She was new to the murder business. She needed a safe place to let down. The ranch had too many memories and her condo in Tahoe was too far away.
He parked and turned off the engine.
“What are we doing here?” she asked.
“Taking a time-out where nobody can find us.”
He realized how spent she was when she simply nodded her head.
It took him about five minutes to get a second-floor room—the cop in him knew how dangerous first floors were. He told the clerk their luggage had been lost on a Reno flight and checked in as Mr. and Mrs. T. L. Davis. Those were his initials, verified by his driver’s license and credit card, so the clerk didn’t think there was anything odd about a couple checking in without luggage.
After all, this was Nevada, where prostitution was licensed and taxed.
“Come on, honey,” Tanner said, guiding her up the outside staircase to their room. “You need some downtime.”
She wanted to argue, but didn’t. There was no point. She knew she was on the breaking edge of her control. Too much had happened, too quickly, too horribly, for her to absorb. And then there was Tanner . . . a wild wind sweeping away her certainties, leaving her nowhere stable to stand but in his arms.
And those arms would only be around until Lorne’s estate was settled.
“Maybe my parents were right,” she said as Tanner stripped off the bedspread on one of the queen beds. “Maybe I’m not cut out for rural life.”
“Death goes everywhere. Statistically, you’re safer out in the boonies.”
He began undressing her as efficiently as he had the bed. Shoes, socks, jacket, and outer shirt hit the floor.
Though his touch was caring rather than hungry, she felt a rush of heat melt through the ice in her bones.
“But—” she began as he nudged her backward until the mattress hit her knees and she sat suddenly.
“That’s it, honey. Into bed.” He bent and whisked off her jeans. “I’ll wake you in an hour or so. We can talk then.”
“An hour,” she repeated. “No talking.”
“There you go.”
She lay back under the gentle push of his hands—then hooked her arm around his neck and pulled him off balance, into her arms. For a moment he lay full length on her. Then, reluctantly, he made a grab for common sense.
“I meant you should rest,” he said, bracing himself on one arm above her.
“You’re hard.”
“Honey, around you, that’s like saying my heart is beating.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been so—”
“You’ve been incredible,” he said, putting his fingers over her mouth, stilling her words. “You saw the model, wanted to take out Campbell’s throat with your teeth, but you hung tough, questioned him like a pro, and never so much as hinted at Rua’s death. You can be my partner anytime.”
Her dark brown eyes examined him intently, then accepted that he was telling her the truth.
“I almost lost it,” she admitted against his fingers. “That damn model was the cherry on top of the crap pile of the last few days. You, on the other hand, are the cake.” She lifted just enough to kiss him. “But I just discovered that I’m greedy. I want the whipped cream, too.”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or groan.
Then her tongue slipped hotly between his fingers. Twice. Three times.
“Shaye . . .” It was all he could force out his suddenly tight throat.
“Take off your jeans.”
He removed his fingers from her mouth and kissed her until she was writhing and rubbing against him, wanting more. Demanding it. He stripped off her underwear so that he could do what he’d wanted to do before the deputy’s call had interrupted them this morning.
Tanner’s teeth raked gently, hungrily, down her throat. He kissed her collarbone, the hollow of her neck, the pulse in her throat, trying to tell her how beautiful she was to him.
Her fingers pulled out his shirt and tested every texture of his back, biting into his resilient heat, both impatient and appreciative.
“More,” she said.
Her husky demand went through him like lightning. He laughed deep in his chest and bit her carefully. Her back arched, reminding him that he hadn’t touched her breasts. Her nipples were already hard. He sucked one into his mouth for a long, thorough loving.
“Jeans,” she groaned. “Now.” Her hands tugged at his waistband, then pulled his fly open.
His breath hissed in. “You should sleep.”
“I will. After. I need you so much I’m aching. Help me, Tanner.”
