Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
The air-conditioning blasted as Jack pulled out of the lot, and I angled the vent toward my face. Between the heat and the wall of testosterone in that gym, I felt like I’d been holding my breath for an hour.
“He knew about the seizures,” I said. “He didn’t even hesitate.”
“No, he didn’t.” Jack turned onto the main road. “His own mother said Dre kept it secret from everyone. But Vic knew.”
“If he’s managing Dre’s career, submitting medical paperwork and arranging fights, he’d have to know what he was working around.”
“Working around.” Jack’s mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. “That’s an interesting phrase, isn’t it? He didn’t say they were dealing with it. Didn’t say they were being honest about it. He said they were finding ways around the obstacles.”
“Which could mean falsified medical clearances. Doctors willing to look the other way.”
“Could mean a lot of things.” His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “Could mean fights where nobody’s checking paperwork at all.”
I thought about the betting slip tucked in Andre’s nightstand drawer. The cash hidden behind a false panel in his closet. The life of a monk that somehow produced thirty thousand dollars in bundled twenties and fifties.
“He shut down fast when you mentioned the betting slip,” I said.
“He did. Went straight to denial.” Jack shook his head. “Everybody keeps saying what a good kid he was, how disciplined, how focused. But good kids don’t end up tortured and dead in dumpsters.”
“And they don’t hide thirty thousand dollars in their walls.”
“No. They don’t.” He glanced at me. “I’m going to get a warrant for Dre’s financials. Bank records, credit cards, anything we can find. If money was moving in ways that don’t match the picture everyone’s painting, I want to know about it.”
“The cash wasn’t going through any bank.”
“Which is interesting all by itself.” Jack slowed for a red light and turned to look at me fully.
“Vic Caruso’s been in boxing his whole life.
His father before him. That’s a world with a lot of gray areas—legitimate fights, underground fights, sanctioned venues and ones where nobody asks questions.
If Dre was making money somewhere off the books, Vic would know. He’d have to know.”
“But he’s not telling us.”
“Not yet.” The light changed, and Jack accelerated through the intersection. “Doesn’t mean he won’t. Sometimes people need time to decide whose side they’re on.”
“And sometimes they’ve already decided.”
“That too.”
We drove in silence for a few minutes, the familiar landscape of King George County sliding past the windows. I watched Jack’s profile, the set of his jaw, the way his hands rested easy on the wheel. He was thinking. Processing. Fitting pieces together in that methodical way of his.
“How come you never told me you boxed?” I asked. “It would’ve had to have been while you were in the military or living in DC.”
He grinned and said, “I try not to think about the years you and I weren’t part of each other’s lives.”
“Good one,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“I thought so.” He reached over and squeezed my thigh.
“Did you like it?”
“Like what?”
I groaned. “Playing dominoes,” I said sarcastically. “What do you think I’m talking about? Did you like boxing?”
I could tell by the look on his face he knew exactly what he was doing, and he was enjoying himself immensely.
“What’s not to like? Your body is in top physical shape, and you get to punch people. I can’t do that anymore.”
“That’s the life of a respected elected official.”
“Yeah, it sucks.”
“Though I will say your body is still in peak physical shape.”
“I appreciate the support.”
“Maybe your mom has pictures of you boxing,” I said. “I’ll ask her.”
“That’s low and dirty,” Jack said.
“All’s fair when you’re keeping secrets. I’ll get the details somehow. Some way. You’ve trained me well.”
“I’ve created a monster.”
“I don’t think that’s what you were saying when you were asking for five more minutes this morning.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I forgive you. You can do no wrong.” He winked and said, “That’s Danny.”
Jack pulled into a paved parking lot filled with white trucks with the King Construction logo on the side.
Danny King was waiting on the steps of the double-wide trailer that served as King Construction’s field office, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand.
He was a big man—six four at least, with shoulders that strained the seams of his work shirt and the weathered, sun-darkened face that came from spending a lifetime outdoors.
His hair had gone mostly gray, cropped short and practical, and his hands—when he lifted one to shield his eyes from the sun—were scarred and calloused, the hands of someone who’d started swinging a hammer before he was old enough to vote and never stopped.
