Chapter 5 #2
Doug Carver had come to live with us under circumstances that were complicated even by our standards.
His uncle Ben, Jack’s best friend, was on the run from people powerful enough to make the FBI look the other way, and Doug had his own legal entanglements involving the Pentagon and a computer that technically shouldn’t exist. He was sixteen, brilliant, and under close watch by the federal government. It didn’t seem to bother him too much.
“Why are you up so early?” I asked, heading straight for the coffeepot. “I thought you were going to milk every second of summer break.”
“I am,” he said. “Haven’t been to sleep yet.” He shoveled another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “I was on a raid with my guild. We almost beat the final boss but Tyler died like an idiot and we had to start over.”
I had no idea what any of that meant, so I made a noncommittal noise. Jack already had my coffee ready in a to-go cup, and he handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the first sip that would kick-start my brain.
“Anything good come up lately you guys are going to need me for?” Doug asked.
“Maybe,” Jack said. “Right now it’s just foot work. We’ve got a few places to check out this morning. You have any plans today?”
“Sleep,” he said. “And then I might head into town. I found out one of my guild members lives pretty close. She said she’d meet me at the ice cream shop on the square.”
“She?” I asked, arching a brow.
Color rose to Doug’s cheeks. “Girls can be in the guild.”
Jack clapped him on the back. “Just make sure you meet in a public place. She could be a fifty-year-old man.”
“Gross,” he said. “I’ve got my Mace, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“Be smart,” Jack said. “Call us if you need us.”
“10-4,” he said, and then went back to his phone.
* * *
Iron House Gym sat on the edge of King George Proper, a no-frills metal warehouse set back from the road with its own gravel lot.
The building was exactly what it advertised—industrial, practical, and built for purpose rather than aesthetics.
There was no fancy signage or neon lights, just bold black letters painted directly on the corrugated steel—IRON HOUSE GYM.
Jack pulled into the lot and killed the engine. A dozen vehicles were already parked in neat rows—mostly trucks and a few older sedans. Cars that belonged to men who worked with their hands and didn’t waste money on flash.
“Serious place,” I said.
“The serious ones usually are.” Jack opened his door. “Let’s see what we can find out.”
The smell hit me the moment we walked inside—sweat and leather and iron, all of it mixing with the sharp bite of disinfectant. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just honest. The smell of hard work and purpose.
The interior was larger than I’d expected, the high ceilings and open floor plan making the most of the warehouse space.
Two full-sized boxing rings dominated the center of the room, their canvas clean and tight, the ropes taut and well maintained.
Heavy bags hung in a long row along one wall—at least a dozen of them, each one cared for, the leather oiled and free of cracks.
Speed bags lined another section, and the far corner held an impressive array of free weights, squat racks, and benches.
Everything was organized. Everything had its place.
This wasn’t a gym clinging to life—it was a working facility that took pride in what it was.
And I was very clearly not supposed to be here.
Every head in the room turned when we walked in.
A dozen men, all of them built like they spent more time lifting heavy things than doing anything else, and all of them looking at me like I’d wandered through the wrong door.
Which, in their minds, I probably had. Places like this weren’t built for women.
They were built for men who wanted to hurt each other in controlled environments, and the testosterone in the air was thick enough to choke on.
I kept my shoulders back and my expression neutral. I’d faced down worse than a room full of sweaty men with more muscle than manners. But I wasn’t going to pretend I was comfortable either.
Jack, on the other hand, looked right at home.
His posture shifted the moment we walked in—something subtle, something I might not have noticed if I didn’t know him so well.
He moved differently here. Watched the room differently.
His eyes tracked one of the men working a heavy bag, assessed the stance of another who was shadowboxing near the mirrors.
Recognition. Familiarity.
“Help you folks?”
A young guy approached from near the entrance—mid-twenties, lean and muscular, with a nose that had been broken more than once and scar tissue thickening his brow. He was looking at Jack’s badge, then at me, trying to figure out what combination of trouble had just walked through his door.
“We’re looking for Andre Washington’s trainer,” Jack said.
The kid’s jaw tightened, but just slightly. “That’d be Vic. He owns the place. Let me grab him.”
He disappeared through a gray door that said Employees Only, and I took the opportunity to study the walls.
Photographs everywhere—fighters posing with belts and trophies, action shots from matches, and yellowed newspaper clippings in simple frames.
A history of the gym, told in sweat and blood and victory.
“You look like you want to jump in the ring,” I said quietly.
Jack glanced at me and smiled. “I’ve been known to box a time or two. In my younger reckless days.”
“You must have been good at it,” I said. “Since your face is still so pretty.”
He laughed just as the gray door opened again.
Victor Caruso was somewhere in his early sixties, built like a fireplug—short and thick, with shoulders that strained his T-shirt and hands that looked like they’d been carved from stone.
His face told his whole story—nose flattened and crooked from breaks that had never quite healed right, ears thickened into cauliflower, scar tissue ridging his brows like tiny mountain ranges.
He walked with the careful, deliberate gait of a man whose body had collected decades of debt and was finally calling it in.
But there was nothing slow about the way he assessed us. His gaze moved from Jack’s badge to my face to our positioning in his gym, taking in everything in the space of a breath.
“Vic Caruso,” he said. He didn’t offer his hand. “What’s this about Dre?”
“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” Jack asked.
Caruso’s shoulders stiffened. His hands, resting at his sides, went still in that way of someone bracing for a blow. He knew. On some level, he already knew. People didn’t show up with badges to deliver good news.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher than it had been a moment before. “Come on back.”
His office was small and cramped, barely room for the desk and the two chairs wedged in front of it.
Trophies lined a shelf on one wall, most of them tarnished with age.
