Icarus

know that she owns two other apartments in that same building? She bought 'em for investments and rents 'em out. It's a business arrangement and they're owned by her company.' Her words came out in a rush now, and she seemed to be getting more agitated as she went along. 'Now, if you want to go prying, I'll grant you your friend probably was not paying top dollar to live there – I've seen the lady and I know what she's like – but that ain't none of my business. And it ain't none of yours, either. We talked to her about the drugs we found there and we're satisfied she didn't know a goddamn thing about it. That was our business and we took care of it. She may have been even more surprised than you were! So, Jack, here's what I suggest. Stop pestering her and stop pestering me.'

'Did you know she stabbed him?'

'No,' McCoy said, a little bit of indignation taken away from her. 'I didn't know that. When?'

'Four, six weeks ago. She went after him with a knife and slashed his arm.'

'Well, it was never reported. And a minor case of domestic violence don't mean jack, Jack.'

'One call from a mobster's wife – that's all it takes to stop you from investigating a case?'

'Don't go dissin' me now, when you don't know what you're talking about, 'cause that really pisses me off. There ain't no case, there ain't no damn investigation!' She was yelling now. Another police officer took a step in their direction but she waved him off, letting him know that everything was okay. Turning back to Jack, she said, a little quieter, 'If you come here again, you should either be under arrest or make damn sure that somebody tried to kill you. Otherwise, I don't want to see your face! Now that's the end of our little conversation because I'm already late for dinner with my husband and you got me so goddamn mad I broke my New Year's resolution, which was not to swear so fucking much!' Sergeant McCoy took a deep breath. 'I told you I did not have a lot of patience.'

Jack met her stare and said, 'Will you just do one thing? Find out where they both were on the night Kid died, Joe and Eva Migliarini. And two guys who work for her, real thugs, one tall, six-two or -three, with a sickly, pale complexion, one short, five-five, five-six, tan…' He thought for a second. 'With a scar on the back of his neck. From a glass cut.'

McCoy looked at him incredulously. 'No,' she said. 'I will not. And neither will you. Now do we understand each other?'

Jack nodded. And without another word, Sergeant Patience McCoy turned and left the station house to go have dinner.

As soon as she was gone, Jack nodded again, this time to himself. Yes, he thought, we understand each other.

But she was wrong. As wrong as she could be. So he wasn't going to pay any attention to what she thought she understood.

– '-'-'AT HIS APARTMENT, Jack sat at his computer and began to make a list of everything he could remember that Kid had told him about the Team. The more he worked, the more the list began to take a slightly different form: it was every detail Jack had heard over the last year about Kid's life.

He put the title 'Kid' on it and centered it at the top of the page. He wanted to be as organized and precise as possible and he was. It took him the better part of three hours – he was sure he'd keep coming back and adding – and when he pushed his chair away from his desk and looked at the screen, he realized he knew both an awful lot and almost nothing. Some of his information was intriguing, some was trivial and silly. All in all, it didn't add up to much.

But among the trivial details he wrote down was that Bryan Bishop had been wearing a T-shirt that said 'Hanson Fitness Center' on it when they'd had their lunch at Jack's. And Kid had mentioned once that he used a place called Hanson's to train clients.

It might not be much but it was a place to start.

The Hanson Fitness Center was in SoHo, on Greene Street between West Houston and Prince. It was the second floor of a large restored loft building. On the first floor was an art gallery whose large window onto the street was halfway filled with sand. As Jack walked up and peered in, he didn't know if he was looking at a work of art or if it simply meant that they were out of business.

The gym was the entire second floor and it was a classy setup. There were weight machines scattered around, many of the same ones Jack had in his own apartment and that he'd seen in Kid's. One wall was a climbing wall. And there was a heavy bag in one corner, hanging from the ceiling. A woman was at the bag, both punching and kicking it, while a trainer stood and held it still. There looked to be seven or eight trainers working simultaneously with clients, and another dozen or so clients working out on their own. As Jack was looking around, he heard Bryan's voice call out, 'Mr. Keller,' and he looked up to see Kid's friend across the room standing by a watercooler.

