by G. K. Parks
“I’m just a girl looking to fight.”
“Did you know Hector or Coach Willie?”
“No, but I heard what happened. It’s been in the newspapers. It’s a shame when someone with such a promising future dies out of the blue. It makes no sense. I found a recording of the fight, and…” My voice trailed off. “Did you see Santos’ last fight? Were you there?”
“No,” Brad finished his drink, tossing the empty bottle into the recycle bin, “but I heard it was brutal.”
“It looked like Coker had an axe to grind, and it’s obvious he doesn’t like women very much. We got off on the wrong foot today because I showed up a little too early. Needless to say, I probably should have kept my mouth shut.”
“Why didn’t you?” He leaned against the arm of the couch, clearing some papers and magazines out of the way.
“I don’t know.” I eyed him curiously, wondering if I’d been made. “Clearly, I’m trouble in capital letters. It’s probably not safe to be in my presence.” After all, I might arrest you.
“I’ll take my chances since I like getting into trouble.” The innuendo was not lost on me, but I giggled as if it were witty and flirty. “How long have you been training?”
“Ron just took me under his wing last week. Before that, I bounced around from place to place.” I shifted my gaze to the wall. “Are you into martial arts too?”
“I like weaponry, but I only box. That kung fu crap isn’t really my thing.”
“That’s cool.” Making a snap decision which line of questioning to pursue, I decided to breach the subject of guns. Since Brad potentially fit the description of our shooter, it didn’t hurt to find out some facts. “My ex-boyfriend was a gun collector. Vintage muskets, pearl-handled revolvers, crazy shit.” I gave him a sexy smile. “Are you into any heavy artillery?”
“Will that earn some extra brownie points?”
“Maybe.”
He snickered. “Damn, I’m guessing motorcycles turn you on too.”
“Only the fast ones.” Okay, this wasn’t heading in the direction I wanted. He stepped closer, looping his arms around my waist. “Whoa, buddy,” I planted a firm hand against his chest, “I like fast bikes, not men that move too fast. You were gonna tell me about the coaches and the circuit, remember?”
“What if you show me some moves first?” he asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively.
Placing my other palm against his chest, I looked up at him. “Are you sure? You’ve already had a pretty tough workout at the gym. I don’t know if you’re in any condition to handle this.”
“I rehydrated.” He smiled. “We’re good to go.”
“Open-handed hits, agreed?” I asked, not wanting to risk getting punched in the face again.
Before he could respond, I knocked his hands off of me by hitting his forearms with the sides of my palms. Using his surprise to my advantage, I immediately slapped him on both sides of the face before stepping backward and placing my hands in front of me while I bounced on the balls of my feet.
“Agreed,” he responded, unnerved by my brashness, “but I usually don’t hit girls.”
“Not a problem,” I replied, and we danced around each other, practically shadowboxing. “Did you ever train with Hector?”
“No. When I joined the gym, he was already on his way out. Coach knew he was getting extra fight time in on the side. Hector taught a class at the rec center. That was his place. He couldn’t exactly afford to train with Coach Coker, and once Willie started helping him out, he up and left.”
“Coker was getting contingency fees on Hector’s fights?” I asked, incorrectly guessing Brad’s next move and feeling a rush of air against my neck as he slapped my upper arm.
“Yeah. I heard a few of the guys talking about it. Coach Coker thought his gym might go under if he kept losing the bouts. A loss on the circuit didn’t pull in enough cash to let the losing fighters train on a contingency basis, so everyone started training more often. It was a three strikes rule. After three losses, we have to pay the monthly gym fee or hit the road.”
I slapped his chest and then his ribcage on the lower right side before stepping out of his striking range. “Did Coker ever bet on the fights?”
“That would be against the rules,” Brad replied, hitting my side hard enough that I winced. “I’m sorry.” He made a timeout gesture. “Are you injured or something?”
“No, it just stung. Are we done playing around?” If this kept up, he’d discover my shoulder holster and handgun in no time.
