first.”
I took the pictures from the bar and left.
*
Business picked up steadily. At first it was standard fare: a couple of infidelity cases and a lost heir in the first month, and a run of insurance fraud cases in the second. Six months later, and I was on retainer to two law firms and a medical insurance company. I bought new carpet for the office with the Queen’s money, and when the insurance jobs came through, I celebrated by purchasing a new vacuum cleaner. The days went by so much easier with a few lines in the carpet. I even cut back on the cigarettes.
I was checking out swatches for the new paint job when Stéphane showed up at my door unannounced again. He seemed less confident this time. Humble even. Still gorgeous. He lingered in the doorway a moment, like he wasn’t sure whether he’d be welcome.
I beckoned him in. Six months, and my temper had cooled. Perhaps I’d matured? Or maybe I was just concious of the lines grudges caused on my no longer youthful forehead. “What brings you to Newark?” I said.
“Shopping,” he said, giving me a hopeful smile. He sat in the chair on the opposite side of my desk. “Sightseeing.”
“Shouldn’t you be-“ I didn’t know where he should be. I’d gone back to avoiding figure skating like I’d managed to do in the last two years before Stéphane had showed up in my life again. “What are you doing now anyway?”
“Choreography,” Stéphane said. “I’m working with Denis again. No one new. It’s strange.” He gave me a look I couldn’t interpret. “Before Worlds, I spoke to two figure skaters who wanted to work on programs with me this year. After Worlds, they were not interested anymore. I don’t suppose you know anything about this?”
“Me?” I said. I raised my eyebrows in mock indignation. “What would I know about it?”
“The Conglomerate hasn’t called,” he said. “I did the usual shows. Nothing. It’s like they no longer care about me.”
“In that case,” I said, “you’re lucky.”
“I suppose so,” he said. “But it makes me nervous. I liked it better when I knew what they were planning.”
I had to admit, it made me nervous too. I thought back to what Stéphane had said about taking the system down from within. It had its advantages. From the outside, they were an unknown quantity.
“We could find out,” I said. “It’s kind of what I do.”
“I just want to skate, Johnny,” he said. “I’m not angry like you.”
I wasn’t angry. At least, not like I had been. I wanted nothing more than to take down the Conglomerate and leave them flailing in my wake, but more than that, I wanted a reason to keep Stéphane around.
“Think about it,” I said. “We’d make a great team.”
“Like Bogart and Bacall?”
“More like Willis and Shepherd.”
He smiled. “Does that mean you forgive me?”
I’d forgiven him six months ago. “You knew I wouldn’t stay angry at you,” I said. “Why else would you be here?”
“It’s nice to hear it,” he said.
“Fine,” I said. “I forgive you. Joubert probably doesn’t.”
He sighed. “I’ll talk to him,” he said. “One day.”
We both needed to talk to Joubert. It was going to be an interesting conversation. “If it’s any consolation,” I said, “in your position, I would probably have done the same thing.”
“Perhaps you would,” he said.
We locked eyes for a moment and I wondered what he knew. He wasn’t an idiot. He’d already guessed I’d made a deal with the Queen. He just didn’t know how.
One day I would tell him. Not today.
“So what do we do now?” I said.
He stood up and held out his hand toward me. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
He picked up his bag from the floor, unzipped it and showed me the contents. Skates.
“I haven’t skated in years.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s time you started again.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “I don’t think I can.”
He rolled his eyes. “You are such a drama queen,” he said.
“It’s a mental block,” I said. I smiled sheepishly. It did sound kind of ridiculous.
He took me by the arm and pulled me toward him. We were nose to nose, and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me. But instead he lifted my hand above my head and turned me into a pirouette. “Fortunately, I’m a very good teacher,” he said.
I laughed. As pairs we were incompatible, but Stéphane’s enthusiasm made me think we’d be spectacular together.
“Promise you won’t let go?” I said, squeezing his hand.
“I promise.”
I let him lead me outside, the door behind us swinging shut, revealing the new sign I’d bought.
It said, Johnny G Weir, Private Detective.
End.
Headers in Part 1
Part 2
Back at the hotel, I had nothing to do but wait. Anyone with half a mind for detective work could figure out where I was staying. I hadn’t covered my tracks and I’d dropped plenty of hints. Whoever was trying to blame me for the threats against Stéphane probably already had me in his sights.