'I was pretty surprised to get your call,' Bryan said as they shook hands. 'I don't know how you can remember stuff like this. I mean, from a T-shirt, I can hardly remember I work here.'

'I thought it was worth a shot. Kid used to train people here sometimes, didn't he?'

'Yeah. During the day when it's not so crowded, then he'd give 'em twenty-five percent of his take. It was a pretty good deal. It's a nice setup, don't you think?'

'It's impressive,' Jack agreed. 'What do you do here?'

'Me? I do a little bit of everything. I train people mostly. I got a few of my own clients, not like Kid, but a couple. But mostly I do whatever they need. The Hansons, the guys who own the place, they're real nice.'

There was one small private office in the place and a man in sweatpants and a T-shirt – also bearing the name of the gym – stepped out of it and surveyed the room. 'Hey, B.B.,' he called in Bryan's direction. 'Before you go, you wanna clean out the big bathroom? It's a mess.'

Bryan colored slightly and said to Jack, 'We all gotta do it. Take turns, you know. Gotta keep the place clean.' Then, to his boss, still standing in front of the office, he called back, 'Okay, Bruce. But then I'm outta here.' To Jack he said, 'It'll just take me a few minutes. Then we can go talk, okay?'

Jack nodded and watched as Bryan moved to one of what appeared to be three different bathrooms. As he walked down the hallway, a young man, a Wall Streeter if Jack had ever seen one, came out of one of the bathrooms, still toweling off his hair. As he passed Bryan, he dropped the towel on the floor. There was a bin for towels not six feet from where the guy stood, but he just dropped the wet cloth on the floor and kept walking. Bryan stooped and picked it up. He looked back to stare at the client in disbelief, but saw Jack watching him, so quickly averted his gaze and docilely dropped the towel in the proper basket. Then he disappeared into the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, they were on their way out. But as Bryan reached the front door, another client – and another Wall Streeter from the looks of it – strode in and waylaid him. Bryan glanced at Jack and said, 'Just give me a second,' and then they both headed toward the back of the gym. Jack watched as the client chatted with Bryan for a moment, as friendly as could be, but also dug his hand into his pocket and came out with money. He glanced down to make sure of the amount, then surreptitiously slipped it into Bryan's palm. Bryan slapped him on the back, nodded, and came back to Jack.

'Sorry about that,' he said. 'Now we're outta here for sure.'

'A tip?' Jack asked as they headed for the stairwell.

Bryan looked surprised. 'It'd be a pretty good tip,' he said and opened up his hand to reveal a hundred-dollar bill. Then he looked embarrassed – a look Jack was beginning to recognize – and said, 'I do a little booking, you know. I can use the money and a lot of guys here like to bet. Lotta the stock market guys. I don't actually book, I can't really afford it, but I know a guy, so I take stuff for him. He gives me like ten percent of what I bring in. I pass out those little yellow cards, too. For pro football, you know. You gotta win three out of three or four out of four or seven out of eight or whatever. If you ever wanna place a bet, Mr. Keller, I can do it for you. You won't even get charged the vig, I swear.'

'Thanks,' Jack said. 'I'll keep it in mind.'

They walked a block south to the SoHo Wine Bar, sat down in a booth off to the side. The waitress came immediately to take their order – Bryan had a light beer, Jack had a Sam Adams on draft – then Bryan looked up and, with as friendly a smile as Jack thought he'd seen in a long, long time, asked, 'So what can I do for you, Mr. Keller?'

'The first thing is, call me Jack.'

Again, that flash of embarrassment. Bryan nodded quickly and vigorously to cover it up.

'Second thing, and this isn't why I'm here, but I thought of it when we were in the gym – I need a new trainer.