Icarus. (36 page)

Jack nodded. And without another word, Sergeant Patience McCoy turned and left the station house to go have dinner.

As soon as she was gone, Jack nodded again, this time to himself. Yes, he thought, we understand each other.

But she was wrong. As wrong as she could be. So he wasn't going to pay any attention to what she thought she understood.

– "-"-"AT HIS APARTMENT, Jack sat at his computer and began to make a list of everything he could remember that Kid had told him about the Team. The more he worked, the more the list began to take a slightly different form: it was every detail Jack had heard over the last year about Kid's life.

He put the title "Kid" on it and centered it at the top of the page. He wanted to be as organized and precise as possible and he was. It took him the better part of three hours – he was sure he'd keep coming back and adding – and when he pushed his chair away from his desk and looked at the screen, he realized he knew both an awful lot and almost nothing. Some of his information was intriguing, some was trivial and silly. All in all, it didn't add up to much.

But among the trivial details he wrote down was that Bryan Bishop had been wearing a T-shirt that said "Hanson Fitness Center" on it when they'd had their lunch at Jack's. And Kid had mentioned once that he used a place called Hanson's to train clients.

It might not be much but it was a place to start.

The Hanson Fitness Center was in SoHo, on Greene Street between West Houston and Prince. It was the second floor of a large restored loft building. On the first floor was an art gallery whose large window onto the street was halfway filled with sand. As Jack walked up and peered in, he didn't know if he was looking at a work of art or if it simply meant that they were out of business.

The gym was the entire second floor and it was a classy setup. There were weight machines scattered around, many of the same ones Jack had in his own apartment and that he'd seen in Kid's. One wall was a climbing wall. And there was a heavy bag in one corner, hanging from the ceiling. A woman was at the bag, both punching and kicking it, while a trainer stood and held it still. There looked to be seven or eight trainers working simultaneously with clients, and another dozen or so clients working out on their own. As Jack was looking around, he heard Bryan's voice call out, "Mr. Keller," and he looked up to see Kid's friend across the room standing by a watercooler.

"I was pretty surprised to get your call," Bryan said as they shook hands. "I don't know how you can remember stuff like this. I mean, from a T-shirt, I can hardly remember I work here."

"I thought it was worth a shot. Kid used to train people here sometimes, didn't he?"

"Yeah. During the day when it's not so crowded, then he'd give 'em twenty-five percent of his take. It was a pretty good deal. It's a nice setup, don't you think?"

"It's impressive," Jack agreed. "What do you do here?"

"Me? I do a little bit of everything. I train people mostly. I got a few of my own clients, not like Kid, but a couple. But mostly I do whatever they need. The Hansons, the guys who own the place, they're real nice."

There was one small private office in the place and a man in sweatpants and a T-shirt – also bearing the name of the gym – stepped out of it and surveyed the room. "Hey, B.B.," he called in Bryan's direction. "Before you go, you wanna clean out the big bathroom? It's a mess."

Bryan colored slightly and said to Jack, "We all gotta do it. Take turns, you know. Gotta keep the place clean." Then, to his boss, still standing in front of the office, he called back, "Okay, Bruce. But then I'm outta here." To Jack he said, "It'll just take me a few minutes. Then we can go talk, okay?"

Jack nodded and watched as Bryan moved to one of what appeared to be three different bathrooms. As he walked down the hallway, a young man, a Wall Streeter if Jack had ever seen one, came out of one of the bathrooms, still toweling off his hair. As he passed Bryan, he dropped the towel on the floor. There was a bin for towels not six feet from where the guy stood, but he just dropped the wet cloth on the floor and kept walking. Bryan stooped and picked it up. He looked back to stare at the client in disbelief, but saw Jack watching him, so quickly averted his gaze and docilely dropped the towel in the proper basket. Then he disappeared into the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, they were on their way out. But as Bryan reached the front door, another client – and another Wall Streeter from the looks of it – strode in and waylaid him. Bryan glanced at Jack and said, "Just give me a second," and then they both headed toward the back of the gym. Jack watched as the client chatted with Bryan for a moment, as friendly as could be, but also dug his hand into his pocket and came out with money. He glanced down to make sure of the amount, then surreptitiously slipped it into Bryan's palm. Bryan slapped him on the back, nodded, and came back to Jack.