Which was part of my plan, but still unsettling. I went out onto the balcony again and smoked a cigarette. When that one was done, I lit another and felt guilty about it. Smoking was becoming as much a part of the job as the telephoto lens on my camera, and I no longer had the lungs of a twenty-one-year-old.
Who was I kidding? The job was going to kill me long before lung cancer. I was in real danger this time. I didn’t have a plan; I didn't have a weapon. I didn't even have skates, which was probably my biggest regret. Those things could do some real damage. And to think, three years ago I wouldn’t have boarded a plane without them.
I went inside and watched television for a while, turned my mind to some thing less life threatening. I caught the World Championships on the news and saw me kissing Stéphane while the media went crazy. The kiss looked good. The moment when Stéphane gave in and kissed me back was a moment so perfect it could have been scripted.
I frowned at my complexion. I’d gotten so pale lately. If only I'd known I was going to be on television. I would have used bronzer. I changed channels, flipped over a few until I found a Family Guy marathon.
At midnight, I went downstairs for a coffee from the vending machine in the lobby. Milkless. I didn't know what they put in those machines, but it sure wasn’t dairy. The coffee didn't taste like coffee, either, but it was caffeine, and that was all that mattered. I took my plastic cup back to my room, turned out the lights, and sat on the bed waiting, sipping my coffee quietly in the dark.
I thought about the last time I saw Stéphane before the big freeze out. We were doing a show in St Petersburg. He’d read my book.
“I liked it,” he said. “Especially pages 29 to 30.” He’d gained more than one mention in the book, but those pages were probably the most detailed. Except for the names. With Stéphane, at least, I’d kept his name out of it.
“I’m being sued,” I told him.
“I know,” he said.
He came by my room after the show and we climbed naked under the covers of my bed with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire and a can of tonic.
“This is my last show,” I told him.
“You don’t mean that.”
Not wanting to sleep in a gin-soaked bed, I tried to take the bottle from him. “There has to be a last show eventually.”
“Yes,” he said. He poured the gin into the can of tonic, barely managing to avoid a spill. “But not today.”
He had the world’s most infectious optimism. For a moment, I felt like everything would be okay.
It didn’t last long. It really had been my last show.
It was getting late. When the bed began to look too inviting, I sat on the floor by the bathroom, the hard surface focusing my thoughts. In my head I ran through a list of suspects: Amodio, Trankov, Najarro, Takahashi - and Ten? Why not? He was as likely as any of the others.
And what if Boitano was wrong? What if it was someone Stéphane had refused? Figure skating was full of divas and none of them took rejection well.
I sighed and looked up at the ceiling. The dull light from outside caused the light fixture to cast a blurred shadow on the wall above the bed. It looked like an overly wide penis. Perfect.
One AM, and I needed to go to the bathroom. On a private detective’s website I’d seen an ad for a stakeout bladder. Just attach the funnel to your dick and you could pee without having to leave your post. Probably pretty kinky if you used it right, but I didn't pee anywhere there wasn't soap.
I got up and went to the bathroom, peed, washed my hands and returned to my spot on the floor. I'd been there barely ten minutes when I heard footsteps coming to a stop outside my door. There were voices too. More than one person. I tensed and concentrated on breathing through my nose.
The door opened and a shard of light fell across the floor in front of me. There was a short exchange of "thank you" and "goodnight” and I figured the bastard had convinced the hotel staff to open the door for him by either pretending to be me or slipping someone a $20. It was what I would have done.
A shadow appeared in the doorway and I got to my feet slowly. Whoever it was took a few steps forward and I jumped, threw myself at him like I was going for an axel.
I had one rule when it came to fighting: don’t. My strength was in my legs, not my fists, and I hadn’t taken the time to learn kickboxing. My one advantage was the element of surprise and I used it for all it was worth. I crashed into him and we landed in a heap on the floor, arms and legs everywhere. It was a good opening, but I hadn’t really thought it through. Before I could get up, I got a fist to my right temple and a knee to my groin. I tried to double over in pain but I was pinned by my shoulders to the floor, a weight landing on my midriff.
I opened my eyes and looked up, tried to make out facial features in the dark.
I didn’t believe it. "Joubert?" I said.
"I am going to kill you!" Joubert said.
