Can't Tell Them

"Yes. That's Aaron Blake," Matt said. "As far as anyone knows, he was the last one who saw Foyle alive. At breakfast yesterday, at the hotel where Foyle and many of the others connected with the skating event here were staying, Foyle was heard to ask Mr. Blake where the amphitheater was. He said something about always missing Christmas and that there was a display of Christmas trees at the amphitheater he wanted to see."

"Yes, I don't think the two know each other, though," I said, arguing with myself more than with Matt—already thinking the pros and cons of the technician having done this.

"Yes, and they also heard Blake say he'd show him where it was, which the bystanders thought peculiar since earlier Foyle had been very rude to Blake and they all saw that. The two left together. We're just taking Mr. Blake to the department to have his clothes tested. All part of a routine clearing process. Mr. Blake is cooperating."

"I see," I said as I watched the policeman and technician leave the building.

"Which leads me to . . . could I talk to you in private, Mr. Joyner." He was talking to me, but he was looking at Stacy Nelson. She got the message.

"If there's no more you need from me at the moment, Detective Cline, I still have an event to run." She moved toward the door into the arena, and Matt did nothing to hold her back.

When she was gone, he turned to me. "In terms of clearing people away, we have you. I can't forget how you cursed Foyle out the last time we were together. You even wished him dead."

"Yes, I did. You'll find a lot of people did. It doesn't mean I killed him. The grief he gave me—that was ten years ago. I moved on. I survived."

"But you never forgave him for what he did to you—how he dominated you and was cruel to you when he was coaching your skating career."

"No, no, I didn't. But I got over it."

"Did you? Do you think the two skaters he had here at these competitions were being treated the same as you were a decade ago—Kyle Kim who was seen being struck by Foyle on the ice last evening, for instance?"

There it was. Too much was out there—would still come out—to protect Kyle on this. The best I could do was to give him some cover. "Yes, I think so. Foyle only took male skaters to coach who would let him dominate them sexually. I'm sure that didn't change with Foyle. Yes, I'm sure he was fucking and manhandling both of the male skaters who are here with him." So, admit to Kyle, but there was Jordan Reynolds too, and it was little secret that there was something threatening going on between Reynolds and Foyle as well.

"I thought you were checked into the Holiday Inn too, where most of the skating people were, including Foyle."

"Yes," I said, at first not getting it—not knowing why that would come up. But then it hit me. "Yes, I am. But I wasn't there last night. I remembered I'd left some forms I had to fill out at the apartment last night, and I left here so late that by the time I got to the apartment, I just stayed there for the night."

"I wondered. I tried calling you, but you had your cellphone off, and then I tried through the hotel switchboard, but you didn't answer."

"So, you thought maybe—"

"Just checking everything. Where were you at 8:30 this morning? Didn't the skating competition start again at 9:00, and Ms. Nelson said the judges were supposed to check in at 8:30. I had her look at the roster. You didn't check in until almost 10:00."

"I overslept," I said, "and I had to come from across town. All the judges were supposed to check in by 8:30, yes, but the morning competition was the dance free skate. I didn't judge that. The 8:30 check-in was just a formality. I'll bet that other judges not needed at the table this morning didn't actually check in until later."

"No, they didn't," he admitted. He paused. I think he was preparing to ask me another question, but we were interrupted by a policeman.

"You asked me to track down the skater Jordan Reynolds, Detective," the policeman said. "You said you wanted to interview him. We found him down in the locker room. If you—"

"Yes, I'll come down with you now." Matt gave me a searching look before he left.

I thought he was going to ask me if I had been alone last night. If he had, what would I have said? I had to acknowledge that I probably would have lied and said that I was. My relationship meant that much to me. From what Matt said, I guess it was thought that Foyle was killed at around 8:30 this morning. At 8:30 I was still in bed, at my apartment, and Kyle was in the shower. We both needed alibis. Neither of us had murdered Foyle. But neither of us can tell them we were together. Kyle would lose his gold medal if it was known he slept with a judge.

And I would lose Matt.

* * * *

I was sitting in and looking around the arena, taking in the sights—actually, I was hoping I wouldn't see Kyle Kim appear so I didn't have to avoid being seen with him—when my attention latched onto my boyfriend, Matt Cline, standing in the aisle next to my row and trying to get my attention.

Now what? It was nearly 10:00 p.m. What was he still doing here? I had been trying to avoid him as well. He motioned me to join him out in the lobby, and I did so.

"The lighting guy, Aaron Blake, says he saw you and Kyle Kim in the locker room here late last night, Ted. What were you two doing?"