"Sorry about that," he said. "Now we're outta here for sure."

"A tip?" Jack asked as they headed for the stairwell.

Bryan looked surprised. "It'd be a pretty good tip," he said and opened up his hand to reveal a hundred-dollar bill. Then he looked embarrassed – a look Jack was beginning to recognize – and said, "I do a little booking, you know. I can use the money and a lot of guys here like to bet. Lotta the stock market guys. I don't actually book, I can't really afford it, but I know a guy, so I take stuff for him. He gives me like ten percent of what I bring in. I pass out those little yellow cards, too. For pro football, you know. You gotta win three out of three or four out of four or seven out of eight or whatever. If you ever wanna place a bet, Mr. Keller, I can do it for you. You won't even get charged the vig, I swear."

"Thanks," Jack said. "I'll keep it in mind."

They walked a block south to the SoHo Wine Bar, sat down in a booth off to the side. The waitress came immediately to take their order – Bryan had a light beer, Jack had a Sam Adams on draft – then Bryan looked up and, with as friendly a smile as Jack thought he'd seen in a long, long time, asked, "So what can I do for you, Mr. Keller?"

"The first thing is, call me Jack."

Again, that flash of embarrassment. Bryan nodded quickly and vigorously to cover it up.

"Second thing, and this isn't why I'm here, but I thought of it when we were in the gym – I need a new trainer. Kid got me hooked, although it's not just vanity. Or even just staying in shape. I've got some specific physical therapy that I've got to keep up. It's important. You interested?"

Bryan could hardly get the words out. The smile on his face went from ear to ear now. "Are you serious? Yeah, I'm interested. Yeah, of course."

"I like to work out early in the morning, but I can be flexible. I'm an early morning person, though, and it's easier-:"

Bryan interrupted him excitedly. "Hey, Mr. Keller – I mean, Jack… sorry – whatever you want to do and whenever you want to do it is fine with me. I mean, this is like an honor for you to even ask me. And I know a lot of the therapy Kid was doing with you. I'm gonna be really good at this."

"I know you are, Bryan. That's why I asked you. I'll pay you the same thing I was paying Kid, which is pretty fair."

"Okay, but, I mean, I'm no Kid. You gotta understand that. He was the best, really. I'm good, though, I don't want you to think I'm not good. I can do this."

"So do we have a deal?"

"Yeah." Jack didn't think it was possible but Bryan's grin got even wider. "We definitely have a deal. And I wasn't kidding when I said that this was a real honor for me. I'm gonna take it very seriously, I just want you to know that."

Jack nodded, pleased. "I do know it."

Bryan stuck out his hand and they shook on it. Bryan was so excited he could hardly sit still.

"And now there's a third thing," Jack told him.

"Sure," Bryan said. "Anything."

"I don't think Kid killed himself. Or that he just fell from the balcony."

Bryan looked confused, not quite able to grasp Jack's train of thought. "But, then what do you-"

"I think somebody killed Kid."

"For real? Are you sure?"

"For real," Jack said. "And I'm pretty sure."

"Have you told the police?"

Jack nodded.

Bryan was excited. "And what'd they say?"

"They didn't believe me. Or care."

"Typical," Bryan said. "They're stupid. It's just easier for them that way."

"I've been doing some checking on my own. Some things just don't add up. You told me he hassled you when you were taking steroids."

"That's for sure. He hated drugs. Kid wouldn't even smoke a joint."

"Did you know they found LSD in his blood?"

Bryan practically exploded in the booth. "That's bullshit," he said. "That's gotta be total bullshit!"

"That's what I think, too. But there's more. The night he died, there was a woman in his apartment with him. Right before… right before it happened."

"Okay, well, that sounds like Kid, I gotta admit. He was pretty much of a hound."

"Did he ever talk to you about his team?"

"The women, you mean? His girlfriends?" When Jack nodded, Bryan shrugged. "Sometimes. Not all that much. You know, normal stuff."

