Jack pulled into the lot and killed the engine. A dozen vehicles were already parked in neat rows—mostly trucks and a few older sedans. Cars that belonged to men who worked with their hands and didn’t waste money on flash.
“Serious place,” I said.
“The serious ones usually are.” Jack opened his door. “Let’s see what we can find out.”
The smell hit me the moment we walked inside—sweat and leather and iron, all of it mixing with the sharp bite of disinfectant. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just honest. The smell of hard work and purpose.
The interior was larger than I’d expected, the high ceilings and open floor plan making the most of the warehouse space. Two full-sized boxing rings dominated the center of the room, their canvas clean and tight, the ropes taut and well maintained. Heavy bags hung in a long row along one wall—at least a dozen of them, each one cared for, the leather oiled and free of cracks. Speed bags lined another section, and the far corner held an impressive array of free weights, squat racks, and benches. Everything was organized. Everything had its place. This wasn’t a gym clinging to life—it was a working facility that took pride in what it was.
And I was very clearly not supposed to be here.
Every head in the room turned when we walked in. A dozen men, all of them built like they spent more time lifting heavy things than doing anything else, and all of them looking at me like I’d wandered through the wrong door. Which, in their minds, I probably had. Places like this weren’t built for women. They were built for men who wanted to hurt each other in controlled environments, and the testosterone in the air was thick enough to choke on.
I kept my shoulders back and my expression neutral. I’d faced down worse than a room full of sweaty men with more muscle than manners. But I wasn’t going to pretend I was comfortable either.
Jack, on the other hand, looked right at home. His posture shifted the moment we walked in—something subtle, something I might not have noticed if I didn’t know him so well. He moved differently here. Watched the room differently. His eyes tracked one of the men working a heavy bag, assessed the stance of another who was shadowboxing near the mirrors.
Recognition. Familiarity.
“Help you folks?”
A young guy approached from near the entrance—mid-twenties, lean and muscular, with a nose that had been broken more than once and scar tissue thickening his brow. He was looking at Jack’s badge, then at me, trying to figure out what combination of trouble had just walked through his door.
“We’re looking for Andre Washington’s trainer,” Jack said.
The kid’s jaw tightened, but just slightly. “That’d be Vic. He owns the place. Let me grab him.”
He disappeared through a gray door that said Employees Only, and I took the opportunity to study the walls. Photographs everywhere—fighters posing with belts and trophies, action shots from matches, and yellowed newspaper clippings in simple frames. A history of the gym, told in sweat and blood and victory.
“You look like you want to jump in the ring,” I said quietly.
Jack glanced at me and smiled. “I’ve been known to box a time or two. In my younger reckless days.”
“You must have been good at it,” I said. “Since your face is still so pretty.”
He laughed just as the gray door opened again.
Victor Caruso was somewhere in his early sixties, built like a fireplug—short and thick, with shoulders that strained his T-shirt and hands that looked like they’d been carved from stone. His face told his whole story—nose flattened and crooked from breaks that had never quite healed right, ears thickened into cauliflower, scar tissue ridging his brows like tiny mountain ranges. He walked with the careful, deliberate gait of a man whose body had collected decades of debt and was finally calling it in.
But there was nothing slow about the way he assessed us. His gaze moved from Jack’s badge to my face to our positioning in his gym, taking in everything in the space of a breath.
“Vic Caruso,” he said. He didn’t offer his hand. “What’s this about Dre?”
“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” Jack asked.
Caruso’s shoulders stiffened. His hands, resting at his sides, went still in that way of someone bracing for a blow. He knew. On some level, he already knew. People didn’t show up with badges to deliver good news.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher than it had been a moment before. “Come on back.”
His office was small and cramped, barely room for the desk and the two chairs wedged in front of it. Trophies lined a shelf on one wall, most of them tarnished with age. A window looked out onto the gym floor, giving Caruso a view of everything happening in his domain. He settled behind his desk, and Jack and I took the chairs across from him.
“Mr. Caruso,” Jack said, “I’m sorry to tell you this. Andre Washington was found dead yesterday morning. We’re investigating it as a homicide.”
For a long moment, Caruso didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He sat frozen, staring at Jack like the words were in a language he didn’t understand.
Then his face collapsed.
It wasn’t dramatic—no wailing, no shouting. Just a slow crumbling, like a building settling into its own foundation. He turned away from us, toward the window, fists at his hips as he breathed in deeply for control.
