Chapter 4 #3
He crossed the room and took it from me, studying the numbers and initials with a frown that deepened the longer he looked. I watched his expression shift from curiosity to recognition to something harder.
“This is a betting slip,” he said. “The kind you get at underground games. Poker, fights, whatever.” He turned it over, checking the back. “I’ve seen these before in vice busts. They’re handwritten so there’s no electronic trail. The numbers are odds, the initials are the bookie’s mark.”
“So he was gambling?”
“Or someone was gambling on him.” Jack’s jaw tightened.
“A man with his build, his boxing background—he’d be worth serious money to the right people.
And where there’s serious money, there’s someone keeping the books.
” He held up the slip. “This is a piece of an operation, Jaye. Betting slips, a professional execution, days of interrogation. That’s not one guy with a grudge. That’s a business.”
I thought about the discipline evident in every corner of this apartment. The meal prep, the protein powder, the body that had been honed into a weapon. “You think he was fighting illegally.”
“It’s a lead,” he said. “And it makes me want to talk to his trainer even more. Go ahead and bag it.”
I did, my mind spinning ahead to the implications. Underground betting meant underground events. Organizers. Money changing hands. People with a vested interest in who won and who lost.
“Let’s check the closet,” Jack said.
The clothes hung in neat rows, work gear on one side, casual on the other. Nothing expensive, but everything clean and well maintained. Shoes arranged by type—work boots, sneakers, one pair of dress shoes still in the box.
Jack ran his hands along the back wall, slow and methodical. Halfway across, he stopped.
“Got something.” He pressed against the drywall, and it shifted. “False panel.”
He worked it free, revealing a cavity about a foot deep. Inside sat a duffle bag, olive green, worn soft from use.
Jack pulled it out and unzipped it.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Cash. Stacks of it, bound with rubber bands. Twenties and fifties, the kind of bills that came from hand-to-hand transactions. No crisp hundreds fresh from a bank. This was street money. Fight money.
“That’s at least thirty thousand,” Jack said. “Maybe more.”
“Construction doesn’t pay like this.”
“No.” His jaw was tight. “And people earning this kind of cash off the books don’t usually end up dead unless the people running the operation put them there.” He zipped the bag back up. “We’re not looking for a killer. We’re looking for an organization.”
I stared at the money, thinking about the betting slip, the athlete’s diet, the military discipline. About a mother who thought her son was just staying in shape, keeping busy, saving for a house.
“He was fighting,” I said. “Not just training.”
“Nobody talks about fight club,” he said wryly.
“Good one,” I said. “You don’t hide this behind a wall if you’re earning it legally. You put it in a bank. You invest it. You don’t stack it in a duffle bag like you might need to grab it and run.”
“If he was fighting underground, someone was running the operation. Taking a cut.”
“And making a lot more than he was.” I thought about what his mother had said. The celebration. The surprise he wouldn’t tell her about. “What if he was trying to get out?”
“And someone didn’t want to let him go.”
It was still theory, built on circumstantial evidence and gut instinct. But it was something.
A laptop sat on the small desk by the window. That would go to Derby once it was logged into evidence. But when I searched for a cell phone—drawers, bathroom, under the mattress—I came up empty.
“No phone,” I told Jack.
“And none of the victim’s personal belongings were found in the dumpster either.
Killer probably found a different dump site.
” His expression was grim. “It just slows us down. We’ll get a warrant for the phone company.
We can still get access to his texts and contacts.
And maybe get a cell tower ping for his last location. ”
“Gotta love technology,” I said.
“That’s not what you said the other day when you were trying to update your computer and everything shut down.”
“It’s a love-hate relationship. I’m just waiting for the robots to take over and kill us all, and then we won’t have to worry about it anymore.”
“Cole’s right,” Jack said. “You are always looking on the bright side.”
“And there’s more sunshine where that came from.”
“I’ve always loved that smart mouth.”
I gave him a sassy grin. “Good, because you’re stuck with it forever.”
“Let’s talk to the neighbors,” Jack said. “CSI team should be here any minute.”
The girl next door answered on the second knock—young, early twenties, yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt. Her hair was piled in a messy bun, and she squinted at Jack’s badge like she needed glasses and wasn’t wearing them.
“Yeah, I know Andre. Kind of.” She leaned against the doorframe. “We’re not friends or anything, but we say hi in the hall. He helped me carry groceries once when my bag broke. Seems like a sweet guy.”
“Did you ever see anyone visiting him?” Jack asked. “Friends, a girlfriend?”
“There’s a woman.” She perked up a little, the way people did when they had something useful to contribute. “Pretty. She’s mixed, maybe Black and Asian. Great hair. I saw her a few times over the past couple months, usually in the evenings.”
“Did you ever talk to her? Get a name?”
“No, we never spoke. I just figured she was his girlfriend.” She shrugged. “They seem happy. He walks her to her car sometimes, kiss her goodbye. Cute stuff.”
“What kind of car?”
“Um.” She squinted again, thinking. “Silver, I think? One of those little Hondas.”
“Did you notice anything unusual recently? Any strangers, any arguments?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s pretty quiet up here.” Her face clouded. “Is Andre okay? Did something happen?”
“We’re looking into some things,” Jack said, which wasn’t an answer at all. He handed her a card. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
The man across the hall was older, late sixties, with the look of someone who’d retired from something physical—broad shoulders, thick hands, a military tattoo faded to blue-green on his forearm.
