by R. T. Wolfe
She guessed she definitely wasn't dressed as someone looking to find a gym, so she went with it and pulled her coat aside to display her badge. "I'm trying to find the entrance to the gym. Is Rex around today?"
"Humph." The woman pointed to the back. Eddy was already making his way there. Nickie followed.
"I'm sure a phone call downstairs announced our arrival," she said to him as they descended the steep stairwell. "This is like a cellar."
"Guys like this shit. It makes us feel manly. Me Tarzan—"
"If you finish that sentence I'm going to kick your ass."
Boxers must not work first shift, because there were plenty there. Eddy gave her a nudge when Baxter was in sight. Yep, he was watching for them. Holy cow, he must be six-foot-five and pushing three hundred.
She walked up to him with Eddy on her heels. Chicken shit. As she got closer, she moved her jacket enough for him to see her badge, but without making a scene. "Detectives Savage and Lynx. We have a few questions for you. Is there a place we can talk?"
He gave her a slow once-over. So, it was going to be like that, was it?
Baxter led her and Eddy to an office, then shut the door behind them. It was a big space with framed posters advertising past fights. The guest chairs were up against a sidewall. A door in the back could be a bathroom or a hallway, maybe another exit.
Baxter walked around his desk, then slouched into his office chair, folding his hands in front of him. "What brings you to my gym?" he asked with a pronounced Jersey accent. His shaved head would have made his tanned face stand out even without the rows of star tattoos behind his ears.
Eddy spoke first. "Do you know anything about a Mr. and Mrs. Chris Hendrix?" Okay. Right to the point, then.
Baxter scratched his head. "Can't say that I remember the names, but loads of people use the gym. Are they in some kind of trouble?"
She squinted. He was so full of crap she could smell it. Digging out her phone, she loaded the hospital picture of Mr. Hendrix and stepped forward, holding it out to him. He opened his eyes as if sudden recognition just graced him. "Hospital bed? Poor dude. His face rings a bell."
"Listen, Baxter the boxer." That got his attention. "I just thought that up. I bet you get that all the time. It's hilarious."
"No one says that," he growled.
She nearly choked. "I doubt that, Baxter, but you do have a great gym here." She nudged Eddy with her forearm. "We could come by every day, couldn't we? Or even at night. Say, around 11:45 p.m. through the back door?"
She watched as his face fell. The plates they ran from the late-night car belonged to the mayor. It must be more of a secret than she thought. No more arrogance or annoyance. Just old school pissed off.
"I dunno anything about Hendrix. It's the truth. Take it or leave it."
Her face was stone cold. "You're going to have to do better than that."
"He has a bookie, probably more than one." Baxter stood and pretended to straighten the papers on his desk. "And I dunno the name, so don't ask." He took the handful of papers beneath his fingers and crunched them into a ball.
"Still not good enough." She turned to Eddy. "Whose car was that, partner?"
Eddy didn't appear to be so sure about this, but he took her lead anyway. "I think it was the mayor's wife's, Savage."
It was likely most people cowered when Baxter turned the colors of red he was right then. She wasn't most people. She smiled and pulled her hair over her shoulder.
"Try Seventh and Olive Street," he grunted. "Asshole owes me money anyway."
"Name?"
"Dunno. He owns the pawnshop. Can't miss him."
"Don't go too far, Baxter," Nickie said.
She let herself out, but not without hearing him mumble, "Bitch," under his breath.
"Like I haven't heard that one before," she said before shutting his office door.
* * *
The bookie turned out to be an out-of-town bookie, or so the employee of the pawnshop said. Nickie called in his name and business address to the station. They would get his home address and any other phone numbers, plus search his name in NCIC.
The misses was all sewn up and out of the hospital. Mr. Hendrix wasn't so lucky. He was dealing with infection. That's what happens when you get shot in the arm and wait two days to see a doctor.