A window looked out onto the gym floor, giving Caruso a view of everything happening in his domain.
He settled behind his desk, and Jack and I took the chairs across from him.
“Mr. Caruso,” Jack said, “I’m sorry to tell you this. Andre Washington was found dead yesterday morning. We’re investigating it as a homicide.”
For a long moment, Caruso didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He sat frozen, staring at Jack like the words were in a language he didn’t understand.
Then his face collapsed.
It wasn’t dramatic—no wailing, no shouting. Just a slow crumbling, like a building settling into its own foundation. He turned away from us, toward the window, fists at his hips as he breathed in deeply for control.
When he turned back, his eyes were red rimmed but dry.
“You sure it was Dre?” he asked. “Somebody killed Dre?”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said. “We need to find who did this to him. It sounds like you and Dre were together quite a bit.”
Caruso nodded slowly, pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket. He wiped his eyes without embarrassment, without apology.
“Four years,” he said finally. “I trained that kid for four years. Watched him walk in here as a raw talent and turn into something special.” He shook his head, the movement heavy with grief.
“He was going to be somebody, you know? He had that thing—that gift you can’t teach.
Power and speed and instincts most fighters would kill for. ”
“How’d he end up here?” Jack asked.
“Same way most of them do. Word of mouth. He’d just gotten out of the Marines, wanted to keep fighting.
Somebody told him about my gym, and he showed up one day asking if I’d work with him.
” A ghost of a smile crossed Caruso’s face, there and gone like a shadow.
“Most guys who walk in that door, they think they’re tougher than they really are.
They’ve watched too many movies, thrown a few punches in bar fights, and now they think they’re ready for the ring.
But Dre…” He trailed off, lost in the memory.
“First time I saw him hit the bag, I knew. He’d been fighting since he was fifteen.
Started on the streets before the Marines got hold of him.
By the time he got to me, he already had the foundation. I just built on it.”
“What was your arrangement?” Jack asked. “Training? Managing?”
“Both.” Caruso spread his hands. “He didn’t know anything about the business side—the promoters, the sanctioning bodies, all the politics that goes along with trying to make it in this sport.
I’ve been doing this my whole life. My father trained fighters before me.
” His voice steadied as he talked, finding solid ground in familiar territory.
“I know how it works. I was helping him navigate.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Thursday morning.” Caruso’s hands gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles going white.
“We trained for a couple hours, went over tape from his last fight, and talked about what’s next.
He was in a good mood. Said he had big plans for the weekend.
” He released a breath that seemed to empty him. “I figured it was the girl.”
“The girlfriend?”
“Tiana.” The name softened something in Caruso’s weathered face.
“He talked about her all the time. Never brought her around here—this isn’t exactly the kind of place you bring your sweetheart—but you could tell he was gone on her.
Got this look on his face whenever she came up. Like he couldn’t believe his luck.”
“Do you know her last name?”
“No. He kept that part of his life separate.” Caruso shrugged. “Can’t blame him. What happens in here is one thing. What happens out there is something else.”
I leaned forward slightly. “Mr. Caruso, did Andre have any health issues you were aware of?”
His hands stilled on the chair arms. His whole body went rigid for just a moment—a fighter’s instinct, bracing for impact.
“What kind of health issues?”
“The autopsy showed significant head trauma. Years of accumulated damage. That kind of injury often has consequences.”
Caruso was silent for a long moment. His jaw worked, muscles bunching beneath the weathered skin.
“Seizures,” he said. “He started having them about a year ago. First one scared us both half to death—he just went down, eyes rolling back, whole body shaking. The doctors said it was from all the hits he’d taken over the years. They put him on medication. Klonopin.”
“Did anyone else know?”
“No.” Caruso’s chin lifted, a flash of protectiveness cutting through the grief. “He didn’t want people to know. Said it made him feel weak. In this business, you can’t afford to look weak. So we kept it between us.”
“How did it affect his career?”
“Complicated things.” He chose his words carefully, each one measured. “With that on his medical record, getting sanctioned fights would be harder. More liability concerns. We were working through it. Finding ways around the obstacles.”
Jack shifted in his chair. “Did Andre have problems with anyone? Arguments, conflicts?”
“Not that I knew of. Everybody liked him. He was easy to get along with—didn’t have an ego, didn’t start trouble. Just showed up, worked hard, went home.”
“What about money? Any financial issues?”
Caruso almost laughed, though there was no humor in it.
“Dre? That kid was the most responsible person I’ve ever trained.
Lived like a monk, saved every penny, never blew his money on stupid stuff the way most young guys do.
He had plans.” His voice cracked on the word.
“Wanted to buy his mama a house someday. Get her out of that apartment she’d been stuck in for years. ”
We asked a few more questions, but the well had run dry. Caruso had given us what he had—or at least what he was willing to share. When we stood to leave, he walked us back through the gym, past the men who were still stealing glances at the cops in their midst.
“One more thing,” Jack said before we reached the door. “We found a betting slip in Andre’s apartment. Did he gamble?”
Caruso’s brow furrowed. “A betting slip? What kind?”
“Handwritten. Numbers and initials. Not from any legal operation.”
“That doesn’t sound like Dre.” Caruso shook his head slowly. “Kid didn’t gamble. Didn’t drink, didn’t party, didn’t blow his money on stupid stuff. He was focused. Disciplined.” His frown deepened. “Where’d you find it?”
“His nightstand.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. That’s not the kid I knew. Dre wasn’t a gambler.”
Jack nodded and handed him a card. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
“You find who did this.” Caruso’s voice had gone cold, the grief hardening into something sharper. “Dre was like a son to me. You find the bastards who killed him, and you make them pay.”
“We intend to,” Jack said.