Intended Target

by G. K. Parks

  “We’ve seen the footage. The big, bulky muscleheads don’t fit the build of the shooter. He appeared relatively average. A normal height and probably 170 pounds.”

  “Then you already know who’s a waste of time.”

  Going downstairs to the locker room, I changed into some workout gear and loosened up on the gym equipment that the federal government provided. Once I was warm enough to throw a few punches and kicks without pulling anything, I climbed into my car and drove to Coker’s gym. On the way, I dialed Fletcher. Surprisingly, he answered.

  “You suck at returning calls,” I said in lieu of a greeting. “Did you speak to Detective O’Connell?”

  “Yes, Ms. Parker.” He sounded like a reprimanded child. “At his insistence, I dropped the charges. Although, I’d like to point out that you were the one that insisted I file a report in the first place.”

  Ignoring the remark, I asked, “Can you recall exactly what happened when you left the fight that unfortunate evening?”

  “The police wanted to know the same thing. Honestly, I wasn’t paying a bit of attention.”

  “Thanks for the sugarcoating.” I sighed. “By any chance, did you happen to meet your client outside the arena and maybe this unnamed party could shed some light on possible illegal activity that might relate directly back to the blackmail threats you received?”

  “You know I can’t answer that.”

  “Then explain to me what you think the motive for the blackmail is.”

  “I’m an easy target that will gladly pay,” Fletcher replied.

  “How would anyone know this? Have you been stalked? Did you receive previous threats? Why you? What makes you special?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

  “Since we know where the fight was held, can you at least tell me which exit you took and approximately what time you left?”

  The sound of papers shuffling filled the air. “I still have my parking stub.”

  “Great. Text me the information. I don’t have a pen handy at the moment. The drop is supposed to go down tomorrow night. We’ll do what we can to catch the guy and keep you protected. From where I stand, you didn’t do anything wrong, and if you did, so did every other lawyer, judge, and politician at that fight. If the shit hits the fan, I’d suggest you speak to the partner that brought you to the fight and let him know that any action he takes against you will result in his destruction as well.”

  “You’re suggesting that I blackmail a partner at the firm?” Fletcher sounded aghast and a little amused.

  “It’s not blackmail. It’s just a friendly suggestion from one colleague to another.”

  “Will you call tomorrow evening with the verdict?” He sounded nervous, and I couldn’t blame him.

  “Absolutely.”

  As soon as we disconnected, I parked a few blocks from the gym and read the waiting text message. Then I dialed O’Connell and suggested that he request security cam footage from the parking garage Fletcher used. It might lead to identifying a blackmailer and possibly a killer, so the city could afford to go through the expense and trouble. Worst case, I’d pass it off to Lucca and hope the boy scout had some strings he could pull.

  Taking a deep breath, I left the car and went to the gym. Tim would not be pleased to see me again, and Ron might be pissed that I was showing up early. Too bad. Someone inside was guilty of something, and I planned to find out precisely what that something was.

  Twenty-four

  Stepping foot inside the gym, I continued around the desk and passed the center ring, hoping not to be noticed. Linka Greenwood was in the back corner, seated in a folding chair and writing something in a notebook. She didn’t spot me, and I ducked into the locker room. It was too early for any of the men to be inside, and I headed straight for the dead drop location.

  Today, there was no lock on the unit, and I carefully lifted the handle, opening the door. The inside was empty and smelled like sweaty socks. Crinkling my nose, I felt around for a false back or loose side. Anything that might be used to further hide the blackmailer’s identity during the pick-up. The metal walls were solid, as was the top and bottom. Whoever intended to blackmail Fletcher was stupid enough to think he’d get away with it.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” Coker bellowed. He covered the distance between us faster than I thought possible and slammed the locker door shut, narrowly missing my fingers in his haste. “This is the men’s locker room, and I doubt you have something dangling between your legs.”

  “My mistake.” I returned the glare. “I must have missed the sign. Where’s the women’s locker room?”