He let go of my shoulders and drew his fist back. I covered my face instinctively and tried to wriggle free. There was no escape. I got a punch to the other side of my face, right on the cheekbone. I tried to cover my eyes with my fingers and half the blow landed on the knuckle of my forefinger. It felt like squeezing my finger in a nutcracker.
"Jesus Christ, Brian!" I said. Tears streamed down my cheeks and over my hands. I couldn’t open my eyes. "I didn't even know you slept with Stéphane!"
Joubert stopped. "Stéphane?"
I didn’t get to answer him. Suddenly there were people everywhere, hands and legs in my face, shouting and screaming. There were so many of them, I was sure I would be crushed. Someone lifted Brian off me, and I curled into a ball, my hands over my face. I wished them all away, Joubert, the feet, everything. I wanted to bury my face in a bucket of ice.
"Johnny!" I could hear Joubert screaming, his voice receding. They were taking him away. "I'll kill you, Johnny!"
“Hey,” someone said, patting my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
I looked up and there was a police officer looming over me. “Owwwww,” I said.
The police officer tilted her head to the side. “Are you Johnny Weir?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Officer Cantwell,” she said. She held out her hand. I took it and she helped me to my feet. “We had an anonymous tip. Looks like we got here just in time.”
“That’s open for debate,” I said. My ears were ringing but I could swear I still heard Joubert yelling.
Cantwell leaned in to look at my face and winced. “Looks bad. Can I get you anything?”
“Whisky,” I said. Difficult though it was for me to accept, there were times when a cosmo was completely inadequate.
*
I got a ride to the police station with Cantwell. The first aid officer pronounced hospital unnecessary and gave me an ice pack to hold against my cheekbone. I alternated it from one side of my face to the other as Cantwell took my statement. No one brought me whisky.
I tried to explain how I knew about the jilted lover angle without going into my liaison with the Conglomerate, but it was a finely choreographed dance around the facts and the cops weren’t fans of the performing arts. They weren’t fans of private detectives, either, and the looks on their faces suggested they were going to keep me around all day if it meant getting the full story out of me. Fortunately, I was saved by a cop with enough detective nous to go through Joubert’s cell. On it, he found pictures of Stéphane taken everywhere from New York to London. There were pictures of me, too: at the airport, at the arena and, while the windows were open, in my hotel room.
Which made Joubert a grade A stalker. It didn’t matter what the Ontario police charged him with, his skating career was over. They tolerated queens in the ISU, but they sure as hell didn’t like perverts. He may as well be in jail.
It was morning by the time the cops let me go. Outside the police station, the streets were filling up with commuters and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. It had been a long night, in more ways than one. The dark was only beginning to lift, turning the morning into an ugly grey. I lit another cigarette and crossed the street.
Brian Joubert. What the fuck did it all mean? Had Brian and Stéphane been lovers? Surely I would have noticed if they were. In this sport, you could hide behind hotel doors or sneak meetings in broom closets, but one word, one look in the right direction, one bad performance or hissy-fit, and the gossip queens knew who screwed whom.
No one had attempted to hide more affairs than me. I’d tried everything from snubbing to over-attentiveness. As it turned out, the ruses and subterfuge trained me to be a passable private detective, even if they hadn’t fooled my competitors.
Did it really matter? As a detective, I got paid to solve cases, not mysteries. Joubert was stalking Stéphane. I didn’t need to know why.
I flicked my cigarette onto the ground. The truth was, a lot of things bugged me about this case: Joubert and Stéphane, the anonymous tip, the look on Joubert’s face when I mentioned Stéphane. The all too convenient photographs. Something was definitely off there. Who leaves that kind of stuff on their phone? Was Joubert the worst stalker in the world or just careless? I turned these thoughts over uselessly in my head as I waved down a cab and got a ride back to my hotel.
Back in my room, I checked my face in the bathroom mirror. Swollen and bruised on both sides. I wasn’t going to win a beauty pageant today. I showered and shaved and spent fifteen minutes dabbing at my face with foundation. It didn’t hide much, but at least the contrast of white and maroon wasn’t so striking.
Afterwards, I packed my bags and took my luggage to the lobby for storage. My flight wasn’t until later and there was a world champion yet to be crowned. That gave me around eight hours to think. Eight hours, and I already had a headache that made a hangover sound appealing.
