“We have no legal obligation to tell you anything,” Hotel Counsel said.
He looked like someone from casting had sent him over to play the corporate lawyer. He was youngish, and lean, with dark hair cut short and a pair of blue-framed half-glasses that he wore low on his nose, so he could look over them at you.
“Of course you don’t,” I said. “But I know that both of you, like good citizens everywhere, want this terrible incident resolved, and would prefer it be resolved with a minimum of media attention.”
“Are you threatening to involve the media if we don’t talk with you?” Hotel Counsel said.
“Are you suggesting that I am the kind of sleazy gumshoe that would do such a thing?” I said.
We looked at each other.
“Let us agree,” Hotel Counsel said, “that what is said here stays here.”
“Is there a big secret?” I said.
“No,” Hotel Counsel said. “Of course not. But I don’t want any loose talk besmirching the hotel.”
“No besmirching,” I said.
“It is not a frivolous request,” Hotel Counsel said. “The public perception of this hotel can mean the difference between success and failure.”
“I am employed by Cone, Oakes, and Baldwin,” I said. “I will share what I learn with them.”
“And no one else.”
“Within the guidelines of legality,” I said.
Hotel Counsel glanced at Delmar and shrugged and nodded.
“Whaddya need?” Delmar said to me.
“Run through it for me,” I said. “When did you first learn that something was amiss in Jumbo Nelson’s suite?”
“Call to the front desk, around eleven-thirty,” Delmar said.
“From?”
“Not entirely clear,” Delmar said. “Best guess is the bodyguard.”
“Zebulon Sixkill,” I said.
“Yep.”
“Could it have been Jumbo?” I said.
“Clerk said she thought it was the Indian,” Delmar said. “But it was sort of a crisis call, so she may be wrong.”
“In public,” Hotel Counsel said, “you might not want to refer to him as ‘the Indian.’ The bodyguard is all right. Or Mr. Sixkill. But not ‘the Indian.’ ”
“You bet,” Delmar said.
“What did the caller say?” I asked.
“Said there was a medical emergency and to call an ambulance,” Delmar said.
“Which you did.”
“Of course, and the desk clerk called me and I sent a couple of my people up; one had EMT training. The Indian... The bodyguard let them in. Found the girl lying on her back on the bed.”
“Clothed?” I said.
“Yes,” Delmar said. “My guys couldn’t get a pulse. They tried to resuscitate her, but...” He spread his hands. “One of them called me, said he thought she was dead. I said, ‘Of what?’ He said he didn’t know. I called the cops.”
“Where was Jumbo?” I said.
“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. There was a speed bag, a heavy bag, a little two-ended jeeter bag that even Hawk had trouble with, a couple of body bags, and an open space with rubber floor mats for sparring.
Henry Cimoli came in wearing a white satin sweat suit. And custom sneakers.
“Thought I saw you come in,” Henry said. “New sparring partner?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Henry, this is Z. Z, Henry.”
They shook hands. When they finished, Henry shook his as if it hurt.
“Nice grip you got there, Z,” Henry said.
Z nodded.
“Hawk still in East Bumfuck?” Henry said to me.
“Central Asia,” I said.
“When’s he coming home,” Henry said.
“Whenever he wants to,” I said.
Henry nodded.
“That would be Hawk,” he said. “You guys gonna box?”
“I’m conducting a little introduction for Z,” I said. “Wanna sit in?”
“He want to be a pro or just win the fights in the alley?”
“Alley,” Z said.
“Probably win most of those now, being so big and strong,” Henry said.
“Wanna win all,” Z said.
“But no one ever taught him,” I said to Henry.
Henry looked at Z.
“Okay,” Henry said. “I fought at one-thirty-two. Long time ago. I weigh about one-forty-five now. And, if you don’t know, I’d clean your clock.”
Z shook his head.
“Can he take a punch?” Henry asked me.
“Yes.”
“You’ve tested that?”
“Yes.”
Henry nodded.
“Wanna try it?” he said.
“Me and you?” Z said.
“Sure, open hand, we’ll just slap. Nobody gets hurt.”
Z looked at me.
“It’ll be instructive,” I said. “You won’t hurt him.”
He shrugged.
“Right here?” he said.
“Sure,” Henry said. “That’ll be your corner. This’ll be mine. Spenser will ref.”