Brody & Hannigan 02 - Grand Theft Lotto (7 page)

"Wow, that many, huh?"

Brody tightened his grip on the steering wheel, backing out of the parking slip. He jerked out of Reverse into Drive, drawing a questioning look from Hannigan.

"Okay, thanks Greg." As Brody looked her way again, she actually flushed pink. "Shut up, Greg." A hint of a smile curving her lips, she hung up and looked forward, not meeting Brody's gaze.

He forced his eyes back to the road. "What did Kowalski say?"

"There are three gyms they've been keeping an eye on. One of them, The Body Shop, is over on Silor Avenue."

He arched his eyebrows. "That's three blocks from here. And two blocks from the alley."

"He says they're keeping an eye on the place for possible fraud. Seems that Narcotics had raided the place, looking for illegal steroids, but what they found instead was a whole lot of saline solution in unmarked vials."

"So they were shooting people up with saline, but selling it to them as steroids?"

"Nobody admitted it, but yeah, that was the deal. But since they didn't catch anyone in the act, and there's no law against owning salt water—" She shrugged. "Wonder what Dwayne had to do with it?"

"We don't know that this is the gym Dwayne was talking about," Brody pointed out. "And even if it was, Dwayne might not have been in on the scam. He could have been a dupe."

"Only one way to find out," Hannigan said. "Let's go to the gym."

Chapter Seven

The Body Shop wasn't the high tech, shiny commercial gym that most urban consumers were used to. It was little more than a couple of boxing rings, a wall full of free weights, and about six well-worn weight benches equipped with barbells of varying sizes.

Most of the action seemed to be concentrated on the boxing rings when Hannigan entered through the glass-front entryway. The sparring faltered slowly to a stop as the gym's occupants began to take notice of the new arrivals.

Hannigan pulled her credentials from her jacket pocket. "Detectives Hannigan and Brody from the Weatherford Police Department. Who's in charge?"

The gym-goers didn't meet their eyes, nor look in any particular direction. Finally, from next to one of the rings in the back of the room, a short, lean-muscled man with dark skin and a blond Fu Manchu mustache walked with a slightly bow-legged swagger to the front of the gym.

"Can I help you, officers?"

"Detectives," Hannigan corrected, her voice firm but not confrontational. "Are you the proprietor?"

The man with the mustache grinned at the word choice. "I manage the place."

"Do you own it?" Brody asked.

The gym manager's brown eyes snapped up to Brody's face. "No."

"Who does?"

"I don't know," the man answered.

Hannigan brought out her notebook. "Your name?"

"Anton."

"First or last?"

"Anton Jones."

Hannigan flashed a quick glance at Brody. His eyebrows twitched upward.

"Do you have any identification?" she asked Anton Jones.

"Is there something wrong, offi—detectives?"

Brody pulled out a photograph of Dwayne Barlow that Marie had given them before they left her house the day before. "This man was a member."

Anton shook his head.

"He wasn't a member?" Hannigan pressed.

"We don't have members," Anton answered with a smug grin, his gaze taking in Brody's expensive suit and silk tie. "Believe me, Poindexter, this ain't your daddy's gym."

"People don't have to pay to use the equipment and facilities?" Brody pressed.

Anton laughed aloud. "Facilities? You mean the rings and the benches? Yeah, people pay. Cover charge of two bucks, plus a dollar for each set of equipment used." He pointed toward the window behind them. "I believe you two owe me four bucks just for walking in here."

Hannigan looked at the window and saw, painted in temporary window paint, "Two dollar cover charge. Don't come in without the cash."

"Got it," Brody murmured, fishing four dollars from his wallet and handing it to Anton.

"You never did show me any identification," Hannigan said.

Anton shoved the four dollars into the pocket of his boxing shorts and looked at her, giving her a thorough visual once-over. "No, I didn't."

"Reckon you could do it now?" she asked, letting her redneck accent come out to play a little. She saw Anton's eyes widen slightly at the twang.

