Hard Play by Kurt Douglas Read Free Book Online

lobby of Fitness Finesse looked like an upscale dentist’s office complete with fake plants peppered along the walls and smooth jazz playing over the speakers. In the corner sat a large, black leather couch and loveseat combo beside a wrought-iron, glass-topped coffee table adorned with fitness magazines. Above, fuzzy fluorescent squares shone, illuminating the gray industrial carpet below. The smell of stale sweat and salted pork permeated the room, wafting up from the carpet and dominating the futile attempts of the auto-air freshener in the corner.
    Frank took notice of the small black domes in the ceiling as he walked up to the half-circle in the center of the room.
    A man sat behind the desk with a fitness mag in hand. The full-sized magazine looked like a small digest crimped between his giant fingers. He wore a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, revealing the tribal bands tattooed on his upper arms and his broad shoulders covered in patches of angry acne and black, curly hair. Clearly, a fan of steroids.
    Frank cleared his throat and said, “Nice music.”
    The magazine lowered.
    “Bill, right?” Frank half-inquired, knowing full well this was Bill. Frank had met him once at a barbecue Ed had hosted in the Pinemoor's courtyard .
    Bill shoved the magazine into a drawer in the desk.
    “Are you interested in a tour of the gym or a membership?” Bill asked as he came around the desk brandishing a clipboard.
    Looking Frank over, Bill started checking boxes on the paper in his hand.
    After a moment of scrutiny, Bill said, “It’s going to take some work to get you into shape.”
    He poked at Frank’s stomach. Not knowing it was two inches of Kevlar that filled out Frank's waistline, he said, “That right there, that’s got to—”
    “I’m not here for an evaluation of my lifestyle choices,” Frank interrupted.
    Flashing his wallet, Frank declared, “Frank Black, PD.”
    There was no badge, but Frank knew he didn’t need one. Few asked twice. He had learned there was something about that motion that people found authoritative. Probably influenced by years of watching cop shows, average folks submit their rights at the flip of a wallet, with or without the badge.
    Bill tossed the clipboard on the table and said, “Oh.”
    He looked Frank over once more and said, “What can I do you for, officer?”
    “I want to ask you about Mary-Beth Johnson.” Frank said, holding his cell phone out to Bill.
    On the screen of Frank’s phone was a close-up of Johnson’s plastic-wrapped face.
    “Oh my God,” Bill cried out, covering his mouth with a cringe.
    “Why the hell would you show me that?” he bellowed, pushing the phone out of his sight.
    Frank pocketed the phone as Bill started to cry.
    Frank looked sideways at the tearstained cheeks of the burly muscleman weeping in front of him.
    “I know it’s not easy to see,” Frank said with a bit of confusion. “Reactions are important in weeding out suspects.”
    Bill sniffled and sobbed and whimpered, holding his hand out in an ineffective attempt to hide himself from Frank. Each time Bill grew quiet and his hand started to lower, Frank would move his mouth to ask a question and Bill would start back into his whimpering.
    After a few long minutes of uncomfortable whining, Bill began to compose himself.
    Frank stated, “I found her like this yesterday morning. I’d like to know who did this to her.”
    Deep breaths interrupted each syllable as Bill asked, “How could someone do that to that poor—”
    Interrupting himself, he let out a another burst of tears and wailed, “She was nothing but nice!”
    Bill’s bicep flexed, the veins bulging under his tribal ink as he reached for the box of tissues on the desk. Bill apologized as he wiped his face clean of the snot and tears.
    “Please excuse me. I’m just going through some shit. I’ll help in any way I can,” he said.
    Frank nodded, saying, “Mm-hmm, I see,” then asked, “When was the last time you