Doghouse (18 page)

Ironic, that the more threatening-looking fighter hadn't given him the creeps like this guy did.

The door he'd gone through in his last visit was on the far side of the building, the plate glass window between him and it. But he wasn't interested in the back offices right now. That was Ginny's job.

The other man he'd noted as a possible source had paused for a break. He was sitting on the bench with a
woman who looked tiny in comparison, until you noticed that every inch of her sweat-covered skin was impressively muscled as well. Teddy normally had no complaints about his body: he was in good shape and everything worked. But this place could give him a complex if he wasn't careful.

“Hey,” he said, figuring what worked once might work again.

The woman eyed him, then looked sideways at her companion, who rested his head against the wall behind them and didn't say anything.

Teddy started to think maybe he'd picked the wrong person.

Ginny had
been on enough facility tours, often with jittery brides and grooms in tow, to know when she was being shined on, or redirected. So far, her guide—Alan Black, according to his business card—had seemed utterly on the up-and-up, answering every question without suspicious hesitation, and allowing her to poke her nose in anywhere she asked.

Every single alarm in her head was going off. Nobody, in her experience, was that open, especially not when they had city permits and inspectors to worry about. Especially-especially not when they were trying to hook new money.

“And you can see that our facilities are both clean and surprisingly private,” Alan said now, showing off the shower stalls. “Our members are not bashful flowers, but there are times when you want a little privacy.”

“But there are separate locker areas?” Because that was a lawsuit just
waiting
to happen.

“Oh yes. Although in practice they are mostly coed. . . .” He shrugged. “As I said, our members tend to be practical about exposed flesh. In all our time we've only had one locker room incident, and that was settled by the participants themselves before we had time to act on it.” He smiled, warmer than the usual tour-guide professional-grade affability. “Creepers tend to back off when they realize their potential victim can land a solid punch. It makes us . . . self-regulating.”

“I bet.” Ginny thought about pursuing that, then decided that it was self-explanatory enough and instead made a show of looking around. “This is a conversion building? It must have cost a great deal to bring it up to code.”

Alan took the bait, determined to prove that everything in the building was perfectly legal and acceptable. “The original owner had the structure gutted down to studs, and installed a state-of-the-art HEPA air filtration system.”

“The original owner?”

“Yes, he renovated, and opened the gym, but sold it a few years later due to health issues. Ken, the current owner, bought it in 2007.”

The year after the gym had been cited for the illegal fights, according to Tonica's contact. Health issues her sweet ass. “It seems like an odd thing to buy. Did he have a connection previously, or . . .”

“Yes, he was the night manager. We're lucky he decided to buy; otherwise, well, we might have been turned into
a hipster yoga factory.” Alan gave a delicate shudder, but it was, like his earlier smiles, too calculated. The guy was good, but there was definitely something under the surface, and she didn't think it was nervousness about screwing up his sales pitch.

“You certainly would be able to charge more, if that had happened. This may not be the most expensive piece of real estate in the city, but taxes aren't cheap, and then there's the maintenance, and, well, I'm a businesswoman. I understand how these things add up.”

“We manage. It's important to us to keep things . . . accessible. You never know where the next hot contender will come from, after all. Plus, there are a number of people who enjoy the more blue-collar feel we offer, even as the neighborhood gentrifies around us.”

“The lack of frills and publicity could certainly be a draw to a certain low-media type,” Ginny agreed, reinforcing the idea that her client was someone who wanted to stay out of the spotlight and was willing to pay good money to ensure it. Although Alan's words implied that they had a respectable revenue stream going . . . at blue-collar-reasonable membership fees, she wasn't sure how that was working out. Were the backroom fights still going on? Was dogfighting that big—and steady—a moneymaker?

They didn't seem to care if her nonexistent client was a movie star or a crime lord, either. Ginny didn't want to judge people by looks, especially not when they were stripped down for sweating, but she'd bet her next retainer that there were more ex-cons than CEOs out front.

“I can only imagine that there have been people who thought that
blue-collar
meant,” and she waved her hand airily, “not respectable?”

Alan's smile suddenly looked like it hurt. Good, now they were getting somewhere. “I assure you, this facility is clean. We have a zero-tolerance policy for drugs and harassment. Anyone caught violating the rules is evicted immediately.”

“That is reassuring,” Ginny said, with her best professional smile in return. “My client will be glad to hear it.”

No drugs, no sexual harassment, but no disclaimer of any other illegal activity. The gym might be totally legit these days, and Alan might be the most honest man in Seattle, but after discovering embezzlement and murder in an animal shelter, of all places, Ginny was pretty sure she would assume there was at least an off-the-books poker game at a nunnery, especially if the nuns insisted everything was on the up-and-up.

“So there's never been any police difficulty?”

That smile of his definitely hurt now. “The previous owner . . . had been allowing private fights to occur in the back, after hours. Those involved were fired immediately, or lost their memberships, of course, once it was discovered, and that is now strictly forbidden.”

All right, when pushed he came clean. Alan
was
an honest man, or at least playing one on TV. Ginny was almost impressed. Take that, Tonica, she thought, for all your snarks about how she couldn't schmooze!

“And that's the back-office tour. Let's move on to the
truly important area, the workout spaces, shall we?” Her host turned them around and ushered her through a side door into the main room again, his hand flat between her shoulder blades. It should have been an impartial, if unwanted touch, but Ginny felt her skin prickle uneasily under his palm.

Ginny had no interest in boxing, but she could see that yes, everything was in good repair, the floors were kept clear, the equipment maintained, the safety features all in place, including an upgraded sprinkler system.

“As you can see, even at peak hours we have capacity to handle everyone. In fact, our membership is capped to ensure that.”

