'Sitting in the living room,' Delmar said. 'Fully dressed.'
'Doing what?' I said.
'Nothing,' Delmar said. 'My guys said he just sat there.'
'Say anything?' I asked.
'Nope.'
I looked at Hotel Counsel.
'Mr. Sixkill speak?' I said.
'No,' Delmar said. 'Not a word.'
'And then the city arrived,' I said.
'Ambulance came,' Delmar said. 'Cops came, and it was pretty well out of our hands after that.'
'Theories?' I said.
'I think they were having rough sex and it got out of hand,' Delmar said.
'That is, of course, Mr. Delmar's personal speculation only,' Hotel Counsel said.
'You weren't quoting somebody else?' I said to Delmar.
Delmar smiled faintly.
'Just so we're clear,' Hotel Counsel said.
'They took her to Boston City?' I said.
'Yes,' Delmar said.
'May I talk with the two hotel security people who first went up to the room?'
'I prefer all discussion to go through Mr. Delmar and myself,' Hotel Counsel said.
'I prefer that you be less of a horse's ass,' I said.
'No need to be abusive,' Hotel Counsel said.
'Just so we're clear,' I said.
15
ZEBULON SIXKILL AND I went to the Harbor Health Club in the early afternoon. He looked great in a black tank top and sweats. The muscles in his arms and shoulders were startling, and bulged or relaxed smoothly with every movement. People looked at him when he came, the way people often looked at Hawk. Being a trained investigator, I concluded that he'd probably done some weight work.
'How much can you bench, Zebulon?'
'Z,' he said.
'Got it,' I said. 'How much do you bench.'
'Four-fifty,' he said.
'Let's start with half that,' I said.
'No fighting?' Z said.
'We will,' I said. 'Just see how many reps you can do with two-twenty-five. The machine is fine.'
Z nodded and slid into the reclining bench-press machine and set the pin at two-twenty-five and did fifteen reps.
'How many can you do?' Z said.
I shrugged and got into the machine and did twenty-five.
'Jesus Christ,' Z said.
'On the other hand,' I said. 'I've never done four-fifty in my life.'
Z nodded.
'Different approach,' I said. 'You run?'
'Ten miles,' Z said.
'Ever do intervals?'
'Fast and slow?' Z said.
'Sort of,' I said.
'Football,' he said.
I nodded.
Mostly in deference to Hawk and me, and also with a nod to his own years as a ranked lightweight, Henry Cimoli had salvaged a boxing room when the club went upscale. Z and I went in, away from the bright, tight workout clothes and the mirrors and the chrome weight machines, and the upbeat listen-while-you-sweat music.