The Hendrix's place was in a better area than her townhouse. Fenced in yard around four apartments. The group of apartments stood out from the rest of the neighborhood. Although the building was maintained, there were no bushes, no trees, and the walks weren't shoveled. Last summer's toys littered the front of each apartment.
The blinds were drawn. She parked in front.
"You called me partner," Eddy said. "I liked it."
She turned, brows low, to find him smiling wide. "We're not partners. I was playing the moment. He could have used a little Eddy Lynx sarcasm, by the way. What's your deal?"
"He's Rex Baxter. I've seen him fight."
"Chicken shit," she called him for the second time.
She got out before he had the chance to come around and open her door. This wasn't a date. He opened the gate of the metal fence. She rolled her eyes as he gestured for her to go first.
Through the door, they heard children and a loud television. At the sound of the bell, both quieted.
Mrs. Hendrix opened the door. The room was dark, but from the door, Nickie could see two twin mattresses strewn on the living room floor and a large man sitting in a recliner around a cloud of smoke in the corner. The TV had been muted, and the kids were nowhere to be found.
When the misses recognized who was at the door, she darted her eyes up and down the yard and street.
"Good to see you out of the hospital, Mrs. Hendrix. We have a few questions. May we come in?"
Mrs. Hendrix glanced over her shoulder, then stepped outside, shutting the door behind her. She hugged her bad arm in the chill.
"He's not here."
"Who? Chris? Yeah, we know that," Nickie said. "Sorry to hear that."
"I got nothing to tell you."
Seems to be a reoccurring theme these days. "Slippery Jimbo turned out to be helpful. We're getting closer to finding the person or persons who did this to you and your husband."
She lowered her brows and took a deep breath. "I don't know any Jimbo. You questioned me when I was drugged. I don't even remember you bein' in the room."
"You remember we questioned you, but you don't remember we were in the room?"
"Listen. Jimbo's a pal. He has his shit together and tries to help us. He's got nothing to do with this."
"It's nice of you to have his back. Now, what about your husband's bookie?"
Her face fell. "I got kids, Detective. Do you have kids?"
The mere thought made her cringe. She loved Gil's kids, but ones of her own? "No, but I know you're in trouble and it's not going away."
"It is going away. I'm taking care of it."
"How much?" Nickie asked.
Mrs. Hendrix's focus dropped to the sidewalk. "I've got a plan."
"Does your bookie know you have this plan? I heard he was out of town."
There it was. Surprise mixed with a dose of confusion. So, the bookie wasn't out of town. Big shock, she thought sarcastically.
"Chris'll be out of the hospital in time for Thanksgiving. We have a family. Please leave us alone."
Without turning her back to Nickie, Mrs. Hendrix turned the knob on the door. Nickie laid a gloved hand on her arm. With the other, she slid into her inside coat pocket and pulled out a business card. "Call me. I can help you."
Mrs. Hendrix curled the corners of her mouth and nodded, sticking the card in the back pocket of her faded jeans.
Chapter 7
Duncan was used to a bigger family. He and his brother were two and four when his uncle inherited them. After Nathan married Brie, they had kids of their own. Between the seven of them and Brie's seemingly endless line of siblings, nieces and nephews, he was used
to changing diapers, all-out squirt gun wars, and could handle preteen female hormones along with his twin cousins who could cause enough trouble to challenge General Lee.
They had already celebrated Thanksgiving with a day at his aunt and uncle's home. "Are you sure you're up for this?" Nickie asked as they reached the front door of a small ranch house. Cars lined the drive and road nearly halfway down the block. The walks and drive were shoveled to perfection, and a dusting of snow topped simple evergreen bushes.
"I can take anything, and I'm not at all worn out." He looked down his nose at her. "And you'd better not wear yourself out, either. I slept alone last night." The idea took the blood from his head and sent it flying south.
A visit to Nickie's former foster home made Duncan's family seem sparse. He considered this more of a scene from Black Friday. Organized mass chaos.
