The Boy Who Stole From the Dead by Orest Stelmach Page A

talk to him. Now, about your compensation.”

CHAPTER 13

     J OHNNY T ANNER WAS in the middle of his Saturday morning workout at the gym when his cell phone rang. His workout took an hour. Not fifty-five minutes. Not an hour and five minutes. One hour. The faster he worked, the more he revved up his metabolism. He’d been fat as a kid growing up—to ease the pain of his father’s beatings he hid in his room and ate. Skybars and salt water taffy, mostly. He never wanted to look that way again.
    He did a thirty-minute circuit of weight training, followed by twenty minutes on the treadmill at seventy percent of his maximum heart rate, and finished with ten minutes of stretching. He always checked the phone number when someone interrupted but he only answered if a judge or an ADA was calling. Or a certain woman.
    “Uh-oh,” Nadia said. “You sound out of breath…”
    Johnny’s heart skipped a beat as soon as he heard her voice. “You caught me mid-workout.”
    “I’m returning yours. It sounded urgent. You want to call me back?”
    “Nope. I got a call from a friend in the NYPD. There’s been a new development in Bobby’s case.”
    “Why does this sound like bad news?”
    “The cops went to Fordham and interviewed a few teachers and the hockey coach. Standard procedure. Everyone said good things, without exception. No worries about his background. One thing, though. The Fordham hockey coach? He said there was an incident this past season after a game. Bobby got into a brief altercation with a random guy outside the locker room.”
    “Altercation?”
    “A shoving match. Nothing serious.”
    “What guy? He never told me about this.”
    “They showed the hockey coach a picture of Valentine. He confirmed it was him.”
    “What?”
    “There’s more. They interviewed the security guard at the rink. He said the same guy, Valentine, was hitting on a real cute Russian model in the stands during the game. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. The guard swears he heard her say number four for Fordham was her boyfriend and she wasn’t interested.”
    “Iryna.”
    “They found her name on Facebook and interviewed her this morning. She confirmed the altercation.”
    “She didn’t tell me she’d met the guy Bobby supposedly killed when I spoke to her at the bakery the other day.”
    Johnny let a moment go by. “Is that a realistic expectation? She just met you. You expect her to bare her soul? Besides, don’t you think Bobby told her to keep her mouth Ziplocked about everything? He doesn’t want to talk to you. You think he wants his girl talking to you?”
    “No. You’re right. Bobby must have told her not to say a word about that to anyone.”
    “But the district attorney has motive now. Protecting his girlfriend’s honor, his own honor, whatever.”
    “How did Bobby and Valentine meet that night in the first place? The odds they bumped into each other on a Manhattan street is zero. One of them called or e-mailed the other to arrange it. My guess it was Valentine.” Nadia told Johnny about the call from London. “And it turns out Valentine was in London visiting his father on his deathbed.”
    “So he calls Bobby from London to set up a meeting because of a spat over a girl? That doesn’t jive.”
    “That’s why I’m in London. I took the red-eye.”
    “London? What the hell—”
    “I don’t think this was about Iryna. Bobby’s too levelheaded. He grew up turning the other cheek. And Valentine had too much to lose. The job, the lifestyle. All over a girl? It’s more likely this had something to do with his father’s death.”
    “Which makes no sense whatsoever.”
    “Which is why I’m here.”
    “I’m going to see Bobby this morning,” Johnny said.
    “Are you going to ask him about his brush with Valentine at the hockey rink?”
    “Yeah, but if he’s not talking it’s not going to get me anywhere.”
    “All you can do is try.”
    Johnny cleared his throat. “Yeah, right. Trying is