Visions in Death (In Death #19)(57)

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Back on the street Peabody's smile turned smug, and there was a little bounce to her step as she walked. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Come on." She jabbed Eve with her elbow. "Spread a little glory."

Eve stopped at a glide-cart. Caffeine was going to be an essential part of the day. "Couple tubes of Pepsi," she ordered.

"One straight, one Pepsi Fitness. Watching the weight," she said to Eve.

Eve shrugged, dug out credits. She took the first hit and decided there was hope left in the world. "You did a good job. Maybe a longer dance than the one with me smashing Chancy's face into her desk, but not as messy."

"See, now that we're partners, I can be the one with the voice of reason."

"Uh-huh. What was up with that chair?"

"Quilt chair. They can be a real focal point—homey or amusing or striking. And it's a clever way to recycle scraps from other projects. I didn't like her choice of fabrics, but the workmanship was first-class."

"Gee, the things you learn," Eve said. "That have absolutely no use. Pick up the pace, Peabody, it's a quicker way to ditch the weight than drinking PFs."

"But see, I'm drinking the PF and exercising. Which means I can have dessert at the dinner party tonight. So, what are you wearing?"

"What am I... oh shit."

"I don't think that's appropriate attire for a casual dinner. We have to go," she continued before Eve could speak. "Unless things heat up, we have to. A couple, three hours—after shift—socializing and recreating with friends isn't going to hamper the investigation, Dallas."

"Jeez." She chugged Pepsi as she strode the half a block north toward the first fitness center. "It's weird enough, this whole cozy gathering, but now I have to do it on no sleep and with bodies piling up. My life used to be simple."

" Mmm."

"It did. Because it didn't have all these people in it."

"If you need to shove somebody out, you know, to simplify? Could you give Roarke the push? See, McNab and I have this understanding. If Roarke's clear, I get to take my shot at him. McNab gets one at you."

When Eve choked on the last swallow from the tube, Peabody gave her a helpful thump on the back. "Joking. Just sort of joking."

"You and McNab have a sick, sick relationship."

"We do."

Peabody beamed. "It makes us very happy."

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Jim's Gym was a hole in the wall down a clingy flight of stairs and through a muscular iron door. Eve assumed if a prospective member couldn't handle the door, he was laughed back up to the sidewalk where he could slink away holding his puny biceps.

It smelled male, but not in a flattering sense. It was the kind of odor that hit you dead center of the face, like a fist wrapped in a sweaty jockstrap.

Paint was peeling from the walls that had been tuned up to an industrial gray around the time she'd been born. There were rusty splotches in the ceiling from water damage and a grimy beige floor so soaked with sweat and blood the fumes of both rose up like fetid fog.

She imagined the men who frequented the place breathed it in like perfume.

The equipment was elemental—no frills. Weights and bars, a couple of heavy bags, a couple of speed bags. There were a few clunky machines that looked to have been manufactured in the last century. A single spotted mirror where a man built like a cargo shuttle was doing biceps curls.

Another was bench-pressing what looked like your average redwood, without a spotter. She imagined the concept of spotters would be spat upon in such facilities.

A third man pummeled one of the heavy bags like it was an adulterous ex-wife.

All were stripped down to baggy gray sweatpants and shirts with the arms ripped off. Like a uniform, she thought. All that was missing were the words Bad Ass emblazoned over the chest.

When Eve and Peabody stepped in, all movement stopped. Biceps Curls held his fifty- poundersuspended, Bench Press clanked his redwood in the safety, and Heavy Bag stood, pouring sweat, with his fist laid into the bag.

In the silence, Eve heard the echoing thuds from the next room, and the encouraging: "Lead with your left, you stupid f**k!"

She scanned the faces, then went with Heavy Bag because he was the closest. "Place got a manager?"

To her amazement, he flushed scarlet—all two hundred twenty-five pounds of him. "Ah, just Jim. He's, um, he owns the place. He's, um. Um, he's got Beaner sparring over in the ring. Ma'am."

She started across the room. Bench Press sat up, eyed her with open suspicion and considerable dislike. "Jim, he don't take no females in here."

"Jim must be unaware that it's illegal to discriminate due to sex."

"Discriminate." He barked a laugh and sneered. "He don't discriminate. He just don't take no females."

"A fine distinction. What you got there? Two seventy-five. That be about your weight?"

He swiped sweat from his wide, cocoa-colored face. "Guy can't bench his weight, he's a girl."