shine me in a better light with her since it makes it sound like running is something I do every day for exercise, as opposed to something I do only when my house is on fire.
“Okay,” she says. “We’ll have to modify your workout for now to accommodate the foot injury but there’s plenty here for us to work on.” Her eyes grow big as she gives me a quick head-to-toe scan, as if she’s wondering if I’m more challenge than she can handle. “Let’s head out to the main exercise area.”
I follow her out to the floor, where I spy Richmond sitting on a machine rigged with weights and pulleys, doing repetitive arm pulls with a bar. His face is beet red and he’s already sweating buckets, creating a huge dark stain on his T-shirt.
Helga leads me to a different section and directs me to a similar-looking machine, though this one has some kind of widespread leg thingies on it. “Have a seat and put your legs inside these,” she says, pointing to the leg thingies.
I do so, feeling painfully awkward and exposed when I end up semireclined and with my legs spread-eagled. “I generally only get into this position once a year and then I’m naked for it,” I say with a laugh to disguise my discomfort. A woman two machines over shoots me a disgusted look and I fire one back at her.
Helga finagles the weights behind me and then says, “Okay, now bring your thighs together and then let them fall apart. Keep doing that for ten repetitions.”
I do as she says and the first four reps are a breeze, made easier by the fact that my legs meet in the middle faster than most. I’ve always been afraid to wear corduroy pants, fearful that the friction created by my thighs rubbing together might get hot enough to start a fire.
Just as I’m starting to think this exercise thing is a piece of cake, the reps get harder and my muscles start to balk. By the time I reach number ten, my thighs feel like someone has set them on fire—and that’s without the benefit of corduroy.
Helga looks pleased. “Very good,” she says. “Now let’s do some upper body strengthening.”
Forty minutes later, Helga, who I’m now convinced is a semiretired B&D/S&M mistress, hands me some papers containing information about a proper diet for weight loss and then takes me to the locker room. I limp along behind her on legs that feel like they’re made out of gelatin—and not the sturdy green hospital kind, either. She gives me a tour of the showers, which I vow to never, ever use after watching two extremely slender, well manicured women sporting genital topiary—one has pubic hair that looks like a tiny landing strip, the other has pubes in the shape of a lightning bolt—parade around stark naked. There is also a hot tub, which I would love to use if I didn’t have to get undressed, because my entire body is throbbing like a toothache. I thank Helga and promise to come tomorrow for my second round of torture. It’s a promise I’m not sure I’ll keep.
Richmond, whose torture I suspect rivaled mine considering that his face looked like it was about to explode the entire time, meets me by the door. He hasn’t showered either and I’m pretty sure it’s for the same reason I didn’t. While I can sympathize with his embarrassment, I’m glad we’re not going to be riding home in the same car. He smells like wet towels that have been tossed in the corner for a week.
“So how’d it go?” I ask him.
“That Slim guy tried to kill me. Hell, he might have succeeded and my heart is just too stunned to know it yet. I’m going to drop dead five steps into the parking lot, like Bill did in the movie
“Are you going to come back?”
He hesitates and I can tell he doesn’t want to. “I will if you will,” he says with a sigh of resignation.
“Yeah, okay.” He sounds disappointed that I’ve agreed.
“You better not stand me up, Richmond, because if you don’t give Slim another chance to kill you, I’ll do the deed myself.”
“Fine,” he grumbles. “But I’m going to spend my time until then thinking up ways to torture him for revenge.”
As I watch Richmond waddle to his car, I breathe a sigh of relief when he passes the five step mark. My neck and shoulder muscles feel tight, so I roll my head to try to get them to relax. I hobble out to my car, my leg muscles protesting with every step. I suspect Richmond and I will both be paying dearly for this tomorrow, and oddly enough, this gives me an idea.
Chapter 27
Though I’m eager to hop into the shower and wash the gym stink from my body, I first retrieve the printout Steph gave me at the police station—which is still in my pants pocket—and then I check the cell phones. The throwaway has more of a charge on it than my regular phone so I take it off the charger. First I call information to get the number of the car rental office by O’Hare Airport. The person who answers sounds young, bored, and robotic as he recites the name of the place and asks if he can help me.
“Hi. My name is Rebecca Taylor,” I tell him, resurrecting my alter ego. “I’m working for the Worldwide Insurance Company and I’m investigating a personal injury claim involving someone who says they were driving one of your cars. I suspect the guy is trying to file a fraudulent claim and I’m wondering if I can get some information from you.”
“What information?”
“Well, I’d like to know if there was any evidence of damage to the vehicle in question. If I give you the license plate number of the car, can you tell me if it was returned with any dings or dents?”
“Yeah, I guess,” he says.
I read off the make and model of the car from the note Steph gave me and the license plate number. He tells me to hold on a second and I hear the tapping of computer keys in the background.
“That car was rented for a week and hasn’t been returned yet,” the guy says finally. “So I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Really? That’s odd, because the guy said he returned the car two days ago. You rented it out to a David Winston, right?”
“Nope,” the guys says. “The name on the contract is Leon Lindquist.”
“Hmm, that’s odd,” I say. “I guess I better go back and check on a few things. Sorry I bothered you and thanks for your time.” I hang up before he has a chance to ask any more questions. Then I try to call Hurley, but once again it flips over to his voice mail. I leave a message telling him I might have a lead for him and ask him to call as soon as he can.
Seconds after hanging up, my regular cell phone rings and I snatch it up from the charger and answer it without looking at the caller ID, assuming it’s Hurley. “It’s about time you called,” I say.
“Were you waiting on me?” says a male voice that is not Hurley.
“David?”
“Were you expecting someone else?” He sounds suspicious and it irks me—he’s lost the right to be proprietary with me.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I was,” I tell him. I leave it at that; let him think what he wants. “How did you get my cell phone number?” I know I never gave it to him so I’m wondering who did.
“Some gal in your office,” he says, and I give myself a mental slap for never telling Cass to withhold the information. “Though you should have given it to me yourself,” he adds, sounding sulky.
“What do you want, David?”
“There’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”
Frowning, I hear him hand off the phone and then a whispery voice comes on the line. “Mattie?”
“Yes?”
“This is Nancy Molinaro.”
