“Give me the names.”
I did, and she promised to check them out and get back to me. That settled, I began to call some of Weston’s closer acquaintances. John Weston had listed six names under the “Friends” category, along with the phone numbers he had for the five of them who lived in the state. The sixth was an old Marine buddy who lived in Florida. I’d try to find a number for him if I couldn’t turn up anything productive from the others. I assumed the police would have talked to all the same individuals, but it was still the place to start.
Four hours later, I’d conducted five interviews. Three of the “friends” John Weston had listed told me they weren’t really that close to Wayne Weston, just casual acquaintances who sometimes played golf with him. When asked about the gambling, they all claimed limited knowledge.
“He’d make bets on the golf course fairly often,” one man told me. “Never big money, just betting ten or twenty bucks on a round, or maybe five or ten on a hole. It was just something he did to make it a little more fun, increase the competitiveness a bit.”
The other two admitted being close with Weston, but both dismissed the idea that he might have had serious gambling debts, saying betting was nothing more than recreation to Weston, and not something he did recklessly. I stuck with them for a while, searching for other motives or sources of trouble, but found none. I finished the afternoon with no leads but with a growing list of questions about Wayne Weston. His father had provided names of the people he felt his son was closest to, yet none of those people seemed to know the man intimately. Even the self-proclaimed “close” friends had only casual relationships with Weston, and all of them described him as a private person, not given to a great deal of socializing or conversation about his personal affairs. It was not the response I had hoped to generate.
Joe left the office while I was doing the last of my interviews. It didn’t sound like he had made much progress with the Windsor calls. By the time I hung up, it was growing dark out on the street. Amy, for all her burning desire to help, hadn’t called back with any information about the Russians. I decided to call it a day and head to my gym for a mind-clearing workout, hoping to return the next morning with a fresh focus and some better ideas.
I own a gym called Sweat Alley just a few blocks from our office. After I was dismissed from the police department, I invested the meager inheritance left from my father’s estate in the gym and attempted to make it as a small business owner. Since then, I’d turned the management over to Grace, my middle-aged and sharp-tongued employee, but you could find me there most evenings.
When I arrived, the parking lot was fairly crowded. I had to admit Grace had more of a knack for running the place than I did. She’d started cardiovascular classes and generated a good-sized turnout for them after she began targeting the senior citizens’ centers in the area with advertising. The result was that the gym was making me more money than ever before, and I had an odd mix of burly power lifters and white-haired grandmothers.
It was after five, so Grace was gone and the office was closed. I used my keycard to enter, then did some light stretching and headed for the free weights. A black guy named Alan Belle was on the incline bench, pressing a pair of eighty-pound dumbbells, and we exchanged nods. Alan had been coming to the gym for a few months now, and we talked occasionally. As I started in on my own workout, I remembered that he’d served in the Marines.
“Hey, Alan,” I said when he had finished his set.
“Yeah?” He turned to me, wiping sweat away from his eyes with a towel. There were lots of guys in the gym who were big, or in great shape, and then there was Alan Belle. He wasn’t power-lifter thick but lean and cut, with an athlete’s hard muscle. He was tall, at least six-four, and he’d been a star in both football and basketball at St. Ignatius, Cleveland’s perennial high school powerhouse.
“You were in the Marines, right?”
“Six years, Marine Expeditionary Unit,” he acknowledged.
“Same group my father was in,” I said. “Guy I was named after was a Marine, too. Saved my dad’s life in Vietnam. You know anything about Force Recon?”
“Recon.” He grinned and rubbed his shaved head. “Yeah, I know Force Recon. Those boys are flat-out badasses, that’s all there is to it. I was recruited for Recon, but I wasn’t planning on making a career out of it and I liked my unit, so I passed.”
“They go through pretty tough training?”
“All Marines go through tough training, Perry. Force Recon boys go through specialized training. They get taught all the dirty tricks, the special ops techniques. That’s what they are: special operations. See, I was in an expeditionary unit. We were considered special operations capable. There’s a difference. And as far as the training is concerned, yeah, they’re pretty well taught. They’ve got to pass airborne training, combat diver training, escape and evasion training, close-quarters combat-all the fun stuff.”
“I see.”
“Why are you interested?” he asked.
“I met a guy who was with Force Recon, and I was curious,” I said.
Belle laughed. “Sure, Perry. I just hope you’re on this fella’s good side. You don’t want to be pissing off any Recon boys.”
I returned my attention to my own workout, beginning with military presses, then moving on to shoulder shrugs and lateral raises. I concentrated on steady breathing and careful form, trying to make each repetition identical to the last in motion and power, like cylinders working in an engine. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and the muscles began to ache. It wasn’t a bad pain, though, but one that promised better things ahead.
I finished my weight workout and then went outside and ran. The air was cold; it was only March, and in Cleveland March feels a lot more like the end of winter than it does the beginning of spring. There were still traces of snow in the parking lots, but the sidewalks were clear and the footing was safe. I ran regardless of the conditions, but it was nice not to have to worry about the slick patches of black ice that blended with the shadows.
I ran four miles, my body becoming hot under the sweatshirt despite the cold, the sweat beginning to drip down my face. When I returned to the gym I remained on the sidewalk until my breathing was back to normal, and then I went upstairs. I live in an apartment above the gym, and sometimes, late at night, I can hear the distant thuds of dropped weights and the clang of metal on metal from some night owl’s workout.
I showered and changed clothes, then stood in front of the open refrigerator debating what to make for dinner. The phone rang while I was considering the limited options and thinking it was time for a trip to the grocery store. I picked up the receiver, expecting it was Joe and hoping it wasn’t Angela calling again to question my judgment in ending our short-lived relationship.
“Hello?”
“Lincoln, I need you.” It was Amy, and she wasn’t happy.
“What’s wrong?” I said. Silence. “Amy? What’s wrong?”
“Just come over. I’ll explain when you’re here.”
She hung up, and I sighed and let the refrigerator door swing shut. So much for dinner. I grabbed my keys and left.
I’d driven a Jeep until recently, when I’d traded it in and purchased a four-year-old Chevy Silverado pickup truck. I like big cars, and the two settings of four-wheel drive meant I could handle any weather the Cleveland winter chose to dish out, but both Amy and Joe ridiculed the truck constantly. On the other hand, when I wanted to drive fast in the big truck, as I did on the way to Amy’s apartment, people tended to get out of my way.
The first thing I noticed when I pulled into a parking spot in front of Amy’s apartment was her car. The Acura was parked in its customary place but that was where the normalcy ended. The side panels and trunk were covered with large dents, all four windows had been broken out, and the windshield was spiderwebbed with cracks.