hell of a lot more stamina and flexibility than I had, keeping myself in fighting form was smart. Sad to say, being a private investigator and sometimes ending up in very sticky situations wasn’t enough of an incentive lately for me to get out of bed at 5:00 a.m. for a run or a boxing bout—not when I had Jae in bed next to me.
Of course, that was probably a lie I was telling myself. I liked the burn of my muscles being worked through their paces, and the aches through my body reminded me of how far I’d come since that fateful day Ben tried to end my life. He’d taken away everything I loved—my boyfriend, my career, and with his suicide, a man I considered my brother as well as my partner. And as much as I’d gained since that day, I was also carrying around a bunch of scar tissue and healed-over wounds I needed to stretch out once in a while. Doing yoga with Jae—or at least attempting to do yoga, since I wasn’t as graceful as he was and yoga seemed to be based on the positions a cat cleaned itself in—wasn’t as effective at getting my blood pumping and my muscles aching as boxing was.
I also really like to hit things.
“We’re close enough to the hospital to hit the start of visiting hours. Won’t hurt to see if Arthur’s up for a little conversation. Even if he just gives me a name, I’ll have some place to start looking.” I squared off, going for a round of body shots on the bag’s thick form. Sweat was beginning to sting my eyes, and I was really looking forward to a lukewarm shower in the locker room. I spoke between punches, knowing Bobby could keep up. “Do you think you can keep Marlena out of the way for five minutes?”
“I think I can do that,” Bobby promised, grunting again when I gave a good punch into the middle of the bag. “Let’s face it, between the two of us, I’ve spent more of my life lying to myself about preferring women. Hopefully that will at least hold me over until the old man gives you something you can work with.”
THE BEST thing about JoJo’s was it had parking, a premium perk in Los Angeles’s urban sprawl. Since the city and building owners were serious about guarding their lots, it was usually only somebody incredibly stupid or an idiot willing to risk his car who parked someplace they didn’t belong. The worst thing about JoJo’s was the parking lot was pretty much a glorified wide alleyway jammed in between two looming, run-down warehouses. You didn’t go to JoJo’s for a workout on treadmills while a talk show played on big-screen TVs mounted on the walls or to try your hand at the newest weight machine positioned in front of a wall of mirrors. It wasn’t the kind of place you could pick up a smoothie after you were done, and there were no free water bottles waiting for you at the reception desk.
Shit, there wasn’t even a reception desk.
It was an old-school, no-frills boxing gym where trainers took their up-and-coming fighters to test their skills against men and women who’d been around the block more than a few times. If you could hold your own at JoJo’s, you had a good chance in a ring where money exchanged hands and your night ended with blood smeared on the mat—hopefully not your own.
So the guy walking down the parking alley toward JoJo’s front door stuck out like a Persian in a whirl of Tasmanian devils. I wasn’t sure if a group of Tasmanian devils was called a whirl but it seemed likely, and I’d just come from the gym, so I knew what it was like in there.
There was still a bite in the air, something Los Angeles wouldn’t fully lose until July or August, but the black hoodie he had on was a bit too much. Too new. His pointed-toe Italian boots and indigo dark jeans came off much too flashy for anyone intending to go a few rounds, but more telling was the fact that he held a small duffel up against his side, his right hand tucked into its partially open zipper. His face was flat of emotion, carved out of a Slavic hard stone and nearly bloodless—a splash of white with bright blond hair cropped short against his square skull. His jaw was set