He kicked off his shoes and socks and helped her peel off his clothes. Moments later they were a hot, moving tangle of mouths and searching hands. She kneaded down his back with her hands, short fingernails digging in. Then she slid into the crease until she found his balls drawn hard and tight. She loved the feel of him, the hunger and the heat.
“One day I’m going to make it slow,” he groaned, arching at another lightning strike of need.
“Not today. Not now.”
“Not now,” he agreed.
He sucked her lower lip between his teeth and bit down just enough to get her attention. Then he released her with a slow promise that had her hips lifting urgently against him. His hands moved down her back and over her butt until his fingers slid down the seam between her cheeks to the hidden flesh below. The feel of her seething and wet and eager against his fingers made him light-headed.
“Damn, you’re a miracle,” he said, easing her over until she covered him. “Never felt a woman half as hot.”
“I don’t want to hear about your other women.”
“What women? Bring me home, Shaye.”
She shifted until she could take him hard and solid and so deep they felt like one being. With urgent, hungry motions they rode each other until they were both breathing too hard, too fast, and the only possible end was a sensory explosion that left them spent and at peace.
The sound of Shaye’s phone dragged her out of sleep.
“Ignore it,” Tanner said.
The rumble of his chest beneath her cheek made her smile. She rubbed against the sensuous texture of hair and flesh while she fished blindly around for her jacket, which had landed within reach of the bed. Her fingers found the phone.
“It’s Ace,” she said.
Tanner made a snoring sound.
Snickering, she took the call. “Hi, Mr. Desmond.”
“Ace,” he corrected. “I found something that may help you. Or rather, Tanner. McCurdy’s 8 lets women in because it has to, but no one will talk to them.”
“What’s McCurdy’s 8?”
“A Reno gym where Rua signed up recently.”
“Hang on. I’m putting you on the speaker.”
Muffling a yawn, Shaye put the phone on speaker and said, “Can you hear okay?”
“Just fine,” Ace said. “I’ve been really bugged by Rua and those gold coins. Have you gotten any further on that?”
“No,” Tanner said. “My source hasn’t sent any more leads.”
“Hell,” Ace muttered. “I told Personnel to go through Rua’s file and give me any contact numbers he had. He only listed two. One was his cell phone, which I assume was found at the scene . . . ?”
“I haven’t heard one way or the other,” Tanner said. “The death of some mook in Meyers isn’t exactly a fire burning under the El Dorado County sheriff’s ass.”
Ace said something muffled to somebody on his end. Then, “Sorry. I’ve told Security to go through the tapes we saved and see if Rua appears on any of them. We might pick up a friend of his with him or something. I’ll tell my people to forward anything they find to Shaye’s number.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“You mentioned two numbers for Rua?” Tanner asked.
“The second one is a mixed-martial-arts training gym I was telling Shaye about,” Ace said.
“McCurdy’s 8?” she asked. “A gym that
will let women in but then ignores them?”
“That’s the one. I put it through the cross-match site online and came up with a place north of Reno.” A paper rustled as Ace read off the address. “I’d go there myself, but I’d planned a fishing overnight in the mountains, and if I don’t get away today, I won’t get away at all.”
Shaye stifled another yawn—or tried to. “Sorry.”
“You sound as tired as I am,” Ace said. “Want to go fishing?”
Tanner glared at the phone. “She’s going to take a nap while I check out McCurdy’s 8. Thanks for the tip, and I hope you catch a mess of fish.”
He hung up before she could stop him.
“That was rude,” she said.
“It’s a gift,” he agreed as he slid out of bed and started pulling on clothes.
Her head hit the pillow with a muffled thump as she buried a yawn in it. “How do you keep going?”
“Practice. I don’t blow through all my adrenaline at once. Close your eyes, beautiful, or I’ll be tempted to demonstrate just what you do for my stamina.”
She opened one eye. “Rain check?”