The anticipation in her eyes made it worth it. She worked diligently to disregard her wealthy upbringing. The boots, the hoop jewelry, the long loose hair. Even the language she often spewed but avoided in front the woman who gave Nickie her first true family. All of it was her rebellion to the debutant society she grew up in. The society that rejected her when it learned what she had to do to survive during her time in captivity. Here, she was more woman than cop, more daughter than woman. It was a sensation he couldn't quite find words to describe.
"Mista Weed! Mista Weed! Daddy, Nickie and Mista Weed are here!" Gilberto and Teresa had two sets of twins. This set was the one old enough to charge him.
Gloria had added on to the kitchen, making the square ranch home more of a T shape. There was a room for watching whatever sport was in season, another for video games, although Gloria called it the family room, and an area for the double-leaf extended table. It held twelve chairs comfortably.
The furniture was worn but well kept, the carpet threadbare yet free of crumbs or dirt. Photographs hung on the wall in frames that didn't match. None were store-bought, and all contained an array of generations of family. He shook his head and smiled at how Nickie was the only white person in the frames.
"Lela. Neva." Nickie squatted down to the young girls, each of who was wrapped around one of Duncan's legs. "Where's your mama and papa? I need to talk to them, and Mr. Reed needs to eat some of Grandma's appetizers."
As the girls ran off, dodging bodies, she lifted to a standing position. Leaning his lips to her ear, he whispered, "You are ravishing."
Her shoulders shivered once. "Says the cover model for last May's People to Watch in L.A."
"But right now I need to slaughter a few hundred zombies," he continued.
"Ah, so that was just one of those compliments given so you can escape without protest," she said, leaning around him to peer into the room packed with teenagers intensely focused on their video games.
"Nickie Savage, I hear you out there." The smooth, liquid tone coming from the kitchen was in direct contrast to the words. "Get in here and help with dinner."
Games were played, dinner feasted on and remember-when stories told. Nickie never spoke of these people as her family, but it didn't take a genius to see she belonged here. She didn't have any girlfriends he could think of. Gilberto was one of her best friends, but Duncan thought of him as more of a brother to her.
He found her sitting at the kitchen table, drying silverware as Gloria packed leftovers in plastic containers for her children, Nickie included. Gloria was a stunning woman. Considering her age, lines had escaped her face, and only a few strands of gray twined through the silky brown to give away her age.
A washrag came at him from the sink area. He grabbed it before it hit him in the face, giving him a quick, crystal clear screenshot of a moment in the Middle East when he had a less desirable object thrown at him. As he'd done with the grenade, he chucked the rag to the only spot in the room free of people. The incessant talking stopped.
Nickie must have assessed the scene accurately. He couldn't quite gather himself to offer a quick explanation.
"Nice reflexes, Reed," she said and lobbed him another washcloth. "Now, go wipe off the tables. No one eats for free. You know that."
***
Nickie helped pass out desserts at the dining table, kitchen table and card tables that were set up wherever there was a spot. Many ate their choice of pie or cheesecake with a plate on their lap. She checked her phone. No messages. Always a good thing.
Her foster family was endlessly impressed with Duncan's ability to remember every name, nickname and detail about each person. If they only knew he remembered those details after his very first time here. He and Great-Grandmama played an older version of Halo, balancing their desserts on their legs.
Duncan had both apple pie and a slice of traditional cheesecake. He didn't know how much it pleased Gloria that he took both.
They fit, she and Duncan. She wasn't exactly sure what to think about that, and she certainly didn't understand how it was possible. He loved her. She was a cop with a sordid past. He was the Taste of L.A. She shook her head, trying to take hold of the idea. The long, lanky muscles of his arms and back flexed as he worked to beat Great-Grandmama, who cussed like a sailor. Duncan didn't give her an inch.
Little Nala hung onto the back of his neck as they played. "Cwap! Shit!" she copied her great-great-grandmama.
"Now, you've done it," Duncan said. "You'll have your mom and dad to answer to. I've been a perfect gentleman. There! You're running out of ammo, old woman!"
"Old woman!" little Neva repeated.
