Chapter 2
Ridley was impressive, even to someone like Rocco, who could give two shits about artistry and lines, two words that kept coming out of Sergei’s mouth. The cop who’d been known to trip over his own two feet skipping, somehow made frolicking about to Tchaikovsky look manly and athletic. The only reason Rocco could identify the composer was because he was holding a program with the dead dude’s name on it, leafing through cast profiles, looking for suspects. He recognized the music, though, which he’d been hearing in the mall since Columbus Day.
Stupid Christmas. Fourteen more days.
Sergei watched Ridley with the most wondrous look of admiration Rocco had ever seen—at least until Mikolas Whatever-His-Name-Was came and stood beside the ice. Ridley immediately zeroed in on the hand
