"Sara." Mila leans into the door and rests her forehead against the slick lacquered wood. "Sara. Sarochka," she calls, half-singing. "Saranuloch-"
The door flies open. Mila stumbles forward, nearly tripping into a bemused Sara, who frowns. "Didn't we say noon?"
Mila's stomach growls at the reference to lunch. "Yeah, we did, but did I leave my purse here?"
The room is as tidy as Mila's is messy; it only takes a few moments to glance over the cosmetics lined up beside the sink and the bare bedside table. For good measure, Mila goes through the desk drawers and opens the closet, where Sara's costumes and clothes hang neatly. When Sara looks away, Mila touches the tiny ironing board. It's warm.
She starts to shift the pillows on the carefully made bed, but Sara swats her hand away. "Mila," she scolds, only half-playful. "It's not here."
"But I can't think of where else it would be," Mila whines, throwing herself onto the bed. Her words are muffled by the blanket. "I looked everywhere. It has my room key and my phone and my wallet and-"
Sara grimaces in sympathy. "Where did you last have it?"
"I don't know," Mila wails into the duvet. She sniffs and Sara pats her shoulder. The bedspring squeaks as Sara stands up, and a moment later, an apple is pushed into Mila's hand. She's tempted to continue her facedown sulk, but her stomach growls again and she sits up.
"We're going to figure out where it is." Sara drops into the chair, props her feet up on the desk, and leans back. "Well, ma'am, why don't you tell me what happened?" she says, adding a twang to her voice like she's in an old American movie.
Mila stutters over her line as Sara's eyes rake from her toes to her face. "You'll take the case?" she finishes. She's used to performing in front of audiences of thousands, but even with no medal waiting on the other end, Sara's soft presence is louder than any crowd has ever been.
"It's not my usual gig," Sara replies. She takes a drag off of an imaginary cigarette. "But times are hard, and you seem like a nice lady."
"Thank you, Detective." Mila dabs at her cheeks with a tissue; her lips are sticky with apple juice. "I must have had it this morning when I left for- for work, and I realized it was missing when I found myself locked out of my room."
"You returned home directly after work?"
"Yes."
"And did you use anything from your purse while you were working?"
"I'm not sure," Mila admits. "I can't remember."
"Fortunately, ma'am, my sources are a bit more reliable than your memory," Sara says. "Practice began at seven, correct? I have here-" she pulls out her phone- "proof that your mobile, and therefore your purse, was in your possession until ten fifty-three a.m. at the earliest, as evidenced by messages sent to one Sara Crispino. Are you certain that you didn't simply leave it at the rink?"
"They didn't have cell phones then." Mila sticks her tongue out at Sara. "And yes, I checked."
"Hush," Sara tells her. "I'm the detective so I make the rules, and there are cell phones." Her old American accent is back as she continues, "Well, ma'am, did you check Lost and Found?"
Mila blinks. "Um. No."
"Then we've got our first lead."
They step into the hallway. Mila feels oddly exposed: their stories have always been held separate from the rest of the world, existing in their own little space, their own little time. They join a pair of elderly men conversing in rapid Mandarin and a woman leading two young boys in swim trunks as they step into the lift. She'd holding a book. The title is in German.
Mila makes a face at the boys – the older one giggles while the smaller hides behind his mother's legs – and wonders if the Finnish signs exist more to help the hotel staff than the guests. Most of her time in hotels has been during events in which the skating world has descended on the city like a dense fog, and in her mind, much of the world is populated by the same several-hundred-odd people. Here in Helsinki, during Worlds, she could probably go the entire two weeks without hearing more than a few words of Finnish. It's uncomfortable to realize that she could travel the whole world and manage to avoid almost all of it. It feels like being trapped within herself.
She glances at Sara, who puts a finger to her lips. We're undercover, she mouths, and winks. Mila nods back. The sense of loss, of missing out, expands, and it steals her breath before dissipating a moment later.
It's a quick walk to the rink. Anyone could say what they like about convenience and organization, but Mila knows the truth: skaters are lazy.
The man at the information desk shakes his head as she asks about her purse.