Amid protests and more less-than-child-worthy language, Nickie walked over and stood in front of the television. Crossing her arms, she stared at Duncan. "It's after ten. What great-grandmothers stay up past ten? It's past their bedtimes too." She gestured to the twins, winked at Duncan seductively, and reveled in the way he stood and fumbled his controllers.
"It seems we're leaving." Leaning down, he kissed Great-Grandmama's cheek. "I forfeit this time only."
She was older than the hills, free of most lines, as was Gloria, but with a full head of long, sleek gray hair. "Good night, Duncan. Be good to our girl."
Nickie's eyes filled at the comment. Great-Grandmama smiled, and the invisible lines erupted around her eyes and the sides of her mouth. The house thinned from the loads of people. The ones who were still there lounged in front of the television with the buttons of their pants undone.
Together, she and Duncan stopped in to say their good-byes to Gloria. Duncan lifted a heavy stack of plates into the cupboard for her.
Nickie wrapped her arms around Gloria's substantial frame. "Thank you. For everything."
Gloria's eyes were nearly the color of Duncan's. A dark brown so glossy they were almost black. They shone at her as Gloria took hold of her face.
"Thank you, my child."
Gloria turned to Duncan and gave him a small push. "You've done enough around here tonight. Take care of our Nickie." As she had done with her, Gloria wrapped her arms around him in a bear hug before taking his face in her hands the color of caramel. "You have many secrets, Duncan Reed. They have lasted many years. I hope you have someone to share them with."
It took Nickie aback. Her eyes darted from Duncan to Gloria. No one elaborated, and he seemed as surprised as she was.
* * *
Duncan refused to ride in Nickie's piece of crap unmarked. He found it difficult to believe the police force allowed cars like it. Big, gas guzzling and old. Then, he considered that it might be why they chose the car. She was a terrible driver.
"I thought we were going to your place," she commented when he drove past the turn to his rental. She never missed a thing. Damn smart woman.
He shifted and reached over, linking fingers with her. "We are."
Her head turned to face him. "You mean—"
Shaking his head, he shrugged. "Not exactly. But you'll see."
Just outside of town, he turned up a long, winding asphalt drive that led to his home. His real home. A lone trailer had been left for the holid
ay weekend, and a thin sheet of snow covered the mud. He took her bag from his trunk. She packed for overnight like he would for a week. It made him grin.
They walked, glove in glove, up the flagstone steps. She craned her neck as she looked over the siding and pillars. "You do like big," she commented.
It was true. He unlocked the front door and opened to visqueen, five-gallon buckets of paint and stacks of trim.
She stopped a foot inside the door. "There is a bathroom, right?"
He turned to face her and snaked his arms around her sides. "Do you trust me?"
Her eyes thinned. "Maybe."
Leaning in, he let his lips touch hers once, twice, before sinking into the place that was his detective. Her lips were cool from the weather, her tongue warm and inviting. Her arms wrapped around him, making his mind clear, then fog. He was home.
"Come," he said before they got carried away. Rarely did they make it to a bed. Taking her hand, he led her up the first set of stairs.
She studied his house like a first-time guest. Much of the painting was done, some of the hardwood floors installed.
When they took the set of stairs to the third floor, he complained, "I should have installed an elevator."
"People shouldn't use elevators."
It made him consider where he could install one. As they reached the top of the landing, she stopped. "What have you done?"
The top floor was finished to his specifications... with a few additions. "I had them rush the third floor along."
He considered it more of an enormous studio apartment rather than a master bedroom. On one side was the wrap-around cherry wood desk his uncle made for him. On and surrounding it were his desktop computers, towers, scanners, printer and fax machine. Under the skylight windows was his painting studio, complete with the short wooden stool he preferred, three easels and the chestnut settee he couldn't help but replace.
She turned in a circle, gazing next at the four-corner oversized canopy bed.
"It's amazing. Who lives in a place like this? Did you think of all of this or did Andy help you?" She turned to him. "It's perfect. Thank you for sharing it with me."