Fuck. Here it comes, I thought. The technician had seen us kiss. Matt was about to lower the boom on me. I'd been foolish enough to tell him I'd had a one-night stand when I went to Colorado Springs last summer. I hadn't told him who it was with. We weren't too far into a relationship, but it had almost ended then. It took a hell of a long time for us to come back from that. That's when I knew Matt wasn't going to put up with anything but a monogamous relationship. And since then our affair had turned into a full-blown relationship. I wouldn't tell him about falling off the wagon on sex with men now, that's for sure. I'd also done everything I could not to have such a secret to hide from him.

But I'd fallen off that wagon last night—and if I didn't tell him, Kim and I both would be in Matt's crosshairs for this murder until and unless Matt found who really did it.

I couldn't lie. But I could fudge a bit. I had to think what would be deflecting here. And I had to think up something quickly. "I was dressing a wound on Kim's forearm," I said. "When Foyle knocked him down on the rink last night, one of Kim's skate blades cut his forearm. It wasn't a bad cut, but it bled badly and needed to be disinfected. He needed to skate today. He's the program's golden boy of the moment; we need him for world competition. I went to the locker room and helped him with that." I almost added that I then drove Kim to the hotel, but that would be a lie. I needed to stick with the least I had to reveal.

It was a good thing I didn't elaborate—or lie.

"Yes, that's what Kim said. You've confirmed his story on that." I could see the relief in Matt's eyes.

"Is that important? Wait, don't tell me. Foyle was killed with a skate blade. You found blood on Kim's skate blade."

"And there was the cut on his arm, yes," Matt answered. He didn't tell me directly that they suspected Foyle was killed somehow with a skate blade, but he as good as had revealed that. "His blade has been sent out for the lab to ID whose blood is on it. I'm freed of focusing on Kim more than anyone else pending lab results. I at least have a plausible explanation for that—and a witness."

"You're fine with me as a witness?" I asked. "I mean I can't account for my time when you think Foyle was killed and you've heard me say I'd be delighted if he was killed—and you know I have a motive for not wishing him well. But you're accepting my word as a witness?" I was pushing it, but we were on ground involving our relationship here that went beyond this case.

"Yeah, I do," he answered. "There's no shortage of suspects in this. The man was hated, and apparently deservedly so. He made champions, but he made bitter enemies of champions too. Both of the skaters he brought here have both motive and opportunity. Hell, even the lighting technician has those. People saw Foyle being rude to Blake and Blake not taking it well, but digging into it I find that Foyle was hitting on Blake, who wouldn't have anything to do with a homosexual hookup. And Blake offered to show Foyle how to get to where Foyle was murdered shortly afterward. Of course, Blake says as soon as they got out of the hotel, he just pointed to where the amphitheater is, which is just a short walk away from the hotel. But we've only got Blake's word for that. I've got more than enough suspects. And I believe in you. So, yes, unless you want to confess to killing Foyle, I'll accept you as an innocent witness. You didn't kill him, did you?"

"No, I didn't." I was relieved that he was going to trust me. I should be no less a suspect at this point than anyone else he could name. What I felt, though, was guilt, and I felt like a heel. I'd betrayed him, but I couldn't tell him that. I'd lose him and Kyle would lose his regional win and maybe a trip to the Olympics.

But I couldn't declare that Kyle hadn't murdered Foyle like I could claim I hadn't done it and Matt would believe me—not without losing Matt. "What about the technician, Blake," I asked. "Did the lab work on his clothes turn up anything?"

"Yeah, he had Foyle's DNA on him, but lots of people watched them get physical in the hotel's breakfast room. I couldn't go to court with the position that the DNA didn't get deposited then. And there was no blood residue on the clothes he was wearing. People said he was wearing the same clothes before and after the murder. And there would be lots of blood."

"Lots of blood?" I asked.

"Yes. Whoever killed Frank Foyle sliced into his head with some sort of blade three times. You're probably spot on that it was a skate blade. It was done in anger. We don't know for sure that it was the blade on figure skates, but the medical examiner says a figure skating blade could do it. There was a lot of blood."

He wasn't saying it, but that made one of Foyle's two male skaters—Kyle or Jordan Reynolds—the leading suspects. I could give Kyle an alibi for the time of the murder, and I knew I should. But it would destroy so much. I'd sleep on it. I had to hope it wouldn't be necessary.

And, in terms of sleeping on it. I looked hopefully to Matt. If ever I needed to hold him in my arms, it was now. He had shown his belief in and commitment to me. And I was betraying him. I didn't love or want him any less. If we all somehow came through this . . .

"I'm going home now," I said. "One more day of this. The free skates for the women and the pairs. It's Christmas. We should spend some time together. If you'd like to—" I was desperate to check on our relationship—to not let what I'd done with Kim destroy that, particularly not at Christmas.

He knew what I was asking. "I'd better keep at this for a couple of hours," he answered. "We need to solve this tonight, if we can. But you say you're going home. You've got a room at the hotel. You're not using it tonight?"