At the arena, I took up my previous spot in the stands, twenty plus rows back. Having made the news yesterday, I was a lot more interesting today, and a few cameras pointed in my direction as I took my seat. Joubert’s story had probably gone around the crowd a couple of times too. No hiding under the anonymity of a has-been anymore. I kept my sunglasses on anyway. I would have smiled for the cameras, but my face hurt.
There was no cosmo in my hip flask today. I drank coffee and swallowed ibuprofen for lunch: a combination that kept me awake during the otherwise dull performances. Barely. I was snoozing by the time the final warm-up group came onto the ice. I woke up occasionally when the applause was loud, but went back to dozing quickly afterward.
I told the woman next to me to wake me when it was over. She dutifully squeezed my arm while the audience was still applauding the final result.
“It’s over,” she said.
“Who won?” I said.
“Chan.”
“What about Abbott?”
She shook her head. “He fell.”
Just like the Queen had said he would. I wondered what he’d gotten for his trouble.
Not that I worried about Abbott. He’d be back next year. Maybe that’s what they had planned all along? A fall this year for a Conglomerate-free season in the next. Whispers of such deals had plagued the sport for years.
I worried more for Joubert. This would have been his eighth consecutive medal placing at a World Championship. And he’d had a good season so far. Which made me think: how does a guy win medals on the Grand Prix circuit and stalk his ex-lover at the same time?
There was a saying in the private dick industry: if things don’t add up, check your calculator.
I had no idea what that meant, but something told me I had to go back to the start. And it had all started with Stéphane.
After the medal ceremony, I talked my way into the press conference. It wasn’t difficult. Yesterday I was a has-been. Today I was the story of the Championships. One member of the press even offered me a lucrative sum to tell the Joubert/Stéphane story. I declined. I still had principles. In fact, right now, principles were all I had.
I hung at the back of the room, leaning against the wall rather than taking a seat. I didn’t need to hear what the medalists had to say, I just needed a vantage point, somewhere to watch the play.
Stéphane was standing to the left of the stage with a couple of members of the Canadian team. There were pockets of nationalities in different corners of the room: the Japanese to the right, a group of American skaters and coaches in the second row, a few Chinese in the front.
An NBC reporter asked me if I would be doing a press conference. I told her no, and she gave me her card. “If you feel the need to talk,” she said.
I pocketed the card. The assistance of the press was sometimes an advantage. Maybe it would come in handy one day.
The press conference was tedious. Standing up turned out to be wise choice, as I would have fallen asleep again if I were sitting. When it ended, there was a lot of hand shaking and polite conversation, and then everyone started to leave, as orderly as they came. No fuss. No tears or recriminations. It was almost peaceful.
Stéphane spotted me across the room and waved. I nodded back, not moving from my spot against the wall. I wasn’t in a hurry to confront him. In fact, the longer it took, the easier it was going to be for both of us. Neither of us would want to have this conversation in front of an audience.
Eventually the room emptied out, and Stéphane and I were left with the stragglers and a couple of AV guys packing up the sound equipment.
“You waited for me,” he said. And then he frowned and leaned in toward my face. “You’re hurt?”
“Nothing concealer can’t hide,” I said.
“Are you all right?” He sounded genuinely concerned.
“I’m fine,” I said. “I have a headache.”
He put his fingers to his lips and winced. “I’m sorry.”
“Why would you be?” I said. “It’s not your fault.”
“I -“ He looked away for a moment. “You were protecting me.”
“As you paid me to do,” I said. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I solved the case. I take cash or check.”
He looked rebuffed. “You couldn’t send me a bill?”
“So impersonal. And I have a cash flow problem.”
“I don’t have my checkbook.”
I shrugged. “I’ve got some time to kill. I can come back to your hotel room.”
“Is this really about the money?”
It was always about the money. “I want to know who is signing my check,” I said. “I think you owe me that.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on, Stéphane,” I said, shifting my weight off the wall. “You’d have to be dead not to notice what is going on here. They’re shaking hands, smiling, laughing. I thought someone was going to burst into song. The last thing the Queen said to me was that there was a war going on. Does this look like a war to you?”
Stéphane paused. I looked at the ceiling. “She told you that?” he said eventually.
Oh, Stéphane. I had hoped he’d plead ignorance.
“Yeah,” I said. Of course she’d told me that. The Queen wanted to be found out. She wanted me to know what kind of power she wielded.