  “At the rec center or one of those fancy ass gyms. The same place you ought to be.” He glowered, stepping closer. “What are you doing here?”

  “Training.”

  He gritted his teeth and stepped even closer, placing us practically nose to nose. “I’d snap you in half in a second. One blow and you’d be down for the count, doll.”

  “Tim,” Linka said, suddenly appearing behind him, “Alex signed up for the evening class. Ron’s still assessing her. You don’t want to scare off a paying customer, do you? That wouldn’t be good for business, and you could use the business.” She gave him a pointed look.

  “Dammit, cookie,” he said to her, “when the hell did dames decide they needed to bash the shit out of one another?”

  “It’s because you men make it look like so much fun,” I hissed.

  Coker fixed me with another icy stare and slammed his palm against the locker. “This is off-limits. Get out, and if I have to tell you again, then you’re gone.” He turned to Linka. “Make sure Ron knows that too.”

  “Sure, Tim. I’ll let him know.” She guided me out of the locker room and into the corner where she had been writing furiously. “When did you get here? Class doesn’t begin for another hour and a half.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I just,” I shook my head and sat in the chair next to her, “had a bad day and needed to escape. I forgot that the men train every day. I just wanted to get some extra time in on the bags. You said I could have that locker, but when I went to leave my water bottle inside, Tim caught me.”

  “It’s okay. He’s a pain in the ass, but it’s his gym. When he’s around, you have to follow his rules.”

  “What are you doing here so early?” I asked, remembering Tim didn’t let the fighter’s girlfriends hang around.

  She giggled. “Mr. Big-Time Gym Owner can’t get his books to balance,” she lowered her voice, “mostly because Ron’s training quite a few women on contingency and Tim doesn’t know, so I offered to take a look. Tim thinks this is secretarial work, which means women’s work.”

  “Sexist pig.”

  “Yeah, but at least he’s predictable.” She went back to reading through the information, and I tried not to appear overly interested, even though I was. “I end up correcting the problem every few months. Ron tosses in the extra funds whenever Tim notices, and I make sure it looks like an accounting error.”

  “That sounds sneaky.” Or illegal.

  “No one gets hurt, and this way, Tim makes more money and we women are more empowered.”

  “For a second, I thought Tim was actually breaking his own rule and letting the wives and girlfriends hang around and watch their men train.”

  “He hasn’t done that in a long time.” She thought back. “The last time, one of the guys got popped real good in the eye. He had a mouse, and Tim lanced it to get the blood out from beneath the skin. The guy bled all over the mat, and Cynthia freaked out.”

  “Cynthia?”

  “The fighter’s girlfriend.” Linka shook her head. “She was spouting out how the protective gear was subpar, and the owner shouldn’t allow injuries like that to happen. She wanted to find a lawyer to sue and shut the whole place down. After that, women weren’t allowed to hang around anymore.”

  “I thought scars were supposed to be sexy,” I said.

  “Ye
ah, just as long as they’re healed and not bleeding all over the ring.”

  While Linka continued to work on Tim’s net earnings, my eyes roamed over the fighters. Our shooter wasn’t the bulky bodybuilder type, so Ron and half the guys were immediately ruled out. Unfortunately, no one was wearing a cap and sunglasses while they ran through drills and pad rounds, making identification that much more difficult. Sneaking a sideways glance at Tim, he seemed too short and stocky to be our shooter, so I didn’t like him for the shooting or in general.

  When a sheet of paper fell free from the stack Linka was working on, I bent down to retrieve it, noting the exorbitant loss Tim had suffered the previous month. She took the paper from my grasp and continued to work. Money troubles were an excellent reason to resort to blackmail, and the location was inside Tim’s gym. Was he that stupid? Probably.

  Wondering if pressing Tim’s buttons might result in something solid for our case or at least O’Connell’s, I sauntered to the front desk where Tim was watching two men spar in the ring. I stepped directly into his line of sight. Automatically, he shifted to the side, ignoring me.