His lip curling in a half smile, he nodded his head for them to follow him and head for a narrow door in the side of the main room. Through the door sat a small, cluttered office with a single desk, a phone and two banged-up metal file cabinets against the wall. Anton closed the door behind him and reached into the drawer of the desk and produced a worn, brown leather wallet. He plucked an Alabama driver's license from inside the fat wallet and handed it to Hannigan.

"There you go, gorgeous."

The driver's license did, indeed, give his name as Anton Jones. Hannigan handed the I.D. back to him. "Were you here when the police raided the place looking for steroids?"

"No, I was not," Anton said firmly. "That was the previous manager. Which is why he's the previous manager."

"Do you know a man named Dwayne Barlow?"

Anton hesitated before answering. "I'm not great with names."

Hannigan pulled the photo of her cousin from Brody's hand and showed it to Anton again. "This guy?"

"Oh, him. Yeah, he comes around some. Not a lot. I think maybe he came around more before I was made manager." Anton shrugged and handed the photo back to her. "I got the feeling he wasn't much interested in body building."

"Then why did he come here?" Brody asked.

"I don't really know." Anton glanced over his shoulder, his brow furrowed as if he was contemplating something. The wrinkles in his forehead cleared, and he turned back to look at them. "You should talk to Sully. He's been coming to this gym for years. He might know more about your man Barlow."

"Which one is Sully?" Hannigan asked.

Anton nodded his head toward a tall, well-built man working a weight bag hanging from the ceiling near the back of the gym. "Cade Sullivan. Goes by Sully. Used to be a Golden Glove, back in the day. Teaches boxing to intermediate fighters. None of that kickboxing, girly shit. Hard-knuckle stuff." Anton's gaze slid over Hannigan, a faint smile twitching his lips. "He'll like you, sweetheart. He likes them small and tough."

Hannigan shot Brody a look, taking a certain amount of feminine satisfaction from his scowling glare at Anton. She gave the sleeve of his jacket a tug and headed across the gym. Brody paused just long enough to pull out his business card and hand it to Anton. "If you come across any information regarding Dwayne Barlow, give me a call."

Then he headed after Hannigan, who was making a beeline to the corner of the gym where Cade Sullivan was pounding the hell out of the weight bag.

Sullivan didn't look up right away, just kept pummeling the bag until Hannigan cleared her throat. He looked up then, letting the bag go. Dodging its swing back toward him, he looked her up and down much the way Anton had. She wasn't much of a preener, but after her disastrous lingerie shopping trip the day before, she wasn't going to feel guilty about enjoying a little masculine ogling.

And the added benefit of watching Brody stiffen with displeasure? It was flattering. So sue her.

Brody flashed his badge. "Detectives Brody and Hannigan of the Weatherford Police. What can you tell us about a man named Dwayne Barlow?"

"Amazing how nobody knows nothing," Hannigan said later as they walked out of The Body Shop with no real answers, only new leads to follow.

"And they all want to get into your pants," Brody muttered, glaring back at the sight of both Anton Jones and Cade Sullivan standing in the plate glass window, watching them leave.

"I think that was probably more posturing for you than for me," she said. "And you bristled so nicely in response."

"I did not bristle," he protested, but he couldn't put much indignation behind the disavowal. He
had
bristled, like a damned dog guarding a female. Which was not a very flattering comparison.

"You did," she said. "A little."

He gave her a suspicious look. "Did you enjoy it?"

Her bright gray eyes met his. "I did. A little."

Damn, but he wanted to stop right in the middle of the sidewalk, push her up against the brick wall of the building behind her and kiss her until she begged him to take her home and finish the job in private.

And if the two muscle-bound goons still watching them through the window got a good, long look at which man Hannigan really wanted, then all the better.

"You do realize I have a pretty good idea what you're thinking right now, don't you?" Hannigan asked, sounding rather pleased with herself.

"You do realize it's what I'm thinking ninety-nine percent of the time I'm with you, don't you?" he shot back, running his finger lightly over the curve of her collarbone and enjoying the hell out of the way her skin went vibrantly pink beneath his touch.

"We're still on the clock," she said with a sternness that didn't quite make it to her eyes.

"And when we're not?"

