Stunner by Niki Danforth Page A

the opposite direction. My body drops to the floor. Though I make an effort to stand up, while I’m doing so, he attaches me to his shoulder, and I feel as if he has made me a part of his own body.
    While I struggle to get away from his firm grasp, Will follows my movement with a turn of his torso and his shoulder rotates and arm curves up and over me, pouring me yet again down to the ground. Lucky for me I’ve received this technique so many times I’m able break my fall safely and roll out of the way.
    You’d think I’d be nervous practicing with a strong, muscular guy like Will, who’s fifteen years younger than I am, about six-foot-four, and a third-degree black belt in Aikido, or
Sandan
. Especially since I’m a tall, small-boned older woman with numbers on my last bone density scan tipping into osteopenia. But I don’t worry about accidentally breaking something when I practice with Will, because he’s polite and doesn’t muscle through a technique the way so many other guys can’t help doing.
    Back to
irimi nage
. When I first learned this technique, I thought it was way more intimate than I cared to be with strangers on an Aikido mat. After all, this technique makes everyone pretty sweaty and stinky, because it’s so aerobic. Think about it. When your partner has you glued to his shoulder, you pretty much have your face plastered right next to his armpit, and it’s often someone you barely know. The upside? All of us in the dojo are probably immune to every kind of germ by now.
    After about ten minutes of Will and me throwing each other around using this technique, Isabella
Sensei
claps and finishes the class with breathing exercises to help us cool down. We bow then and thank our partners.
    “Will, have a minute?” I step off the mat.
    “Sure,” he answers.
    “I know you’re a private investigator,” I say, keeping my voice low while getting a drink of water from the cooler. “I may have a job for you…something I don’t think I can do on my own.”
    “OK, let’s meet in a few minutes at your car.”
    Once we’re in our street clothes and outside, Will explains that most of his P.I. work is on the Northeastern Seaboard but at times takes him all over the country. He doesn’t specialize and handles everything from marital-dispute and infidelity surveillance, to financial-fraud investigation and finding missing persons.
    I give Will the broad strokes, describing the Scranton Gang and telling him that I’d like to know what happened to the three kids after their arrest in 1987. He says that even though records are sealed on juveniles, he may have a way of getting at that information and helping me.
    “I tried Googling all three,” I say. “I found millions of entries for their names, and still thousands when I narrowed the search to just Pennsylvania—but who knows if any of them still live there.”
    Will nods, understanding the problem. “Ronnie, let me start with the Scranton Gang and work forward from there,” he suggests.
    I hand him copies of the newspaper articles I found the day before. We exchange email addresses, and since I’m a new client, he says he’ll send me some paperwork to fill out.
    “Ronnie.” Will shoves his hands partially into his jeans pockets, which I can’t help but notice hang low on his narrow hips. I guess he probably has six-pack abs under that shirt… “Don’t mean to intrude,” he goes on. “But why you want to know about these kids?”
    “I’m interested because…” I hesitate and then collect my thoughts. “…because I’m concerned about a possible connection between these kids and a family member of mine.”
    “Just know, when you start an investigation, what you find may take you down a road you might wish you’d never traveled.”
    ~~~~~
    On my way home, I stop by Meadow Farm to drop off a couple of gorgeous heads of lettuce I’d bought at a nearby vegetable stand. I walk through the foyer on my way to the kitchen and glance into