  “It seems we got off on the wrong foot earlier,” I said, pretending not to notice his attention was focused elsewhere. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cross any lines.”

  “S’okay.” His eyes snapped to my face for half a second. “Don’t do it again.”

  “I heard you coach a lot of guys that fight on the circuit. Were you at the Santos versus Levere bout?”

  “Levere’s my guy.” He was watching the match again. Hell, with enough finesse I could probably get him to confess to something while he was distracted. “Santos used to be too until that asshole swooped in and stole him.”

  “Willie?”

  “Yeah, that damn do-gooder.” He coughed and stared at me for a moment. “Do you mind? I’m working here.”

  So am I. “Do you ever coach girls?”

  He laughed, a deep, contemptuous sound. “Listen up, dollface, this is a real sport for real athletes. It was never intended for some former cheerleader.”

  “Do I look like a cheerleader to you?”

  “Yeah, now run along and find your pom-poms. I have more important things to do.” He waved his hand in my face, dismissing me.

  “Perhaps your attitude is the reason Santos found himself another coach.” Tim reacted as if he’d been sucker-punched. “I bet that pissed you off when he left. My guess is you’ve lost a lot of fighters over the years. Is that why you made sure Levere destroyed Santos in the ring?” I looked at him with disdain. “You do realize the kid died because of that fight.”

  “How dare you?” He was on his feet and around the desk, backing me against the wall. “You come into my gym and accuse me of killing a fighter. Get the hell outta here.”

  “I didn’t say you killed Santos. I said you let Levere ring his bell beyond what was appropriate. Did you pay off the refs to delay calling the match?”

  “Get out, or so help me god.”

  “No? Okay. Then maybe you made sure some of your guys roughed up Hector even more after the fight.”

  He pulled his arm back to hit me, and I sidestepped. His fist made contact with the wall and drew the attention of the majority of the gym. He adjusted his legs into a fighting stance, muscle memory taking over, but I had no desire to fight him if I didn’t have to.

  “Who told you this?”

  “I have some friends in the police department,” I replied as we warily circled one another, and I resisted the urge to raise my fists in front of my face in a defensive position. “Did you blackmail that lawyer that you told Levere and Facini to beat up?”

  Tim bent over and charged like a bull, hitting me dead center in the chest with his shoulder and ramming me into the wall with a thud that knocked the breath from my lungs. I gasped, and when he straightened, hauling back to hit me, I dropped to my knees, feeling his knuckle graze my temple.

  “You psycho bitch,” he snarled, and two of the fighters dragged him backward before he could kick me. “Get out of my gym, and don’t you ever come back.”

  “Just so you know, I will be filing assault charges, and everyone here’s a witness.”

  “They didn’t see nothing,” Coker growled, throwing the two men off of him, but he didn’t make another move toward me, “and you’re trespassing on private property.” He pointed to the door. “Out, or I’ll call the cops.”

  Linka stood in the back corner, shaking her head. Briefly, I spotted Ron amongst the crowd, and he jerked his chin at the door. It was clear Tim had the final say. At least there was no doubt who was calling the shots.

  I went to the door. “I guess I’ll just find another coach and take you down where it’ll really hurt, right in the old purse strings.” I watched the few remaining fighters scatter to make a path. The sooner I was gone, the happier they would be.

  Once I was back inside my car, I dialed Jablonsky and said, “I just blew my ability to get inside the gym, but I think Tim Coker is involved or knows who might be. The reason he wanted Briscoe dead was because he was losing a lot of fighters and a lot of money on the fights. I can file charges against him for assault, but my guess is his fighters will cover for him. So what should I do, boss?”

  “I probably shouldn’t have told you to knock the fighters around,” Mark muttered. “I should have realized you only know how to play dirty.”

  “Coker’s a chauvinistic asshole. The only way he’d respect me is if I had something dangling between my legs, or so he said.”

  “I’ll dig out some Christmas ornaments and a candy cane.”