“I didn’t want to do it, Johnny.” He stepped closer, put his hand on my arm. I let him leave it there.
“I need to know,” I said. “Tell me everything.”
“The Canadians wanted Joubert gone,” he said. “The Conglomerate said they would do it.”
“What did Joubert do to the Canadians?”
“He refused to retire,” Stéphane said.
I nodded. When the Conglomerate told a skater to retire, they did so. Joubert was crazy to defy them. Or heroic. I couldn’t decide which.
“So they used me to take him down,” I said. “And they used you to get to me.”
“You make a good story, Johnny,” he said. “They like that about you.”
“You called the police?”
“I was worried about you,” he said earnestly.
I shook his hand off my arm. “You set Joubert up. You set me up. What did they promise you? Money? A position in the ISU?”
“You must think I’m very shallow. Do you really think I would do it for the money?”
I didn’t. Stéphane wasn’t greedy. All he really wanted was to skate. If it had been anyone else, my suspicions would have been raised much sooner. “Then why?” I said.
“For peace, Johnny,” he said. “No one wins a war. If Canada and the US are fighting, we all lose. Even you must love skating enough to not let that happen.”
I hoped they’d all blow each other to pieces. Maybe out of the rubble, something beautiful would grow.
“Joubert was arrested,” I said. “He’s only going to skate again if the Seine freezes over. And he nearly broke my face! And all so the Conglomerate could continue to rig the competitions?”
“So one day we will fix it!” he said, throwing his hands up. “We can’t do that if it’s destroyed.”
Changing the system from within. I believed that once. I also believed I could win if I skated well enough. It seemed like a long time ago now.
“You lied to me,” I said.
“I had to.”
“I could have helped you.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
He was probably right. I couldn’t even help myself.
I stared at the floor and felt bitter. This was Stéphane. Of everyone left from my old life, I trusted him the most.
I looked up and caught his eyes. “We’re through,” I said.
“You don’t mean that.”
He put his hand to my cheek, but I turned away, moved out of reach. “I have to go,” I said, and I pushed past him, nearly falling over a camera cable as I headed for the entrance. My eyes were watering and my cheeks burned. No one took my picture as I left.
*
Outside it was dark, but the streets shone from the headlights of cars leaving the parking lot. I was itching to get out of there, to leave London and put figure skating behind me once and for all. My bags were packed, my plane ticket was booked. The case was done.
I went back to the hotel to get my bags. Only, instead of getting a cab to the airport, I booked a room for another night and called Cantwell. I wasn’t done. There were too many questions left unanswered. And the Queen had used me, ruining my relationship with Stéphane in the process. Somebody owed me, and I was going to collect.
Cantwell was still on the beat, but she said she could meet me in an hour. I killed time at a diner across the street from the hotel, drinking coffee and reading the local newspapers. Pictures from Worlds covered the sports pages. Brian’s arrest took up half a page. There was a picture of me kissing Stéphane, but it was already yesterday’s news, buried under Worlds’ gossip that was probably true.
Eventually Cantwell showed up with an envelope. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to find,” she said. “It’s pretty standard stuff.”
I opened the envelope and pulled out copies of the photos found on Brian’s phone. “I’m looking for a smoking gun,” I said.
“Why?” she said. “We caught the guy.”
“I want to know why he did it.”
“I know why he did it,” she said. “He’s crazy.”
“Aren’t we all?” I said. I laid a few pictures out on the table and studied them. They were still evidence. Cantwell had brought them to me at a not insubstantial risk. “Thank you,” I said. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
She shrugged. “The case is closed,” she said. “Besides, I used to be a fan. You know, of ice skating.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking down at the pictures again. “Me too.”
*
I needed time to think, but more importantly, I needed to sleep. I went back to the hotel and checked my face in the mirror. It looked bad. I could probably frighten small children. The ibuprofen reduced the pain to a dull throb, but it was constant and I could feel it from my temples to my shoulders.
The shower washed some of the ache away. I stood under the jets and stared at the water draining into the plughole, wondering why I didn’t feel clean. Eventually I gave up staring and washed my hair with the cheap hotel shampoo-and-conditioner-in-one. I ran my hands through it afterwards, separating the knots.