“Yeah,” he chuckled, “I wanted to make sure you weren’t a reporter or lawyer or something.”
“Have they been snooping around?” At least we were getting back on track.
“A lawyer stopped by last week. Coker had a few guys run him off.” He must have seen the question on my lips. “I don’t know why he was there, but it couldn’t have been good. Maybe he was going to serve Coach with papers or threaten to sue or something. I don’t know. I try to mind my own business. To each his own, right?”
“Sure.”
“Come with me,” he reached for my hand again, and I let him grasp my fingers in his palm, “I have a list of other gyms in my room. I tried out half a dozen. The only downfall is they have invitation-only fight teams, so you have to prove yourself before you get invited to compete on the circuit. On the plus side, they’re far less sexist. Some of them even have mixed matches, if that’s something you’re interested in.”
I followed him down the hallway, relieved that the messy room wasn’t his. He opened the door across from that room and ushered me inside. Apparently, he was telling the truth. The mess in the common areas must have been due to his roommates because his room was pristine. The bed was made. The top of the dresser was devoid of everything, and the closet was closed.
“Wow, how can you live with such polar opposites?”
“We balance each other out. Have a seat. Relax. This might take a minute.” He went to the desk and opened the drawer, removing a folder. He flipped through some papers and a stack of business cards before removing half a dozen with various gym logos and handing them to me. “I thought I should hold on to these in case I struck out with Coker, but I can always get more if need be. Actually, if I get kicked out, I’ll just start going to whichever gym you pick.”
“Are you really that sure of yourself?” I asked, still wanting to ask about Briscoe, betting, and blackmail.
“You said you had an ex-boyfriend, and you agreed to come to my apartment. You don’t even know me, so there had to be a reason for it. Plus, I let you slap me in the face a few times. In some countries, I believe that makes us married.”
“You don’t have a girlfriend?”
“I don’t have anyone special,” he replied, which meant he had a few girlfriends. “You seem like you could be special.”
“Weren’t you going to show me some guns and bikes?”
He rolled up his sleeves and posed like a bodybuilder, flexing his biceps. “What do you think of these guns?” I made a face. “Too cheesy?”
“Definitely.”
Before I could say anything else, another guy appeared in the doorway. “Hey, Brad.” He stopped midsentence. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you had company. Who’s the babe?”
“Alex,” Brad replied, “meet one of the two pigs that lives in this place. Philip this is Alex.”
“Nice to meet you,” Philip said, yanking the backward baseball cap off his head. “I’ll let you two get back to whatever it was you were doing. I just wanted to give your cap back.” He tossed it onto the desk and pulled the door closed behind him to give us some privacy.
My eyes focused on the Yankees’ emblem. Those baseball caps were highly popular, but it looked identical to the one our shooter wore. Scanning the rest of the room, it no longer seemed neat and tidy. It looked clinically cold. Perhaps even surgical.
“What’s a matter? Are you a Sox fan?”
“No. I don’t follow baseball.�
�� I unzipped my sweatshirt a little and fanned my face. “I just got a little dizzy. Is that offer for a Gatorade still on the table?”
“Sure, I’ll be right back.” He left the room, and I took full advantage, opening his closet door, looking under his bed, and quickly checking each of his desk drawers while he was in the kitchen, talking to Philip. A moment later, their conversation ended, and I closed the drawer, barely making it back to the bed before he came into the room. “Is lemon-lime okay?”
“That’s great. Thanks.” I took a sip from the bottle.
“You never said why you were interested in boxing.” He leaned against the headboard. “Sure, there are a dozen girls who show up at night, but most of them look like escapees from the Soviet Olympics team.”
“How old are you?” I retorted.
“Thirty-two. I’m just saying. Linka’s sweet, and she’s an awesome fighter. I’m pretty sure she could kick my ass seven ways from Sunday, but she’s built like a man. If she cut her hair and layered up on top, Coach Coker would probably let her train during the day with the rest of the guys.”