She took a long, slow breath that made her breasts jut enticingly toward him. He closed his eyes, as if that would prove to be some sort of defense against his desire for her.

It wasn't.

"I have to go to my mother's tonight after work," she said, regret darkening her voice. "She told Marie she'd handle putting together a memorial service, and I told her I'd pitch in."

He opened his eyes, the reminder of her cousin's violent death helping to cool some of his inconvenient ardor. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I guess if you could find out if there's a way to expedite the autopsy so we can release the body to Marie, that might be helpful."

"I'll see what I can do," he said, although he wasn't sure there was much that could be done to make the process go any faster. Examining the body was a big part of evidence gathering in a murder investigation. He wasn't going to push people to hurry through a process that might help them find the killer.

Back in his car, he glanced at his partner, who still looked a little pink from his earlier flirtation. "So, what did old Greg Kowalski have to say that made you laugh?"

"I don't remember," she said. He was pretty sure she was lying.

"And what did he say that made you tell him to shut up?"

The pink in her throat rose up to her cheeks. "I said that?"

"You did."

"I don't know—he probably made one of his usual wisecracks. You know what he's like."

"Not nearly as well as you do," Brody murmured.

She snapped her gaze up to his. "Brody, you know Greg and I were over a long time ago."

"Still, you found him attractive enough to sleep with, even though you were working together."

"For God's sake, Brody, how many ways do I have to tell you you're beautiful before you'll believe me?"

"Beautiful?" He grimaced.

"In the most masculine sense of that word," she said with a hint of a grin. "I know you're not stupid. I know you know you're attractive. I mean, look how many women you have to beat off of you on a daily basis."

"And yet, you never bristle."

"Oh, I bristle," she said with flattering conviction. "I'm just a lot better at hiding it."

He paused with his hand on the ignition key. "Why? Why hide it?"

She didn't answer, looking down at her hands.

"I won't hurt you," he added quietly.

Her gaze snaked toward him, a hint of wariness darkening her eyes to the color of storm clouds. "You can't promise that."

"I'll never seek to hurt you," he compromised.

She released a small huff of breath and leaned her head against the back of the seat. "We're already so tangled up with each other I sometimes forget who I am. You've changed me. I guess I've changed you. That's a lot of responsibility for both of us, but we've managed to handle it so far."

"And you're afraid to get any more tangled up."

He saw fear in her eyes when she looked at him. "When things ended with Greg Kowalski, it hurt a little, but I was mostly okay." She reached across the space between them, brushing her fingertips against his cheek. He caught her hand, held it in place. "If I ever lost you, I would not be okay."

"You will never lose me." He pressed a soft kiss to the center of her palm. "Wherever you go, no matter how far, I will find you."

He felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment at his bald declaration. He'd never been one of those guys who made flowery speeches. Hannigan had never been the sort of woman who liked to hear them.

But the emotion blazing in her eyes turned them molten silver. She unbuckled her seat belt, stretched over the gear console and kissed him.

He dragged her closer, threading his fingers through her hair. Entangling himself with her, deepening the kiss with a hunger he usually kept tightly leashed.

"Take me home," she whispered against his mouth.

He groaned. "We're still on the clock," he said, repeating her earlier protest with even less conviction than he'd heard from her.

"I don't care." She slid her mouth over his jaw and down the side of his neck, suckling lightly at the skin there.

He somehow found the presence of mind to push her away, holding her at arm's length. His resolve nearly faltered at the sight of her passion-drunk eyes and kiss-stung lips, and for a second, his mind sidetracked into a lightning-fast debate of the pros and cons of hot, sweaty sex in the backseat of a department-issue sedan.

But he didn't want his first time with Hannigan to be rushed and furtive. He didn't want to worry about the relative comfort of bare flesh on hot vinyl seats or the logistics of coupling without leaving evidence that could come back to haunt them.

He wanted clean sheets, soft music—and no regrets.

"Let's finish our shift," he said. "Then I'll meet you at your place."

Her eyes glittered with equal parts frustration and anticipation. "I have to go to my mother's," she reminded him.