I got dressed and sat on the floor, spreading the pictures out in front of me. The pictures of me were taken with a moderately powerful zoom lens. Not something you’d find on a cell phone. I was in a different room tonight, but I had an idea of where they were taken. There was a parking structure on the next block. Maybe two hundred yards away. The hotel would be visible from the top floor.
There were photos of Stéphane in Newark. I recognised the street where we had waited in a parking lot for my anonymous contact and the dry cleaner’s below my office. If the pictures had anything in common, it was that they were not particularly good. They were blurred, dark and in some cases nearly avoiding their subject altogether. In one picture it looked like Stéphane was a happy accident in the scene.
They were certainly not pictures taken by someone with a love for their subject. Obsessives took greater care, concentrating on getting a certain look or movement. These pictures had been taken in haste.
It didn’t help me much. I knew Brian hadn’t taken the pictures and I knew who had set him up. I just needed proof. I bundled the pictures back into a pile and stuffed them in the envelope again.
In the morning, I skipped breakfast and bought takeaway coffee from the diner across the street. I took the coffee to the parking structure and climbed the stairs to the top. My former room was visible from the west side, one of four facing the car park. They looked like black squares from up here. I couldn’t even tell if the curtains were drawn. I held up my cell and worked the zoom, trying to get as close as I could. I hadn’t gotten a close look at Brian’s cell in the police station, but I was pretty sure we both owned an iPhone. And it wasn’t powerful enough to see inside my room.
I contemplated taking this information to Cantwell. There were flaws in the argument, but it was good enough to cast a shadow of doubt. With the make and model of Brian’s phone, she could construct a more compelling case.
On my way back down, I passed a security guard on the stairs. I introduced myself and showed him my card. “Did you see anyone taking pictures from up here recently?” I asked him.
“No,” he said. “But you should ask across the street. They have a good view of the top levels.”
On the ground floor, I noticed an office building on the next block. About eight levels. Slightly taller than the parking structure. The windows were tinted to see out but not in.
I went across the street and took the elevator to the top level, deciding to work my way down. The office at the top was a courier delivery company and they looked at me like I was an alien before suggesting I leave before they called security. I fared better on the next floor, where a husband-and-wife team ran an interior design business out of rooms facing the parking structure. They both said they’d seen a balding man in a brightly coloured parka taking pictures on the top level.
“He seemed to be talking to himself,” the woman said.
The man nodded. “He seemed very colourful.”
“I think he was smoking a cigar,” the woman said.
Boitano, I thought. Bingo.
I took their cards, and told them the police might call on them if they needed further information.
“Hey,” the man said, as I was leaving. “Aren’t you that ice skater?”
“Not anymore,” I said.
*
I caught a flight back to New York that afternoon and was grateful to return to my laundry-powder-smelling office the next day. There was something comforting about the thin layer of dust forming on the exposed surfaces. If I polished the desk, bleached the bathroom and dusted the vents, I could spend all day cleaning the office.
I procrastinated productively. I knew a handful of private detectives and none of them had offices as clean as mine.
Unfortunately, today I had a bigger mess to clean up. One that wouldn’t disappear with the crisp scent of lemon Fabulous. Still, I allowed myself a couple of hours of dusting before going home and packing the car for DC. It soothed my nerves.
I got to DC in the fading light of the evening. It was a clear day. Warmer than yesterday. In the past, this time of the year had left me with mixed feelings of relief and loss. Now it was just spring. Yellow and green and grey.
Outside Ford’s Theatre again, I looked for the building Ryan had taken to me just over a week ago. When I found it, I hovered outside, wondering what my next move would be. Unwilling to make Ryan do my dirty work twice in one year, I was escortless this time. My plan was mostly to let all good things come to those who wait and just hang outside until someone let me in. I lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. Two tourist buses and a police-escorted convoy went past while I waited. As always, it was a lousy plan.
After an hour, Cohen came by, carrying dry cleaning over her arm. She looked only mildly surprised to see me. “Weir,” she said, nodding. She was wearing jeans, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. The dry cleaning contained a couple of evening dresses and a tux. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to see the Queen,” I said.
“She won’t see you.”
“Call her.”
Cohen frowned, but she got out her cell. “What are you up to, Weir?” she said, shaking her head. She walked a little further up the street to where I couldn’t hear her. The conversation was short and she returned quickly, motioning me inside the building. “Apparently, she’ll see you,” she said.