  “I doubt that would work.” I watched out my windshield as a few of the men started to leave the gym. “Should I make another approach?” Two of the larger bodybuilders went down the steps to the subway. “Someone must know something.”

  “Just be careful. Since Coker’s in charge, he probably sourced out a hit on you,” Mark semi-joked.

  “That would make identifying the killer so much easier.” I disconnected, grabbed my credentials, and strapped on my shoulder holster before zipping a hooded sweatshirt over it.

  Taking off at a light jog, I rounded the corner, looking like someone determined to get a good workout regardless of what Tim had to say. I stopped a block and a half from the gym and leaned against a lamp post to stretch. A few more men were leaving, but I wasn’t sure who to question.

  When a lightweight stepped out of the gym, popping earbuds into his ears and tucking his mp3 player into his pocket, I found my opening. Since he was slightly oblivious to his surroundings, I waited until he was a block away from the gym and sprinted after him.

  “On your left,” I announced. It was the polite thing most runners and bikers did, but with his music blaring, he didn’t notice. I ran into his back, knocking us slightly off balance. He faltered, but once he recovered, he spun around. “Sorry,” I mouthed, forcing him to remove his earbuds. “Sorry,” I repeated, seeing slight recognition dawn on his face.

  “Are you still itching for a fight?” He had an amused look in his eye.

  “What?” I crinkled my brow, pretending I had no clue who he was. Then I made an exaggerated face. “You’re from the gym?”

  “Yeah.” His eyes traveled down my legs and back up, assessing me. “That was pretty stupid of you to stand up to Coach Coker like that.” He cocked his head to the side and smiled. “Kinda hot though.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He tilted his chin up. “Were you planning to be a fighter or something?”

  “Or something.” I held out my hand. “Alex.”

  “Brad.” We shook hands, and he squeezed firmly. I squeezed back, and he laughed. “Now that you’re blackballed, are you gonna go to the rec center like everyone else?”

  “Maybe. Is that my best bet?”

  He continued to hold my hand, rubbing his thumb across my knuckles. “It used to be, but that was before the shit with Hector and Willie went down.” He inhaled, meeting my eyes
. “How about we go someplace a little more private, and I can tell you who’s good in the circuits.” He pulled me closer. “Maybe I could train you. I’m not a coach or anything, but if you’re looking for a sparring partner, I’d be willing to take you down to the mat.”

  “What would your coach think of that?” I asked, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear with my free hand.

  “He doesn’t have to know everything.” He smiled again. “My place is right over there.” He pointed to an apartment building on an adjacent street. “I’d hate for him to see us conspiring.”

  “Oh, that’s what we’re doing?” I asked coquettishly. “I didn’t realize we had to hold hands to conspire.” He practically blushed, embarrassed that I called him out on his flirtation. “Well, lead the way.”

  Twenty-five

  Brad last name unknown opened the door to his apartment, a third floor walk-up, and kicked a gym bag and a pile of dirty clothes out of the way. A furry cat bounded out of the pile and rubbed against my legs, weaving a figure eight around my ankles. Brad continued past, stuffing some things into a closet.

  “Sorry, my roommates are slobs,” he said. He glanced down at the cat that had followed him into the kitchen and was now meowing. “Mr. Whiskers isn’t mine either.”

  “Okay.” I spotted a bong on the window sill near the fire escape. “That’s not yours either, right?” I snorted, playing it off as a joke.

  “Of course not.” He grinned. “Do you want a Gatorade or beer or something?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  While Brad sifted through the fridge, I crossed the room, noting the free-standing punching bag in the corner, a couple pairs of handwraps, and some other boxing gear. On the wall were mounted throwing stars, nunchuks, and a katana or some type of Japanese sword. From the living room, I could glimpse into one of the three back bedrooms. The floor was littered with magazines, the bed was unmade, and I hoped the opened pizza box was empty.

  “I caught some of what you were saying to Coach Coker,” Brad said, coming up behind me. “Why were you saying those things? Are you a reporter or something?”