"I've checked out," I said. And I had. I couldn't handle the temptation of being in the same hotel with Kyle Kim tonight. My want and need for Kyle wasn't that much less than it was for Matt. I couldn't take the temptation.

And it was a good thing I'd shown such resolve. As I was about to leave the building, Kyle appeared from around the curve of the lobby that went all the way around the Coliseum building. He looked at me and I looked at him. And then I ducked out of the door into the night and hurried to my car, commanding myself to take a step and then another toward the car and away from temptation. Giving into temptation had put both Kyle and me on spot.

* * * *

I saw her, sitting in her car, quietly crying, when I pulled into the Coliseum Complex VIP parking lot, close to the building, at 8:15 the next morning. I walked to her car and tapped on the driver's window. Stacy Nelson turned blank eyes toward me. She looked wrung out and as if she hadn't slept all night. I gestured for her to roll her window down, but her return gesture was for me to come around and climb into the passenger seat.

"What's wrong, Stacy," I asked. Her sobs had given her the hiccups. I pulled a handkerchief out, handed it to her, and waited for her to be able to talk. As we waited, I watched Matt Cline's car pull into the lot. He got out and entered the Coliseum. Back on duty.

"I know it's been a strain, Stacy, but the police will get to the bottom of this."

"I know they will—or should. But, I don't know. I can't. I just can't."

"You can't what, Stacy? What's this about?"

There was a pause, but she whispered something eventually.

"What's that? What did you say?"

"My brother," she said.

"Your brother?" Was the lighting technician, Aaron Blake, her brother? Did she know he'd done this? But then she shocked me, and it all began to unravel.

"Richard Rankin. You knew him. I'm married—and divorced. Nelson is my married name."

"Richard Rankin? You're Richard Rankin's sister?" I asked, dumbfounded, but getting an inkling where this was going. Richard Rankin had been Frank Foyle's star male skater five years previously. He'd taken the bronze at the nationals that year and was headed up the ranks. He would have made the top, I was sure. But he committed suicide. The rumor was that Frank Foyle has used him hard and Richard was more committed to winning skating gold than he was in the lifestyle Foyle demanded of him.

"I can't let either of those skaters take the blame for this," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"The backseat. Look in the backseat."

I looked. There were a pair of men's skates—used but silver. That had been Richard Rankin's signature. We all called him "Silver Skates."

"Those are Richard's?" I asked. I could clearly see the blood on the blade of one of them.

"Yes. I didn't mean it—and in the way it happened. He just made me so mad."

"What happened?"

"It's the first time I've seen him since . . . since Richard died. You've been to the figure skating museum in Colorado Springs, haven't you?"

"Yes, and . . ."

"You've seen that wall where they display all of those famous skater's skates?"

"Yes."

"I want Richard's skates on the wall. I've tried talking to the museum directly, but they won't talk to me—considering how Richard died. That he took his own life. I knew they'd put the skates on the wall if Frank Foyle asked them too. He's the reason Richard took his life. Foyle wouldn't have had to say anything directly if he asked the museum to take Richard's skates, but everyone would understand and Richard would get the honor he earned. I brought the skates here to the regionals, knowing Frank would be here. When he left the hotel yesterday morning and I heard he was going to take a look at the amphitheater, I got the skates from my room and went after him—to ask him to get Richard's skates on the wall. He deserves it. He got a bronze at nationals and would have won the next year, I know it. Frank knew it too. It was Frank's fault he didn't."

"But he laughed at you, didn't he?"

"Yes, he laughed at me. I lost control. The bastard deserved it. But I can't let either of those young men go down for what I did. I'm just trying to work up the courage to go in and turn myself in."

"I see that Detective Cline is here now," I said. "I know him. He'll understand. He'll help you. I'll go in with you, if you like."

"Would you?"

"Yes. And the skates. When the police are done with them, I'm sure Detective Cline will help us get them back. I'll see that they get put on the wall at the museum myself."

"You can do that?"

"Yes, and I won't take no for an answer." And I wouldn't. My skates were on that wall. I'd won a bronze at nationals myself. I knew what it meant to her. I knew what it had meant to Richard.

The bottom-line thing was that I'd dodged a bullet and learned a lesson in fidelity. That thing that I can't tell Matt and Kyle Kim and I can't tell is the skating world doesn't have to be said now. We both have a second chance to do it right. And Matt let me know I had that second chance, a real Christmas present for me.

After he'd heard Stacy's confession and put her in a police car, he turned to me and smiled. "That's that, then," he said. "If your invitation to celebrate Christmas at your apartment still stands—"

"You betcha," I answered. When New Year's came around, I knew what my resolution was—to stick with my fidelity to Matt. It was a resolution I intended to keep.