"Looks like it's time for some old-fashioned investigating," Sara whispers into her ear. She opens the door to the rink proper. "After you, Miss."
Mila recognizes all the faces on the ice and around its edges, but she can't quite put names to any of them. She's trying to figure out who to ask first when one of the coaches waves to Sara, beckoning them over.
"Sure I can't tempt you back into ice dancing, Sasou?" she asks, beaming at Sara. "You and Mickey would make quite a team."
"I'm afraid not," Sara demures, but she leans in for a hug. "And it would be time for us to retire before you finished training us up. Anyway, this is-"
"Mila Babicheva, yes? Dina Awad. I worked with Sara when she and her brother were younger."
"It's nice to meet you," Mila replies, straightening her shoulders. She wants Dina to like her, which is not unusual – as much as she pretends otherwise – but it feels more important now, looking between Dina's cheerful gaze and Sara's fond smile. She swallows the sensation, the same way she forced down the twinge of anxiety when Sara mentioned retirement.
"We're doing a bit of detective work," Sara explains. "Did you happen to see a stray purse when you came in? It's black with pink trim."
Dina hums to herself. "It wasn't exactly stray, but I did see- what's his name- Katsuki carrying a bag like that when he left."
"He's your rinkmate now, right?" Sara asks, turning to Mila. "He probably recognized it and meant to give it back to you."
Then they're off again.
"I knew the trail wasn't cold yet." Sara's eyes are sparkling. "Do you know what room he's in?"
"No." Mila sighs. "I'd text him and ask but… no phone."
"My network is on it," Sara states, already texting. "Phichit says he's in 417. We just have to hope our suspect is in."
"Suspect?" Mila holds a hand to her mouth, then fans herself. "You don't think-"
"In my line of work, no one is innocent," Sara growls, and they both laugh.
Yuuri is in his room.
"Um, I had to shower, so I gave it to Viktor," he says, blinking at them owlishly from behind his glasses. "He said he'd find you and make sure you got it back. I guess he, uh, might have forgotten."
"Someone alert the press." Mila rolls her eyes. "Thanks for grabbing it, though."
"He was going down to the café to meet Christophe," Yuuri adds. "If he comes back I'll let you know."
The door shuts. Sara and Mila look at each other and groan simultaneously.
To Mila's surprise, they do find Viktor in the hotel's small café and bar. He does not, however, have her purse. He also doesn't have any idea what she's talking about.
"Oh, I remember!" he finally exclaims. "I met Yura in the lift, and since he wasn't busy, I asked him to find you. I did text you."
"My phone is in my bag," sighs Mila.
"Oh." He shrugs and takes out his own phone to make a call. "Yura said he wasn't doing anything-" Mila took this to mean that Yuri had snarled and told Viktor it was none of his business- "so I'd guess he's in his room."
And back up they go.
This time, there's no response when they knock.
Sara looks tired as she says, "Break for lunch? " Her detective voice is gone; their stories have gone on for much longer than this, but with fewer treks back and forth.
"I have one more idea," Mila replies, dragging herself upright from where she's slumped against the wall. "Can you text Leo and ask him where Otabek's room is?"
Otabek, at least, answers immediately. In addition to opening the door, he answers their questions before they can ask them.
"Is this your purse?" he says in lieu of greeting. Mila is so relieved that it takes her a moment to realize that, first, it's more words than she's ever heard him say without prompting and, second, there's a tuft of blond hair sticking out from the covers on his bed. Sara pokes her in the ribs to get her attention, but Mila is already filing the scene away in her mind.
"Yeah," she says, looking back to Otabek. His face is unreadable. "God, thanks."
"I didn't open it," he tells her, and it sounds more like an apology than a defense. "I thought you might kill me."
Beside her, Sara snorts. Mila smirks. "Smart boy."
They're both too worn out to finish their story, so they make do with cabbage rolls and piimä instead.
"This will be hilarious later." Sara yawns into her meal. "How does your rink even function?"
"I have no idea," Mila says, shaking her head. "I have no fucking idea."
Her annoyance has faded. It was nice to live a story, she decides, as well as telling it.
