Dangerous Refuge

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “If you ‘like’ me any more right now, we’re going to be arrested for lewd acts in public.”

  “Mmm, lewd acts,” he said, savoring the words like a fine wine. “Does that mean getting naked, hands on, and mouths, and—”

  The truck’s passenger door opened and closed, hard, on his speculations. Smiling, he got out and followed her inside.

  Beyond the front door, Ground & Pound was loud and sweaty, with an open floor plan broken up by support beams and movable wall panels for private instruction. The center of the big room was dominated by an octagonal ring that was nearly thirty feet across. Eight chain-link fences, taller than an NBA player, surrounded the octagon. The junctions were padded in battered plasticized canvas.

  It looked like child-safety equipment made for monsters.

  As pairs of men grappled with each other, the sound of grunts and meat slamming into meat thickened the air. A lot of the fighters had shaved heads. All of them were naked but for trunks and boots, which resembled the fancy padded Reeboks that had been in style when Tanner had gone to high school. They looked more silly than impressive.

  Nobody smiled or joked. The Ground & Pound wasn’t for laughs. It was a grim, sweaty path to fame and riches. Or so the occupants hoped. Everyone was looking for a golden ticket out of dead-end physical jobs. All the men were solid muscle, burning so fiercely for their shot at the big time that they gave off more heat than the air-conditioning could handle.

  “Holy Toledo, as my grandmother used to say.” Shaye spoke so that only Tanner could hear. “Some of these guys are riding a wave of desperation that’s going to break and send them facedown into despair.”

  “Good enough to hope, not nearly good enough to achieve,” Tanner agreed. He had seen plenty of gyms like this in L.A.

  “No wonder they’re so serious. They’re trying to put off failure every time they breathe.”

  “Steak-heads. And Rua was one of them.”

  The man behind the counter looked like he’d been shaved out of granite that was the color of brown skin. His mouth was a thin curve of unhappiness and his black hair was cut down to a skullcap. He didn’t smile when he saw them.

  Shaye took one look and knew Tanner would do better with the man than she would. Women weren’t as strong as men, and the meat behind the counter was only interested in strength.

  “Tag, you’re it,” she said in a low voice.

  Tanner wasn’t surprised.

  “Looking for something?” the man asked. His tone said he didn’t care.

  Tanner put his hands on the counter before him and leaned into the man’s face. “A dude called Stubby.”

  “Mr. Stubbs doesn’t see walk-ins.”

  “I’m not here for training. Got that covered.” He smiled his cop smile, cold and uninterested.

  “He’s not here.”

  “You just said he didn’t see walk-ins, which is like saying he’s here but you don’t want to help us. Too bad. Stubby wants to see us.”

  Shaye put a hand over her mouth and coughed rather than laughing out loud.

  The man’s skull turned purple underneath the short pelt of hair. “What do you want?”

  “Antonio Rua. He trains here.”

  “Tony hasn’t been around in days,” the man said sourly. “Lazy bastard.”

  “Then Stubby must have a hole in his schedule. We’ll help him fill it up.”

  The man scowled, but was smart enough to know that Tanner wasn’t the least bit intimidated. He just had the kind of patience that wasn’t going anywhere until he got what he wanted, and a confidence that said he didn’t have to prove himself to anyone.

  “Wait here. The fighters don’t like to be bothered.”

  “Yeah, I could feel the love all the way from the parking lot,” Tanner said.

  She coughed again.

  “You need some water, honey?” Tanner asked. “I’m sure the receptionist could find some.”

  She shook her head and tried to squash her laughter. It shouldn’t have been so funny, but watching Tanner casually face down the gym’s tough guy amused her. Tanner didn’t bluster or posture or yell, he simply, calmly knew he would win if it came to a throw-down.

  So did the “receptionist.” He turned on his heel and stomped off into the center of the sweat and noise.

  “It’s a good thing I’ve already decided that I like you,” she said with a voice that loosened his knees. “You can be a donkey, but you’re very hard to pin the tail on.”