“So you know all of your members personally?”

“Not me, myself, no. But our managers make an effort to learn the names of our regulars. And the trainers, of course. We have four who work during the week, and another two come in on the weekends, when we're busiest. Although some members do without, or bring their own. We do not charge visitor fees for trainers; it's just a courtesy to our members.”

“Of course.” Her hopes—lifted when she heard the membership was capped—fell again. More people they'd have to consider. Although she supposed a visitor wouldn't have the same level of comfort with a place, that they'd use it to score illegal deals . . . right? Most likely they were looking for a regular—or an employee.

“Your trainers—they're all licensed, of course. I can imagine that liability insurance in a gym could become
problematic, and the insurance companies bury you under paperwork in regard to that. Especially after the previous owner's . . . side venue.”

He pressed his lips together, and a faint flush showed on his face, but other than that, he showed no sign of having heard her. “There are, occasionally, waits for the preferred rings, but no one is left without a station for their workout. If you would like to speak with any of our members, or examine the equipment yourself, please feel free. And if you have further questions, or wish to set up a member account, please contact me.”

Ginny started to ask another question, but he looked at his watch with a practiced obviousness, and then said, “Good day, Ms. Mallard. I hope to hear from you soon.”

Ginny chewed
on her lip, going over the entire interview in her head. She'd screwed up at the end, she'd pushed too hard with the comment about the previous owner, but he hadn't thrown her out or asked why she was really there, so she was going to take it as a win. Her only question was if it was the insurance angle that had spooked him, or her circling around the previous owner. Or possibly both?

“Just once, I'd like to get a neon sign saying, ‘Oh, hey, this is your smoking gun right here.' Only, not having it actually be a smoking gun.”

Although she'd been given carte blanche to hang around and ask more questions, Ginny was pretty much done with the place, and worried about having left Georgie out in the
car alone for too long. She glanced around, but Tonica was nowhere to be seen. She had a moment of panic, feeling like she'd been abandoned.

“Get a grip,” she muttered, and went out the front door, breathing a sigh of relief as the fresh air hit her lungs. They might have an excellent ventilation system, but the air in there still smelled like . . . well, like an old gym.

Once her eyes adjusted to the sunlight, she saw Tonica leaning against the wall, nonchalant as though he were seventeen and ditching school.

“Enjoy your tour?”

“Oh, it was a blast,” she said. “I was ready to lay down money for a membership then and there.”

“Might not be such a bad idea,” he said. “Not there, I mean, but learning how to throw a few punches . . . You're not always going to have Georgie around to protect you.”

“So you admit now that she's good protection?”

“I'll grant her ‘decent,' anyway.” It was a running argument that even Georgie's taking down a thug who was trying to shoot them hadn't settled. Tonica still only saw the goofy, sweet-tempered side of the shar-pei. Ginny was thankful for that temperament, glad that her dog showed that side to most people, but under the loose fur and goofy face, there was solid muscle and sharp teeth, too. And, thanks to a year of training, excellent control that made her a potential badass, if Ginny were threatened.

But he was probably right, for reasons having nothing whatsoever to do with the cases. If mugged, she was willing to give up her wallet and jewelry, but there might come
a time when she'd face something scarier, and Georgie wasn't always with her. She should know the best way to defend herself, rather than reacting on instinct that might get her killed.

But she wasn't going to admit that to him. Not when he was still dissing Georgie.

“Anyway, the only thing I got from Alan was a confirmation that there had been illegal fights run in the back, but he claims that was the fault of the previous owner, all that had been sorted, and they're clean, clean, clean now.”

“Which of course makes you assume that they're not clean at all.”

“It's like you know me.” That, and the fact that the insurance question had made him run. Something was still off-kilter there.

“Wipe that smirk off your face,” he said without looking at her as they started walking toward the car. “How someone as sheltered as you ever got so cynical . . .”

“You don't have to grow up on the street to get cynical,” she responded, carefully
not
calling him on the fact that she knew he'd grown up protected by more family money and status than she'd ever see. “All you have to do is pay attention. Speaking of which, did you learn anything useful?”

“Maybe,” he said. “It depends on if I get any callbacks, or if they were shining me on. One guy practically fell over himself to put me in touch with a guy who might know something about buying a dog that could fight.”

“But?” she prompted, because she knew Tonica by now, too.

“But he was
too
eager. If he was involved in something illegal, he'd want to check my bona fides before he admitted to even maybe knowing a guy who might know a guy. I think he's a wannabe—knows about what's going on but isn't actually involved. Or he's a cop, working undercover. Or he's an idiot; that's also always possible. But hey, if he calls, that's a possible in. We'll play that one by ear.”

Ginny made a face. She wasn't a big fan of improvisation.

“And then there were these other two,” he went on. “Tight-lipped, butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, but they definitely knew something. They asked the questions I'd been expecting, what kind of dog I wanted, why I wasn't going through a shelter or a reputable breeder. They should've run when I told 'em shelters wouldn't let me adopt—I hinted around what Este'd said, about the do-not-adopt list, so if they know anything, they know I've abused an animal in the past. Allegedly.”

“And you think they bit?”

“Maybe. They weren't promising anything, but I left them a phone number, in case they were willing to follow up. I'm betting we'll get something more useful from them than guy number one.”

“We should set up an email drop for stuff like this,” Ginny said thoughtfully. “And a dead-end voice mail. I could do that easy enough. . . .”

Tonica put his hand out in front of her, halting her midstep and midthought. A year ago she might have raised an eyebrow and asked what he was doing, but now she trusted
his instincts enough that she tensed, alert for trouble. She scanned up and down the street, seeing the normal scattering of pedestrians, all minding their own business, two joggers, one with a German shepherd running alongside.