“One more thing,” Jack said before we reached the door. “We found a betting slip in Andre’s apartment. Did he gamble?”
Caruso’s brow furrowed. “A betting slip? What kind?”
“Handwritten. Numbers and initials. Not from any legal operation.”
“That doesn’t sound like Dre.” Caruso shook his head slowly. “Kid didn’t gamble. Didn’t drink, didn’t party, didn’t blow his money on stupid stuff. He was focused. Disciplined.” His frown deepened. “Where’d you find it?”
“His nightstand.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. That’s not the kid I knew. Dre wasn’t a gambler.”
Jack nodded and handed him a card. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
“You find who did this.” Caruso’s voice had gone cold, the grief hardening into something sharper. “Dre was like a son to me. You find the bastards who killed him, and you make them pay.”
“We intend to,” Jack said.
CHAPTER SIX
The air-conditioning blasted as Jack pulled out of the lot, and I angled the vent toward my face. Between the heat and the wall of testosterone in that gym, I felt like I’d been holding my breath for an hour.
“He knew about the seizures,” I said. “He didn’t even hesitate.”
“No, he didn’t.” Jack turned onto the main road. “His own mother said Dre kept it secret from everyone. But Vic knew.”
“If he’s managing Dre’s career, submitting medical paperwork and arranging fights, he’d have to know what he was working around.”
“Working around.” Jack’s mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. “That’s an interesting phrase, isn’t it? He didn’t say they were dealing with it. Didn’t say they were being honest about it. He said they were finding ways around the obstacles.”
“Which could mean falsified medical clearances. Doctors willing to look the other way.”
“Could mean a lot of things.” His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “Could mean fights where nobody’s checking paperwork at all.”
I thought about the betting slip tucked in Andre’s nightstand drawer. The cash hidden behind a false panel in his closet. The life of a monk that somehow produced thirty thousand dollars in bundled twenties and fifties.
“He shut down fast when you mentioned the betting slip,” I said.
“He did. Went straight to denial.” Jack shook his head. “Everybody keeps saying what a good kid he was, how disciplined, how focused. But good kids don’t end up tortured and dead in dumpsters.”
“And they don’t hide thirty thousand dollars in their walls.”
“No. They don’t.” He glanced at me. “I’m going to get a warrant for Dre’s financials. Bank records, credit cards, anything we can find. If money was moving in ways that don’t match the picture everyone’s painting, I want to know about it.”
“The cash wasn’t going through any bank.”
“Which is interesting all by itself.” Jack slowed for a red light and turned to look at me fully. “Vic Caruso’s been in boxing his whole life. His father before him. That’s a world with a lot of gray areas—legitimate fights, underground fights, sanctioned venues and ones where nobody asks questions. If Dre was making money somewhere off the books, Vic would know. He’d have to know.”
“But he’s not telling us.”
“Not yet.” The light changed, and Jack accelerated through the intersection. “Doesn’t mean he won’t. Sometimes people need time to decide whose side they’re on.”
“And sometimes they’ve already decided.”
“That too.”
We drove in silence for a few minutes, the familiar landscape of King George County sliding past the windows. I watched Jack’s profile, the set of his jaw, the way his hands rested easy on the wheel. He was thinking. Processing. Fitting pieces together in that methodical way of his.
“How come you never told me you boxed?” I asked. “It would’ve had to have been while you were in the military or living in DC.”