  “Rent real estate in your opponent’s head, take them off their game.” He shrugged. “Same reason ass-poking and crotch-gouging are used in these fights. It’s not the pain, it’s the shame.”

  “I didn’t know you fought.”

  He shook his head slightly as he glanced around the ersatz dojo. “Not like this. The people I take on are fighting for their lives. These guys are tough in the sense that they can absorb pain. The ones who make the big time can give and take a whole lot of hurt and be smart at the same time. It’s a real scarce combination.”

  “That’s what I keep telling these dumb sacks of meat,” a man said as he walked up. “The ones who get it move on to the next rung of the fight card, and the next, until they find someone smarter or tougher than they are.”

  “Mr. Stubbs?” Shaye guessed.

  Stubbs didn’t live up to his name. He was nearly as tall as Tanner and probably had twenty pounds on him. He was too old to be active in the fight game, but still in shape. His T-shirt had ripped-out sleeves because they didn’t fit around his biceps. His chest looked like a well-cut sculpture. His thighs bulged beneath his faded jeans.

  “Yeah, I’m Stubbs.” He looked at Tanner. “Is there a problem?”

  “We’re trying to learn a bit more about a guy, Antonio Rua. People call him Tonio or Tony. He trains here.”

  “Name’s familiar,” Stubbs said.

  “No surprise. He’s enough of a regular that your receptionist missed him after only a few days.”

  The boss gave the counter steak-head an unhappy look before concentrating on the unwanted guests. “Let’s talk in my office, Mr.—”

  “Detective Tanner Davis.”

  Stubbs didn’t ask for a badge.

  Tanner didn’t offer one.

  Shaye felt invisible, so figured no one would notice if she followed along quietly behind them.

  As they wound through the gym, Stubbs pointed out the brightest prospects, pretty much ignoring the guys who’d never be more than glorified practice dummies. Tanner was more interested in Stubbs’s information about Rua than hearing about the rest of the clients, but he nodded in the right places.

  She ghosted behind, treading water in a testosterone sea. The place was cleaner than she had expected, with the sharp scents of bleach-based disinfectants, male musk, and a hint of copper, which she realized must be fresh blood. More than one of the men she passed had a face like a fright mask.

  “Occupational hazard,” Stubbs said, following her glance. “Even the best bleed here.”

  “How good was Rua?” Shaye asked.

  “At this gym he was close to the top. Little on the short side, but he made up for lack of reach by being able to eat pain like some guys down six-packs. Not that I encourage anyone training here to drink.”

  “But he hasn’t been here for a while?” Tanner asked.

  There was a meaty smack and a clang of chain link as a fighter was thrown against the barrier.

  “Hey!” Stubbs yelled. “You save that for Saturdays!”

  Shaye winced. The man had a voice like a jet engine.

  “Some of these guys have a lot to prove,” Stubbs said, shaking his head. “They get overexcited.”

  “Take shortcuts?” Tanner asked in a voice far more lazy than his eyes.

  Without looking away from the fighter peeling himself off the chain link, Stubbs shook his head. When he was satisfied that there was no meaningful damage to the fence or the fighter, he gave his attention to his guests aga
in.

  “No. I run a clean shop here. No drugs. No juice. No payoffs.” He counted off the infractions on his meaty fingers. “I find otherwise, I kick ’em to the curb.” The fingers became a fist.

  “You could be putting human growth hormone in the watercooler and pumping steroids in the air—I don’t care,” Tanner said. “We just want to know about Rua.”

  Stubbs measured the other man, then nodded and led them to his office, which was set off from the gym by a waist-high wall of concrete blocks. A few filing cabinets, a phone, a copier, an old computer, a small desk, and some stacked metal folding chairs occupied most of the space. Stubbs sat behind the desk, where he could still see out over the gym.

  Tanner grabbed two folding chairs and pulled them up to the side of the desk. As he and Shaye sat down, Stubbs started talking.