“Jack Lawson,” he said as we climbed out, and a warm smile spread across his face. “It’s been a while. How are your folks doing? I keep meaning to call your dad about that barn renovation he mentioned last time I saw him at the hardware store.”
“They’re good. Dad’s staying busy—you know how he is.
Can’t sit still.” Jack shook the hand Danny offered, and I could see the easy familiarity between them—not close friends, but men who’d known each other most of their lives like people did in small counties where the same families had been neighbors for generations.
“Danny, this is my wife, J.J. She’s the county coroner. ”
Danny’s smile faltered. His eyes moved from Jack’s badge to my face, and I watched him do the math. Sheriff and coroner, showing up together in the middle of a workday. That equation only had one answer.
“Ma’am,” he said, shaking my hand. His grip was firm but careful. “I’ve heard good things about you.”
“That’s always a relief.”
Danny studied Jack’s face for a long moment, reading whatever he found there. The warmth in his expression faded into something more guarded. More braced.
“I’m guessing this isn’t about barn renovations,” he said.
“No,” Jack said. “It’s not. Can we talk inside?”
“Come on in,” he said. “I’ve got about twenty minutes before I need to be at the Riverside site, but I’m guessing this is more important.”
The trailer’s interior was organized chaos—blueprints stacked on every flat surface, coffee cups in various stages of abandonment, a calendar on the wall so covered in scribbled notes and circled dates it looked like a work of abstract art.
Photos lined the walls too—job sites in various stages of completion, ribbon-cutting ceremonies, a younger Danny shaking hands with men in suits.
The air smelled like coffee and paper and the faint ghost of cigarette smoke, though I didn’t see any ashtrays.
Old habit, maybe. Something he’d given up but couldn’t quite escape.
Danny cleared a stack of invoices off two chairs and gestured for us to sit. He settled behind his desk, the chair creaking under his weight, and wrapped both hands around his coffee cup like he was bracing for impact.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s have it. What’s going on?”
Jack leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. “Danny, I’m sorry to have to tell you this. One of your employees—Andre Washington—was found dead yesterday morning. We’re investigating it as a homicide.”
Danny was quiet for a moment after Jack told him. He set his coffee cup down on the desk and leaned back in his chair, the old springs creaking under his weight. Then he let out a long, slow breath and rubbed his hand across his jaw.
“That’s a shame,” he said finally. His voice was heavy, but steady. “That boy had a lot of potential. I was hoping he’d stick around, maybe move up. Good workers like him don’t come along every day.”
He shook his head slowly, staring at a spot on the wall somewhere past my shoulder.
“His mama know yet?”
“We notified her yesterday,” Jack said.
“How’s she holding up?” Danny picked up his coffee again, more for something to do with his hands than because he wanted it. “I never met her, but Andre talked about her all the time. Worried about her living alone, wanted to take care of her.”
“About as well as you’d expect. Losing a child is hard, no matter what age they are. I hate being the deliverer of that news. It never gets easier.”
Danny nodded, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “She need anything? I could put together a collection from the crew. Andre was well liked around here.”
“I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”
We sat with that for a moment, the rattle of the window air conditioner filling the silence. Then Danny straightened in his chair, shifting into a more businesslike posture. He understood why we were here. Questions needed answers.
“What can I tell you?” he asked. “I want to help however I can.”
“How long had Andre worked for you?” Jack asked.
“Three, almost four years. Came on right after he separated from the Marines.” Danny took a sip of his coffee.
“Started him on grunt work like everybody else, hauling materials, cleanup, the jobs nobody wants. But he learned fast. Had him on framing crews by the end of his first year. Could have moved him into a supervisory role within the next couple years if he’d stuck around. ”
“Was he planning to leave?”
Danny set his coffee down carefully. “He never said it outright. But the last few months, he seemed restless. Distracted. He’d ask about business.
Not his job, but the business. How contracts worked, where the money came from, how I built the company.
The kind of questions a man asks when he’s thinking about going out on his own. ”
“Did that bother you?”
“Hell no. I respect ambition. I started this company out of the back of a pickup truck. If the kid wanted to build something of his own, I’d have helped him.” He shrugged. “But he never asked for help. Just asked the questions and kept whatever he was thinking to himself.”
“Any problems on the job? Conflicts?”