“Now who’s being sexist?” But his observation did hold some merit. Making a show of looking at the clock, I took another sip from the bottle and stood up. “It’s getting late, and I really should go. Thanks for the information and the slap fight.” Taking a step backward toward the door, I added, “Maybe we could go to a fight sometime together or something.”
“That sounds good.” He picked up his phone and scrolled through the calendar. “There’s one this weekend. Are you up for it?”
“I’ll have to check and make sure I don’t have to work. Why don’t you give me your number?” He rattled off his digits, and I scribbled them onto the back of one of the business cards. “Since the coach doesn’t bet on the fights, does that mean the fighters don’t either?”
Brad shrugged. “I can’t tell you what other people do, but if things like that ever came to light, it could end a career.”
“But these aren’t sanctioned matches.”
“Maybe not, but whenever someone gets signed and starts performing for the league, if behavior like that comes to light, he could easily get cut. It’s not worth the risk.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why are you obsessed with betting? You’ve already been kicked out of one gym today.”
“I have a few degenerate gamblers as friends. Sometimes, they’ll blow a few grand on the stupidest shit imaginable. Once, they even bet how long a commercial would last. It makes me see gambling addicts everywhere I go.”
“Well, it’s a sport, so there are always bookies and betters hanging around.” He walked me to the front door. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay a while longer? We could go another round.” Philip’s eyes darted from the television to us, and I suspected Brad said it just to make it seem like he was a bigger player than he was.
“Thanks anyway. Maybe next time I’ll let you go out on top.” I tossed a look toward Philip, playing along. “Hey, was all that talk about guns just bullshit?”
“Yeah. I’ve never even held a gun, but don’t hold that against me.”
“I’ll try not to.”
Twenty-six
“Wonders never cease to amaze,” Lucca said when I entered the conference room, dressed in my workout gear. “Did they teach you how to block? Or did you find a better way to interrogate our suspects without beating their fists with the side of your face?”
“Did you have fun playing house with Will Briscoe’s ex-girlfriend?” I shot back.
“Parker,” Mark snarled from behind, and I glared at Lucca for failing to warn me, “I was just about to send a search team to find you. What the hell happened after you got the axe?”
“I made a new friend. You always tell me to play nice, so I did.” Lucca made a choking sound in the background, but I ignored it while I filled the two of them in on Brad, Coker’s money troubles and disdain for lawyers, and the possible dangers related to betting. Then I focused on the blown-up surveillance cam photo of our suspect. “Are we sure the suspect is male? Some of those female fighters have musculatures resembling men. Linka’s probably in the buck sixty or better range and around 5’10.”
“It looks like a man to me,” Lucca replied, “on account of an obvious lack of female breast development.”
“Yeah, I’m not even going there.” Mark shook his head. “We’ll have the techs reconsider the possibilities, but my gut says our shooter’s male. He was seen on courthouse surveillance going inside the men’s room. Someone would have noticed.” He skimmed through the notes and witness statements, but no one had gotten a good look at the unsub. “What’d you discover on your outing, Lucca?”
“Will and his girl had a falling out. She enrolled in some classes at the city college and wanted him to follow her lead. He refused, but they stayed together for another six months before she broke it off.”
“Are you sure she broke it off?” I asked, wondering if a scorned girlfriend might have had reason to want Will’s dad dead. Maybe William Briscoe Sr. didn’t approve for some reason.
“That’s what she said.” Lucca shrugged. “But things get even more interesting. I asked her what Will did besides drop in and out of college and hang out with friends, and she said he was taking up boxing. That was the real reason she wanted him to stick with school, so he’d give up the fight scene and focus on a safer, more stable future. She couldn’t take seeing him beaten up all the time. She said she spent more time dressing his wounds than getting dressed up.”
I swallowed, hearing Martin’s rendition of the same argument in my head. “Do you have her profile?”