  “Rua might have gone places. He was one of the best of the lot here and had caught some Reno gigs. And he looked real good cleaned up. That’s an important part of the game, too—not looking like a mutt on cable TV. About a week ago, he cleared out his locker and quit the gym.”

  “Why?” Tanner asked.

  Stubbs shrugged and spoke with genuine regret. “He outgrew me. He came in, told me he had the deal, and left.”

  “That happen often?”

  “It’s the dream of every fighter out there. The good ones move on. The rest hang on.”

  “What is ‘the deal’?” Shaye asked quietly.

  For a moment Stubbs studied something out in the big ring, then he nodded and turned back to the conversation. “We’re all nothing until the day we get the deal that makes us something.”

  “And Rua got the deal,” Tanner said.

  Stubbs nodded. “He sure thought so. He was talking about breaking out of the casino circuit and getting second bill on big matches.” He flicked his hand at the gym beyond. “Most of those guys won’t even make undercard material. They might lie to themselves, but they can’t lie to me.”

  “Was Rua really that good? Or did someone die and leave him a pile of money?” Tanner asked.

  Stubbs gave a rusty laugh. “At this level, money doesn’t win fights. Determination, muscle, and guts do. Undercard status and a good manager—and a sponsor—are the next step up. That’s where Rua is going. He likes fighting a lot better than his day gig supervising a bunch of Mexicans on construction sites.”

  “Did you manage Rua?” Tanner asked, wondering if Stubbs cared enough to shoot the man who got away.

  “I did what I could, but I have a couple hundred guys in and out of the gym every month.”

  “Did he mention a new manager or sponsor?” Tanner asked.

  “I got the feeling he was going to Reno. A new job.”

  “Did he say where he was going to train?”

  Stubbs barked out a laugh. “That would be like telling your girlfriend that you have a piece on the side and like the piece better than her and you’re moving out.”

  Shaye could only nod. Stubbs had just described how her marriage had ended.

  “What kind of a job did Rua get?” Tanner asked.

  “Security detail for some politician’s personal appearances. Holden or Mills or someone—I don’t really keep up unless I have to play nice with the licensing agencies. If you run a bar or a gym, being a sweetheart doesn’t get the job done.”

  “Do you mean Hill?” Shaye asked.

  “Yeah.” Stubbs snapped his thick fingers. “That was the name. Isn’t he running for county board or something?”

  “Governor, actually,” she said.

  Stubbs grunted. “No wonder Rua looked so happy.” He gave Tanner a long look. “You have a badge and a lot of questions about Rua. He in trouble?”

  “Not anymore. He’s dead.”

  Stubbs shook his head sadly. “Head injury?”

  “Bullets,” Tanner said.

  “Well, shit.”

  Shaye thought that pretty much summed it up.

  Twenty-seven

  Tanner drove toward Carson City while Shaye talked on her cell phone, working her way through underlings until she got one who admitted to having access to Harold Hill, the gubernatorial hopeful. The man who, according to Kimberli and the odds makers in Las Vegas, was very likely to get the office of his dreams.

  Make that the stepping-stone on the way to his dreams, Shaye thought.

  The idea of a pretty face and empty head in the Oval Office made her wonder how often it had happened in the past. It was an open secret that Hill had his eye on the presidency and plenty of moneyed backers who were just waiting for him to get seasoned in the governor’s office until the next national election.

  Thinking about Hill and his hoped-for future made her shake her head, but it was better than the deputy’s words echoing in head.

  Stay alive. Stay home.

  She could have done without August’s reminder of the two corpses she’d recently seen. Or how much she wanted to live to enjoy one very alive man.

  “Yes, I’m still here,” she said into the phone. “Really, you don’t have to bother Mr. Hill. I just need to know who handles the staffing on his security detail.”

  “I’m sorry. Nothing about Mr. Hill’s security arrangements is available to the public,” the aide said. “However, Mr. Hill has five minutes between engagements late this morning, if you would like to talk to him personally. He has a keen appreciation of all the good work the Conservancy has done for the state of Nevada.”

  She resigned herself to waiting around for a little face time with Harold Hill. “Should my guest and I sign in at the front desk?”