It was quiet in the club. Just Cohen, the bartender and the Queen. Cohen gave the Queen one of the dresses and then disappeared behind the doors at the side of the bar.
“Is Cohen your errand girl now?” I said to the Queen.
“We’re friends,” the Queen said. She was dressed in black today: short black dress, black leggings and black heels. Her hair was parted very slightly to the side. “Friends collect each other’s dry cleaning.”
They weren’t friends. There were no friends in this place.
I took the seat at the bar next to the Queen. “You used me,” I said.
“You stopped a war,” she said. “Some might say you’re a hero.”
“I saved your asses. And in case you haven’t noticed, no one is throwing me a parade.”
“You solved a crime,” she said. “Very publicly too. Must be good for business.”
Since the London incident, I’d received four calls. That was more in two days than I’d received in the last two weeks. It was heartening, but it wasn’t how I wanted to become solvent.
“You owe me answers,” I said.
“We don’t owe you anything,” she said. “And you don’t owe us. Isn’t that how you like it?”
“What will happen to Joubert?”
The Queen shrugged. “That’s up to the Ontario justice system. I imagine he’ll face charges of stalking and assault. You can probably help him out with the assault charge, but those pictures on his cell were pretty incriminating.”
“I can help him with those too,” I said. “I’m a lot better at this game than you think I am.”
The Queen beckoned the bartender over. “Sounds riveting,” she said. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me about it over a drink.”
“Business before pleasure.” I produced the pictures Cantwell had given me from the inside of my jacket and gave them to the Queen. “There were photos on Joubert’s camera. Pictures of me and Stéphane. Kind of incriminating if you’re being accused of threatening to kill someone.”
“What can I say?” the Queen said. She spread the pictures out on the bar in front of her. “There are some sick people out there.”
“And in here,” I said. “Boitano took those pictures.” I pointed to a picture of me in my hotel room. “He took these from a parking structure near my hotel.”
“Joubert took those pictures,” she said. The bartender placed a Manhattan in front of her and she took a ladylike sip. “Do you think anyone will listen to you if you say otherwise?”
“No me,” I said. “But my witnesses are very credible.”
She put her Manhattan down on the bar. “I don’t believe you.”
“You can backstab and play politics behind the scenes like Cold War operatives,” I said, “but when it comes to basic private detective work, you stink. Boitano left a trail big enough for two small children looking for a gingerbread house to follow.” I pulled out the card the NBC journalist had given me and put it on the bar. “And I’ve already got a buyer for the story.”
The Queen gave me a cool look. As always, she was unflappable. “So what now, Weir?” she said. “You bring us down? Ruin figure skating forever?”
I’d thought about it. But despite my bitterness, I really didn’t want to see the figure skating world burn. A part of me still wondered if maybe Stéphane was right and the only way to change things was from within.
But Stéphane was never meant to get his hands dirty. “I want a deal,” I said. “I want Stéphane out. And anyone he coaches.”
“Is that all?” she said.
“And I want to be paid.” I had principles, but I also had bills. “It was you that hired me, and I solved your case. You owe me.”
“Fine,” she said. “Send me a bill.”
“What about Stéphane?”
“He’s out.”
I nodded. “In that case,” I said, “I’ll have that drink now.”
She motioned at the bartender. “Bring him one of these,” she said, pointing to her drink.
I took the Manhattan when it came to me. It was too early for cocktails, but I’d earned my right to drink with the Queen. “The heel was a nice touch,” I said.
“It was a message,” she said. “Apparently, you didn’t get it.”
I got it all right. I wasn’t off their radar. That much was clear. “Maybe try Twitter next time,” I said.
“I’ve been lenient with you, Johnny,” she said. “You won’t always be so lucky.”
Luck was relative. Joubert had nearly killed me. “What did you tell Joubert?”
“We didn’t tell him anything,” she said. “We let a rumour slip that you were working for us and we’d ordered you to sabotage his career. You know, sometimes the truth is the best lie.”
I should have known it was about me. Joubert probably still thought I’d set him up. And thanks to my bargain with the Queen, I wasn’t able to tell him otherwise. Turned out, I’d sold my soul after all.
“You planned this,” I said.
She laughed. “You think far too highly of me, Johnny,” she said. “I knew you needed money. And credibility. I didn’t know you’d turn out to be such a romantic.”
