Visions in Death (In Death #19)(58)

With a nod, Eve unlocked the weights, adjusted them. "That's my weight." Then she wagged a thumb, inviting him to rise.

Heavy Bag stepped over as she positioned herself on the bench. "Ma'am. You don't want to hurt yourself."

"No, I don't. Spot me, Peabody."

"Sure."

Eve curled her hands around the bar, set. And did ten slow, steady reps. She replaced the bar, slid off the bench. "I ain't no girl."

She nodded to Heavy Bag, who blushed again, then strolled toward the next room.

"I can't bench my weight yet," Peabody said in an undertone. "I guess I'm a girl."

"Practice."

She stopped to watch the sparring match.

There was a bruiser in the ring with black skin so glossy it looked oiled. He had tree-trunk legs, abs that looked like ridges of steel. A punishing right, she noted, but he telegraphed it by dropping his left shoulder.

His opponent was in the Nordic god style, and quick on his feet. When she stepped closer, she made it as a droid.

The trainer was wrapped in gray sweats and jogged to different spots outside the ring to shout instruction and insult with equal fervor.

He was about five eight, Eve judged, and on the shady side of fifty. From the looks of it, his nose had had the occasion to meet someone's fist with some regularity. When he peeled back his lips to spew abuse on his fighter, Eve caught the glint of a silver tooth.

She waited until the end of the round and watched the black guy—heavyweight division—hang his head as the flyweight berated him from outside the ropes.

"Sorry to interrupt," Eve began.

Jim's head whipped around. "I don't like women in my place." He heaved a towel at his fighter, then rolled toward Eve like a small tank. "Out."

Eve took out her badge. "Why don't we start over?"

"Female cops. Worse than a regular female. This is my place. Man oughta be able to do what he wants to do in his own place and not have some female cop come around telling him he has to cater to women."

He was working up a good head of steam, eyes bulging, head bopping like a pigeon's, feet dancing in place. "I'll shut down before I have females prancing around here and asking me where's the f**king lemon water."

"Aren't we both lucky I'm not here to bust your chops about your overt violations of discrimination laws."

"Discrimination, my ass. This is a serious gym, not some froufrou palace."

"So I see. I'm Lieutenant Dallas, this is Detective Peabody. We're Homicide."

"Well, I sure as hell haven't killed anybody. Lately."

"That's a big relief to me, Jim. You got an office?"

"Why?"

"So we could go there and have a discussion instead of me cuffing you and hauling your disagreeable ass into Central to have the discussion there. I'm not interested in shutting you down. I don't give a rat's skinny ass if you block women from your membership list or if you haul them in by the bargeload to dance naked in the showers. Providing you have shower facilities, which from the smell of things, you don't."

"I got showers. I got an office. This is my place, and I run it my way."

"Fine and good. Your office or mine, Jim?"

"Goddamn females. You." He jabbed a finger at his fighter who continued to stand, gloves dangling, head down. "You do an hour with the rope till you learn what to do with your damn clumsy feet. I gotta go have a discussion."

He marched off.

"Things started going downhill," Peabody commented as they started after him, "as soon as they gave us the vote. Bet he has that sad day circled in funeral black on his perpetual calendar."

They had to climb a set of rusty iron stairs to a second level. The amazing stench of body odor, mildew, and flatulence identified the shower facilities. And made the eyes water.

Even Eve who didn't consider herself overly fussy was forced to agree with Peabody's whispered: gross.

Jim turned into a room identified as his office by the desk buried under sparring gloves, mouth guards, paper, and used towels. The walls were decorated with photos of a younger Jim in boxing trunks. In one he held a title belt aloft. Since his right eye was swollen shut, his nose bloody, and his torso black-and-blue, she assumed it hadn't been an easy victory.

"What year did you take the title?" Eve asked him.

"Forty-five. Twelve rounds. Knocked Hardy into a coma. Took him three days to come out of it."

"You must be proud. We're conducting an investigation into the rape and strangulation of two women."

"Don't know nothing about it." He tossed what might have been a pile of dirty laundry off a chair and sat. "Got two ex-wives. Gave up on women after the second one."

"Wise choice. We believe the killer lives, works, or frequents this area."

"Which is it? Typical female, can't make up your mind."

"I can see why you have those two ex-wives, Jim. You're such a charmer. Two women are dead. They were beaten, raped, strangled, and mutilated, for no reason other than they were women."

The cocky grin faded from his face. "That's why I don't watch nothing but the sports channels. You think I go around beating and raping and killing women? I gotta get me a damn lawyer now?"