The dance studio was on the ground floor of a two story brick building in Boise, which, to be clear, is not really her kind of town. It’s cold today, or “crisp” as the locals called it. She pulled the collar of her jacket up over her ears to cut the wind and wished again that she was back in the coffee shop listening to Mikki’s latest hit Just a Damned Minute and sipping her Mocha.
“Go to Boise,” Collins had said. “Get me some dirt on German.”
She grumbled thinking about the conversation that sent her here. The Yellow Springs GM had made some kind of stupid bet with the GM in Boise, and now it was up to her to figure out how deeply he’d gotten into the dark stuff. Not that he should worry. The idea of Pancho German, a pitcher fer Christ’s cakes, out-dancing Mikki Manning was just insane. But still, here she was, wrapped up in coats that could never be thick enough and in Boise, trying to dig up dirt, whatever that was.
Like she was some kind of lapdog.
Of course, to some degree that’s what she was, and to be honest, it was working out pretty well. Heidi would never have thought she’d grow to like Ohio, but who wouldn’t think it was kinda cool to have their own Hell Cave, their own persona, and enough security that she really could probably walk down 5th Avenue and shoot some, as the saying went. Who the hell would say that? she thought as she watched a mother and her son and daughter enter the building.
9:45 AM. Lessons were starting at ten.
Her gaze went to the second floor where the window revealed the Spuds pitcher was working on something that looked like it was supposed to be a plie, but was better served as a mashed potato. That same gaze followed the lines of the building, noting places where she’d put cameras and other sensors once it got dark and she’d converted to her entire Hellscape thing. It wouldn’t be enough to tell Collins that German had no chance. He’d want proof. While Boise was out trying to French their fries this off season, Collins was thinking he’d maybe be able to convince Joe Lederer to drop a prospect into the bet, and he needed to know what kind of grunt to offer up as a fake sacrifice. The better German was, the better the prospect could be.
So, yeah. Video. Sound.
The idea made her yearn for time to grow dark. She found herself wanting to scale the wall, imagining the rolling somersault she’d perform as she leapt across the span between buildings. If nothing else, Boise was quaint.
And, of course, who knew what else could come from this kind of thing.
The possibilities made her mind spin in delightful ways. The best part of this job was the waiting.
“Miss?” a young girl tugged at Heidi’s coat, making her start.
She was eight, maybe nine. Wearing a rag-tag cloth coat and a pair of pink mittens that would have been cute a couple holes ago.
“What is it, sweetie?” she said to the girl.
“Are you Heidi?”
Heidi’s brows knit together. “Who wants to know?”
The girl lifted a hand. In it was a memory chip. “Kate said you might be interested in this.” She dropped it into Heidi’s pocket, then looked up and whispered. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.
Then she was gone.
The wind whistled past the corner Heidi stood on. The smell of bacon and eggs came from somewhere in the distance. She thought she caught a touch of salsa, too. In the dance studio, children began to warm up. She put her fingers into the pocket the girl had dropped the chip into.
It was there, sharp edges firm against her skin.
“Kate,” she said out loud.
She bit her lips, then began to walk, back to the hotel, she thought. Back to where she could check out the memory chip, and maybe take a bit of a nap before the evening festivities started.
Maybe there was more to Boise than met the eye.