  “Yes, please. You’ll receive badges and an escort there. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have several calls waiting.”

  “Thanks for your help.” She was talking to herself.

  “Any luck?” Tanner asked. “Sounds like Mr. Hill was very busy shaking hands, or shaking down donors.”

  “Same difference,” she said, putting her phone back in her jacket pocket. “No one will talk about security, so we have to ask the man himself.”

  “I’d have been surprised if the future governor’s security staff was any other way. Frankly, I’m impressed you had the juice to get us in at all. I was going to ask a friend to do some not-quite-legal hacking.”

  “Would this be the same one who discovered the coins for you?”

  “That was legal.” He glanced in the rearview and side mirrors. No takers yet. “Thanks for getting through to Hill.”

  “The National Ranch Conservancy backs candidates who share its views,” she said. “One of them is Harold Hill.”

  “Interesting. How does it feel to work for a kingmaker?”

  “Kimberli is too busy putting on mascara and attracting donations to have much time left for making kings. But from what she’s said, Hill is one of the Conservancy’s favorite politicians, which makes him a big deal for her.”

  “Can’t fire a gun in the desert without hitting an interest group,” Tanner said wryly. “When do we see Hill?”

  “Before noon, if we’re lucky. But we have to be there on your best behavior and wait until he has a free moment between meetings.”

  “Does that mean no waiting-room sex?”

  She gave him a sideways look and bit back a smile. “None. But thinking about it should help pass the time.”

  “Thinking about it will make me wish I had a hat to put on my lap.”

  She was still smiling when they hit the security at the main door and showed ID. An underling led them to one of the several private offices reserved for people who had appointments to see Hill. The chairs were okay, the coffee was drinkable, and the selection of magazines numbing. The muted TV in one corner didn’t offer relief.

  It was almost one o’clock before Hill was available. Shaye had plenty of time to remind Tanner to smile and be pleasant, rather than acting like he was grilling a suspect with white lights and a black attitude.

  Mr. Hill strode in with the vigor that was his trademark almost as muc
h as his charismatic smile. He was the best of the past and the promise of a bright future rolled into a sharp gray suit with silver buttons on his cuffs and jacket front. When he looked at someone, they were the only person in his world.

  I was too tired to appreciate him at the “memorial,” Tanner realized. He’s good. I’ll bet he can change course to pick up every political breeze and explain any change of direction with a handshake and a smile.

  He makes the mayor of L.A. look like a three-legged dog in a greyhound race.

  “Shaye, I’m so glad you dropped by,” Hill said. He signaled informality by unbuttoning his suit coat and giving her a warm handshake. “I was just going to ask the Conservancy for advice on building up a policy with regard to keeping ranchers in the valley.”

  “I’m sure Kimberli will be happy to help in any way she can,” Shaye said. “This is Tanner Davis, nephew of Lorne Davis. You probably met at the Conservancy gala, but you meet so many thousands of people, I figure it doesn’t hurt to introduce both of you again.”

  “Mr. Davis,” Hill said. As he turned toward Tanner, his suit coat opened enough to show two cell phones. One was dark, flashy, and expensive. One was a muddy shade of blue and cheap.

  Tanner thought of the sheriff and wondered if the men used the cheap phone when out getting votes from the common man.

  “My condolences on your uncle,” Hill said. “He was a good, respected man.”

  “Thank you,” Tanner said politely.

  An aide tapped on the open door. Hill looked over.

  “A moment, Rowan,” he said. “Surely it can wait while I talk to my friends?”

  “Yes, sir,” the young woman said as she shut the door.

  “Sorry,” Hill said to them. “My staff is told to keep me on time. I have a meeting with one of the president’s economists. We’re going to put our heads together and find an environmentally sound solution for the high unemployment rate that is dogging our state. That’s what’s important—jobs and the environment.”

  Tanner nodded, and knew that if Hill had been talking to another interest group, he would insert their cause in the place of the environment. Not sleazy, just political savvy. Everyone wanted to feel important.