"Did you meet any of them?"

"Why are you asking about his girls?"

"Because I think that one of the members of his team was with him the night he died. And I think whoever it was killed him."

"Holy shit!"

"Yeah," Jack said. "I agree. So do you know any of them?"

"I might have met one or two," Bryan said slowly. "Seen 'em at clubs or something. But-"

"Do you know any of their names?"

Now Bryan hesitated. Then he said, "He had these weird nicknames, you know. That's mostly what he called them."

"I know," Jack told him. And then he gave Bryan as complete a rundown as he could. He told him about the Mortician, how he'd found her, who she really was. Bryan's eyes widened when he learned her real identity. They widened even more when he found out she'd been paying for Kid's apartment.

"I knew somebody was footin' the bill," he said. "But Kid was pretty tight about that. He didn't talk about it much. I think he might've been a little ashamed, you know, letting a woman pay for him."

Jack ran down the other nicknames. At each mention – the Entertainer, Samsonite, the Murderess, the Mistake – Bryan shook his head.

"The Destination?" Jack asked. "Did he ever mention her?"

"Yeah." His eyebrows came together and his shoulders rose. "Her I heard of. The Destination. Yeah. She was like his dream girl or somethin', right?" His shoulders fell back down slightly. "That was Kid," he said sadly. "Always dreamin'."

"So you don't know any of the others?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Keller. I might've heard about 'em but I just don't remember. I can't believe you found one. That's pretty amazing."

"How about Kim?" Jack asked. "I overheard him on the phone once; he said that he worked with someone named Kim, at the Saddle."

"Sure," Bryan nodded. "The Golden Saddle. In Chelsea. Kid used to fill in there sometimes when he really needed money."

"Do you know Kim?"

"No. But I think they went to school together. Hunter. For the MBA. You gonna go to the Saddle?" Bryan asked.

"I guess so. Are they open late?"

"Yeah. Probably till two or somethin' like that. Maybe even later."

"Pretty late for a gym."

"A gym?" Bryan laughed. "It's a club, Mr. Keller. Believe me, the Saddle ain't no gym. You know, if you wanna wait till tomorrow, I can go with you. I just can't do it tonight."

"It's all right. But I appreciate the offer. And I'll tell you what – why don't we start the workouts day after tomorrow? Since I'll be out clubbing tonight, give me a day's rest and then we'll get goin'."

"You got it," Bryan said.

Jack paid the check and they stood to leave. As Jack was just about to ease his way out from behind the table, Bryan put his hand on Jack's shoulder.

"Mr. Keller…" he said. "Kid knew some pretty strange people. You be careful, okay? And if you need anything, someone to watch your back, you call me." He hesitated, as if afraid to say something that might sound like bragging, but then he said, rather wistfully, "I blocked for him. I can block for you. It's what I'm good at."

Jack nodded and smiled his thanks. "Day after tomorrow," he said. "The new torture begins."

The Golden Saddle was on Twenty-third Street and Eleventh Avenue. It was easy to spot by the crowd of leather-clad, body-pierced, tattooed customers streaming in.

It was nine-thirty later that night and Jack stood outside, looking up at the small red neon sign that flashed the club's name.

"Bryan was right," Dom growled. "This definitely ain't no gym. And I'll tell you somethin' else, Jackie. The people are so fuckin' weird, I'm gonna fit right in."

"Let's stop talking and do it," Jack said. "We'll find Kim, talk to her for a few minutes, then we'll leave. I called and they said she was working."

"You really think I'm goin' in there?" Dom asked.

"I bought you dinner, didn't I? A deal's a deal."

"Nothin but grief," Dom said. Then they paid their ten-dollar cover charge and went inside.

They found themselves in a rowdy country-western bar, dimly lit, so loud it was almost impossible to talk. There were tables scattered around and two bars, one at either end of the room. One of the bars had a platform extending from it, as if there would be some live entertainment. A waiter led them to a table after Jack slipped him ten bucks and they sat and ordered beer. It took a minute, Jack was waiting for it, and then Dom said, "You notice somethin' a little strange about this place?"

Jack nodded. Then he started to laugh.