Maybe I believed her. Maybe I didn’t. It didn’t matter in the end.
I drank the rest of my Manhattan, placed the glass on the bar and stood up. “You don’t know me at all,” I said.
“I know one thing,” she said. “You’ll be back.”
“I’ll shop at Walmart first.”
I took the pictures from the bar and left.
*
Business picked up steadily. At first it was standard fare: a couple of infidelity cases and a lost heir in the first month, and a run of insurance fraud cases in the second. Six months later, and I was on retainer to two law firms and a medical insurance company. I bought new carpet for the office with the Queen’s money, and when the insurance jobs came through, I celebrated by purchasing a new vacuum cleaner. The days went by so much easier with a few lines in the carpet. I even cut back on the cigarettes.
I was checking out swatches for the new paint job when Stéphane showed up at my door unannounced again. He seemed less confident this time. Humble even. Still gorgeous. He lingered in the doorway a moment, like he wasn’t sure whether he’d be welcome.
I beckoned him in. Six months, and my temper had cooled. Perhaps I’d matured? Or maybe I was just concious of the lines grudges caused on my no longer youthful forehead. “What brings you to Newark?” I said.
“Shopping,” he said, giving me a hopeful smile. He sat in the chair on the opposite side of my desk. “Sightseeing.”
“Shouldn’t you be-“ I didn’t know where he should be. I’d gone back to avoiding figure skating like I’d managed to do in the last two years before Stéphane had showed up in my life again. “What are you doing now anyway?”
“Choreography,” Stéphane said. “I’m working with Denis again. No one new. It’s strange.” He gave me a look I couldn’t interpret. “Before Worlds, I spoke to two figure skaters who wanted to work on programs with me this year. After Worlds, they were not interested anymore. I don’t suppose you know anything about this?”
“Me?” I said. I raised my eyebrows in mock indignation. “What would I know about it?”
“The Conglomerate hasn’t called,” he said. “I did the usual shows. Nothing. It’s like they no longer care about me.”
“In that case,” I said, “you’re lucky.”
“I suppose so,” he said. “But it makes me nervous. I liked it better when I knew what they were planning.”
I had to admit, it made me nervous too. I thought back to what Stéphane had said about taking the system down from within. It had its advantages. From the outside, they were an unknown quantity.
“We could find out,” I said. “It’s kind of what I do.”
“I just want to skate, Johnny,” he said. “I’m not angry like you.”
I wasn’t angry. At least, not like I had been. I wanted nothing more than to take down the Conglomerate and leave them flailing in my wake, but more than that, I wanted a reason to keep Stéphane around.
“Think about it,” I said. “We’d make a great team.”
“Like Bogart and Bacall?”
“More like Willis and Shepherd.”
He smiled. “Does that mean you forgive me?”
I’d forgiven him six months ago. “You knew I wouldn’t stay angry at you,” I said. “Why else would you be here?”
“It’s nice to hear it,” he said.
“Fine,” I said. “I forgive you. Joubert probably doesn’t.”
He sighed. “I’ll talk to him,” he said. “One day.”
We both needed to talk to Joubert. It was going to be an interesting conversation. “If it’s any consolation,” I said, “in your position, I would probably have done the same thing.”
“Perhaps you would,” he said.
We locked eyes for a moment and I wondered what he knew. He wasn’t an idiot. He’d already guessed I’d made a deal with the Queen. He just didn’t know how.
One day I would tell him. Not today.
“So what do we do now?” I said.
He stood up and held out his hand toward me. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
He picked up his bag from the floor, unzipped it and showed me the contents. Skates.
“I haven’t skated in years.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s time you started again.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “I don’t think I can.”
He rolled his eyes. “You are such a drama queen,” he said.
“It’s a mental block,” I said. I smiled sheepishly. It did sound kind of ridiculous.
He took me by the arm and pulled me toward him. We were nose to nose, and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me. But instead he lifted my hand above my head and turned me into a pirouette. “Fortunately, I’m a very good teacher,” he said.
I laughed. As pairs we were incompatible, but Stéphane’s enthusiasm made me think we’d be spectacular together.
“Promise you won’t let go?” I said, squeezing his hand.
“I promise.”
I let him lead me outside, the door behind us swinging shut, revealing the new sign I’d bought.
It said, Johnny G Weir, Private Detective.
End.