“Cynthia Jackson, twenty. No priors. Made the Dean’s list last semester,” Lucca read. “Were we aware that Will Briscoe was following in his father’s footsteps by participating in the sweet science?”
“He didn’t mention it, and neither did Laura. From the way they made it sound, I thought they had no clue how involved their father was with boxing and coaching or any of the men he trained.” The pieces were starting to come together. It explained how Will was able to recognize the fighters in the photos, and perhaps it explained his extreme guilt and failed suicide attempt. “Earlier, Linka Greenwood mentioned a Cynthia being hysterical when her boyfriend was hurt at Coker’s gym. I wonder if it’s the same Cynthia.”
“Will Briscoe’s our connecting piece. We need to speak to him. He must know who the shooter is,” Lucca insisted, giving Jablonsky a desperate look. “Can’t we get a judge to sign something to grant us access?”
“Go find out, kid,” Mark said, dismissing him. Once Lucca was behind his desk, rapidly dialing, Mark snorted. “You and those goddamn hunches. It looks like you might be right again.”
“Damn, don’t you hate it when that happens? Which hunch was right this time?”
“That there’s a connection between Santos’ death and the two courthouse killings. While you were gone, I spoke to Elias Facini and Gavin Levere. Facini’s searching for new representation and isn’t exactly being cooperative.” He chewed on a hangnail for a moment. “Levere knows something, but he’s scared. The police are keeping him for the time being with manslaughter and a possible homicide charge hanging over his head. The kid doesn’t know which way to turn, but he knows what’s going on, at least with the fight scene. The thing is,” Mark took a deep breath, “he mentioned William Briscoe’s death in relation to Santos’. It stands to reason that everything’s connected. No coincidences, like I always say.”
“How do you propose we convince Levere to open up?”
“I’m working on it. In the meantime, you might as well get comfortable since we’re working through the night on Will Briscoe Jr.’s connection to this shit,” Mark insisted.
I left the conference room, intent on changing back into regulation attire and making a quick phone call before settling in for another all-nighter. At least Martin couldn’t say this was a lame excuse to avoid sharing a bed.
Once I was dressed, I returned
to the conference room and took a seat. Lucca didn’t look happy, and I suspected it was because Will was still off-limits for the time being. Jablonsky was going over some things with Agent Lawson, our resident tech, and I turned my legal pad to a clean sheet and started sketching out the timeline for the rest of the week.
Tomorrow night, the money was supposed to be left inside the locker, and the PD surely had surveillance or some type of sting in place. However, I resisted the urge to call O’Connell and ask about it. We needed to question Linka and some of the guys from the gym to find out what they knew about Will Briscoe Jr. Since they all seemed to know Coach Willie, they were probably aware that Will Jr. was his son.
As if reading my mind, Jablonsky announced, “I’ll follow up with Laura Briscoe. The two of you can’t seem to get the job done, so I will find out about William and Will. Damn, what is wrong with people naming their kids after themselves? Sheesh.” Mark rolled his eyes. “Someone give the realtor lady a call and show her some photos of the fighters. Maybe she’ll be able to identify one of Coker’s trainees as the mystery man, and take a photo of Will Briscoe with you.”
“She left for the day,” I said, noting the time.
“Then track her down,” Mark snapped. He focused on Lucca. “You should have a talk with the Greenwoods. Since Parker’s out and the PD will be busting the gym tomorrow, we have to get our questions answered tonight. We’ll reconvene in two hours, and we’ll work through dinner.”
Picking up my phone, I dialed Sylvia Britt’s personal number. After three rings, she answered rather reluctantly with a pained “hello.”
“Mrs. Britt, this is Alex Parker, I’m sorry to bother you. I just need five minutes of your time. It’s very important.”
“I’m about to meet with a potential buyer. Can’t this wait until morning? I have done nothing but cooperate, despite the fact that you lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie. I am in the market for a new office,” I insisted, figuring it might just get her to open up. “Just five minutes, I can meet you at a house or office or bar, whatever you want.”