“For you, always.” He bent and gave her a gentle kiss before he pulled the blankets up to her chin. “I’ll put out the Do Not Disturb sign, but don’t turn off your phone. I’ll be calling you.”
“Shouldn’t we call August?” she mumbled against the pillow.
“And tell him Campbell has a model-building habit? I’d be lucky if he didn’t cuss me out as an amateur. Go to sleep while I check out the woman haters.”
“I could—”
“Sleep,” he interrupted. “I’ll call if anything comes up.”
She mumbled something, then gave in to sleep.
He turned and quietly left the room before he could demonstrate just what had come up. Again.
After the gym, he promised himself.
Thirty-three
It took Tanner about two seconds to realize that McCurdy’s 8 was everything the Ground & Pound wanted to be. Stubby’s place had been held together with duct tape, sweat, and desperation. McCurdy’s 8 was all about professional fighters who had already proved themselves in the octagon under hot lights with screaming and jeering fans surrounding them.
McCurdy’s 8 was where men oiled themselves in their own sweat, ready to fight or die for the crowd. It was ancient Rome minus the lions and lead plumbing. Posters of meaty champions hung on the walls in oversize images of blood and triumph, adrenaline smiles holding off the pain that would come as surely as dawn.
The biggest poster was of Nick McCurdy, grinning through bruises and blood, holding up a championship belt buckle almost as big as his chest.
Beyond the reception area, men hit padded steel bars and heavy bags, grunting with effort, sounds that filled the place with a peculiar, primitive rhythm. Part of Tanner understood the sheer physical joy of going one-on-one with a worthy opponent. The rest of him wondered if the fighters had ever tried sex instead.
He didn’t bother trying to talk to McCurdy himself. He just badged the mountain of meat on the other side of the reception desk. The name tag read Bulldog.
It should have been Gorilla.
“Got a few questions about a fighter called Antonio Rua, goes by either Tonio or Tony,” Tanner said, putting his badge back in his pocket.
“Don’t know him.”
“He’s a new member.”
“Gotta check with the super,” Bulldog said.
Tanner nodded, relieved that Bulldog was a man with nothing to prove. Even if Tanner fought dirty—and really, why fight any other way?—Bulldog wouldn’t be much fun.
While he waited he looked around, noting the cameras that recorded everything that happened in the gym—including the reception area. The thumps and grunts from the various octagons in the big room were the only sounds. No trash talk, no cursing, just the kind of determination and ability to eat pain that were a vital part of the training.
This is a waste of time, he thought. Shaye said Lorne’s body wasn’t torn up by anything but scavengers. You beat a man to death and it leaves real marks.
But the gym wasn’t the first wild-goose chase Tanner had ever been on while investigating a case. It wouldn’t be the last. Investigations where murderers didn’t leave witnesses, or brag about themselves in bars or on the street, were time-consuming bitches to solve. If they were solved at all. He didn’t like that, but he knew it just the same.
All he hoped was that Shaye wouldn’t have to live with that kind of knowledge.
Bulldog returned. “Super says we always cooperate with cops. What do you need?”
“Information about Rua.”
“Why?”
“He’s dead.”
“Ah, man. Super really hates when the fighters take it out of the ring.”
“Bullets, not fists.”
Bulldog shook his head. “Coward.”
Tanner shrugged.
The other communed with his computer, pulled up Rua’s file, and spun the machine toward Tanner.
There was nothing on the screen that helped.
“Rua have any friends here?” Tanner asked. “Anyone who touted the place to him?”
“McCurdy’s 8 doesn’t need touting,” Bulldog said, unwrapping a piece of sugarless gum and stuffing it into his massive jaws. “Anyone who don’t know about us don’t know shit about fighting.”
“He hang with anyone in particular?”
“I never saw him come in or leave with any of our fighters.”
Tanner tried another direction. “Does this place take anyone who walks in the door?”
“Nope. Waste of time. Super watches a wannabe fight, then decides.”