“Know him well enough to say hello,” he said. “Polite. Respectful. You could tell he’d served.”
“Did you ever see him with anyone? A girlfriend, friends?”
“The girl, sure. Pretty thing, always dressed nice. Saw her coming and going for a couple months now.” He rubbed his jaw.
“There was another guy too. Older white fella, looked like he’d been through it.
Face all beat up, you know? Like a fighter.
He’d pick Andre up sometimes, early mornings.
They’d leave together in the guy’s truck. ”
“What kind of truck?” Jack asked.
“Old Chevy, I think. Dark blue. Beat to hell.”
“How often did you see them together?”
“A couple times a week, maybe. Sometimes more.” The man shrugged. “Figured it was a workout buddy or something.”
“Did you ever hear what they talked about?”
“Nah. I mind my own business.” He paused. “The kid’s dead, isn’t he? That’s why you’re here.”
Jack didn’t confirm or deny. “Thank you for your time. If you think of anything else—”
“I’ll call.” The man took the card, studied it, then looked up with tired eyes. “He was a good kid. You could tell just by looking at him. Whatever happened, he didn’t deserve it.”
Nobody ever did. That was the hell of it.
* * *
CSI had shown up and were doing their thing in the apartment, so we walked back to the Tahoe in silence, the evening air thick and heavy around us.
The parking lot lights had flickered on while we were inside, casting everything in that sickly yellow glow that made the world feel older and sadder than it was.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the cash. Thousands of dollars, hidden behind a wall like a secret. Like a sin.
“The girlfriend’s prints are probably all over that apartment,” Jack said as we reached the truck. “The trainer’s too, if they spent any time there.”
“Daniels will find them. And once we have prints, we can run them.”
“Put names to faces.” He unlocked the doors but didn’t get in. Just stood there, one hand on the roof, staring back at the building. “His mother said he was celebrating something. A surprise.”
“Could be an engagement. A new job.” But that didn’t feel right. “Except he’s got that money. Maybe he was expecting a lot more wherever that came from.”
“Maybe,” Jack said. He was quiet for a long moment. Somewhere in the complex, a dog barked. A car door slammed. The ordinary sounds of ordinary life going on all around us.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“We’ll visit the gym tomorrow,” he said finally. “See if we can find the trainer.”
“And King Construction. His co-workers might know something his mother didn’t.”
He opened the driver’s door, and I walked around to the passenger side.
But before I got in, I looked back at the apartment building one more time.
Third floor, fourth window from the left.
The lights were off now. Whatever secrets Andre Washington had kept in that tidy little studio, they were ours to uncover.
I just hoped we’d find them before whoever killed him disappeared into the shadows.
* * *
Jack turned south, toward home, and his hand found my thigh before we’d gone half a mile.
“I’ve missed that spark in your eye,” he said, his voice dropping into that low register that did things to my insides. “When you came out of your office in that red top it was everything I could do not to make love to you right there in the kitchen.”
“You’ve matured with age,” I said. “We’re ten minutes from home.”
“Eight if I hit the lights.”
“Then hit the lights.”
He did. The sirens stayed off, but the Tahoe surged forward, and I laughed despite myself—despite everything, despite the dead man and the grieving mother and the thirty thousand dollars hidden behind a wall.
Right now, in this moment, there was only Jack’s hand on my thigh and the promise of what waited for us at home.
“I love you,” I said.
He glanced over at me, his eyes dark with want. “Show me when we get there.”
* * *
Gravel sprayed as Jack pulled up to the house and threw the Tahoe into park. The porch light was on, and I could see the blue flicker of a screen through Doug’s window on the second floor.
“What about Doug?” I asked.
“Probably been playing video games since we left. I doubt he’s seen the light of day except to raid the refrigerator.”
“We should feed him.”
“Order him a pizza.” Jack was already out of the truck, coming around to my side.
I pulled out my phone and placed the order on the app as he opened my door. I barely got the confirmation before he was reaching for me.
“Jack—”
He scooped me out of the seat like I weighed nothing, one arm under my knees, the other around my back. I yelped and grabbed his shoulders.
“I can walk, you know.”
“I know.” He kicked the door shut and headed for the house. “But I’ve been thinking about carrying you to bed for the last few hours, and I’m done waiting.”
He shifted me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist as he climbed the porch steps, and when his mouth found mine, I forgot all about dead fighters and hidden cash and grieving mothers. There was only this—his hands on me, his heart pounding against mine, the desperate heat building between us.
“Shh,” I managed against his lips as he fumbled with the front door. “Doug.”
“Doug has headphones.”
We stumbled inside, trying to be quiet and failing miserably. Oscar met us at the door, tail going like a metronome, his whole body wiggling with the shameless joy of a dog who treated every homecoming like a miracle.
“Down, buddy,” Jack murmured, nudging him aside with his knee without breaking the kiss. Oscar took the hint and trotted toward the stairs, tags jingling in the dark.
Muffled laughter mixed with kisses as Jack navigated the hallway and started up after him. His foot caught on the top step, and we nearly went down—but he caught himself against the wall, my back pressing into the plaster.
“Smooth,” I teased.
“You’re distracting me.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re breathing.” He kissed my neck, my jaw, the corner of my mouth. “That’s enough.”
He carried me the rest of the way to our bedroom and kicked the door shut behind us.