She thought about it, smoke curling toward the water-stained ceiling. “Not by name. But one time the older guy said something about getting back to the warehouse before the afternoon guys showed up.”
“When’s the last time you saw them?”
“Few days ago, maybe.” She tapped ash into the tray. “Same as always. Trainer got his cartridges, Dre grabbed a Gatorade, they left.”
“Nothing unusual? Nothing out of the ordinary?”
She thought about it, then shook her head. “Nope. Just two guys stopping in like they always did.”
Jack pulled a card from his pocket. “If you think of anything else—the trainer’s name, anything they might have said about the gym—give me a call.”
She took the card, tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans. “Yeah. Sure.”
The heat hit us like a wall when we stepped back outside. I squinted against the glare, my mind already sorting through what we’d learned. A trainer with cauliflower ears. A warehouse gym somewhere nearby. A young man named Dre who kept himself in shape and didn’t smoke.
It wasn’t much. But it was a start.
Cole was waiting by his truck, his Stetson pushed back and his face glistening with sweat. He’d found a sliver of shade next to the building, but it wasn’t doing much good. The heat radiated up from the asphalt in waves.
“Got anything?” Jack asked.
“Nail salon was a bust. Owner just took over the lease a few months back—doesn’t know anyone, doesn’t see anything, doesn’t want to get involved.” Cole pulled his notebook from his back pocket and flipped it open. “Check-cashing place was a different story. Lady behind the counter recognized the description before I finished giving it. Said he came in every Friday like clockwork to cash his paycheck.”
He paused, and something in his expression told me he had more.
“She pulled his records for me. Andre Tyrell Washington. Twenty-four years old. Paychecks came from King Construction—they’ve got a lot over on Miller Road.” Cole glanced up. “She said he was one of the nice ones. Always asked about her grandkids.”
Andre. Dre for short. We had a name now. A real name, attached to a real life—a job, co-workers, a routine. A young man who cashed his checks on Fridays and remembered to ask about an old woman’s grandkids.
“King Construction,” Jack said. “That’s Danny King’s outfit. He runs a decent operation—hires a lot of guys who need a second chance. Ex-military, men coming out of the system.”
“The check-cashing lady mentioned he used a military ID once,” Cole added. “When his regular license was expired.”
So Andre Tyrell Washington had served his country, worked construction, trained as a fighter, and ended up wrapped in a cheap blanket at the bottom of a dumpster. The shape of his life was starting to emerge—and with it, the people who might know why it had ended.
“We got a person of interest from the vape shop,” Jack said. “Older white guy, late forties or fifties. Broken nose, cauliflower ears, bad knees. The lady said he was Dre’s trainer. They came in together once a week or so.”
Cole nodded slowly, those pale blue eyes going distant the way they did when his mind was already three steps ahead, sorting through angles and possibilities like a man shuffling cards. “I’ll run Andre Tyrell Washington through the system—priors, known associates, anything that pops. And I’ll check boxing gyms, MMA facilities in the area. Guy built like that, training with someone who knows what he’s doing, he’s registered somewhere. Fighting’s not something you hide. Somebody knows him.”
“We need to talk to his co-workers too,” Jack said. “And find that trainer. But let’s wait until J.J.’s done with the autopsy. She might find something that gives us better questions to ask.”
Cole glanced at me, a question in the look.
“A few hours,” I said. “I should have preliminary findings by late afternoon.”
“Works for me.” He fished his keys from his pocket, already moving toward his truck. “I’ll call when I’ve got something.”
We watched him go—that long, easy stride covering ground without ever seeming to hurry.
Jack’s hand found the small of my back as we turned toward the Tahoe. “Let’s get you to the funeral home.”
The parking lot had transformed while we’d been inside asking questions. Cars filled the spaces now, and people moved between them with the purposeful energy of lunch hour—a woman balancing takeout bags and a cell phone, a man in a rumpled suit loosening his tie as he headed for the Chinese place, a young mother wrestling a toddler into a car seat while an older child kicked at the asphalt with light-up sneakers.
Jack opened my door—old habits died hard with him—and I slid into the passenger seat, grateful for the air-conditioning that had been running the whole time we’d been inside Cloud Nine. He went around to the driver’s side and climbed in, and then pulled out of the lot, merging onto Route 3 with the ease of someone who knew these roads like the back of his hand.
“You’re quiet,” he said after a few minutes.
“Thinking.”