“So Rua made the cut?”
“Barely. What got him in is he had this really fast, tricky heart punch that rocked fighters twice his size. The Super thought it might win him a few matches.”
“What’s a heart punch?”
Bulldog chomped his gum a few times. “You hit a guy hard enough on his heart and it can take him down. I saw a heart punch kill a guy once.”
Tanner kept his face neutral. “Must have left a hell of a bruise.”
“Dead dudes don’t bruise. Plenty of other bruises from the fight, but not from the one that killed him.”
“Huh. I thought that sort of thing was bullshit.”
“Saw it. Never forgot it. It’s not just strength, its speed and timing. Super can give you a medical explanation, but it’s like a concussion on your heart instead of your brain.”
Tanner spent some more time asking questions about Rua’s training schedule, sparring partners, anything and everything that might bury the heart-blow discussion in Bulldog’s mind. Then he thanked him and headed out.
As soon as he got in the truck, he called August.
“I know this won’t raise the sheriff’s eyebrows,” Tanner said, “but Rua had a fighting trick known as the heart shot.”
“Keep talking.”
“It’s a fast, single blow to the heart that can take down a trained fighter—even kill him. The result looks like a heart attack and doesn’t leave a mark.”
“Bullshit.”
“Think about it. Bruises form because blood is pumping, under pressure, and leaks out of injured veins or arteries. No heartbeat to cause pressure, no bruises. Bam. Lights out forever.”
Silence, then a long-drawn-out curse followed by, “Well, ain’t that a kick in the butt. You sure about this?”
“I’m sure that it wouldn’t require much to take out a man Lorne’s age. It was the lack of body marks that was bothering everyone. This is an explanation.”
“With Rua dead, it’s blowing smoke. Sheriff won’t inhale. He’s at some national peace officers’ meeting over in California, learning how to be even better at his job. But if the reports of the fire that are coming in get any worse, he may come back.”
“He could try pulling his head out of his ass,” Tanner said. “Once his ears stopped ringing, he m
ight be able to connect Lorne to Rua and figure out why Rua was whacked and who did it. Anything new on that, by the way?”
“Haven’t heard a word. Could be everyone’s at the same conference, learning all kinds of new things about how to make jail more like a nice resort.”
“Makes me want to rush out and get arrested,” Tanner said. “Oh, wait. Nobody’s around to do that job. They’re all at the conference.”
“You might have a future here after all.”
“Thanks, but I have one just like it waiting in L.A.”
August laughed. “Damn, but I could like you. Look, I’ll do what I can, but it’s not a hell of a lot. If you come up with any link between Lorne, Rua, and a third person, then I can ignore the sheriff and get some investigating done. Until then, my hands are tied. I’m under direct orders to ‘quit chasing my ass and get busy on community relations.’ Solving a murder in El Dorado County and starting rumors about a senior citizen’s perfectly natural death in Refuge County isn’t any part of my job description.”
Tanner hung up and called Shaye.
She answered on the first ring.
“Did I wake you up?” he asked.
“No. I’ve just been sitting here, watching the shadows lengthen across the first floor’s heating and air-conditioning units. What did you find out at the gym?”
“Ever heard of a heart shot?”
“As in bullets?” she asked.
“Fists.”
“Missed that memo.”
“I thought it was a myth, but the dude at McCurdy’s 8 said it’s real. A single blow delivered just right sends a shock wave to the heart. Most of the time it just knocks the fight right out of an opponent. Once in a while it’s lethal. Looks like a heart attack. Doesn’t leave a mark.”
“Did Rua know how to do it?” she asked immediately.
“It was a specialty of his. The only thing that got him in the door of McCurdy’s 8, where the guys make the Ground and Pound look like preschool for pussies.”
“I’ll call Deputy August.”
“I already did. No joy. Sheriff flat-out told August that his job is to let sleeping dogs lie and concentrate on community relations.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish.”
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