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Chapter 11
Magnolia Fitness Center was the largest gym in St. Long parish, and the only one of any decent quality in Beaulac. I was a member there, though calling my attendance “sporadic” would have been generous. I tended to go through spasms of desire to get fit that usually lasted about two weeks and would then die down for several months. I was quite sure that Magnolia Fitness absolutely loved me, since I was kind enough to allow them to deduct the dues from my checking account every month, and I avoided adding any wear or tear to their equipment by the clever technique of remaining on my couch at home.
The front of the fitness center resembled a plantation, complete with a broad stairway, absurd columns, and rocking chairs on the “porch.” However, the interior was more in line with what one would expect a fitness center to look like: shiny and chromey, with signs indicating directions to the spa, the hair salon, child care, or—amazingly—the weight room.
I’d called Roger and arranged to meet with him during a break in his training schedule. I had to ask for directions to the trainer offices, though, since I’d never had any desire to go there. The thought of paying someone to make me exercise made me whimper, both at the hit it would make on my budget and at the thought of being harassed and goaded to work and push and sweat.
It felt odd for me to walk through the gym in my detective-attire, and I found myself sucking my stomach in as I walked past the banks of mirrors. A couple of months ago I’d been accused of being too skinny—a result of being too stressed to eat properly because of worrying about my aunt. It hadn’t taken long for my usual bad habits to assert themselves and for the “fleshy curves” to return. The running with Jill helped, but my fondness for ice cream before bed did not.
Roger was in the office when I arrived. He stood and shook my hand in a firm grip with no recognition in his eyes, not surprising since I was no longer dressed in go-thy undercover garb. As Lida had said, Roger was definitely a ball of muscle. A damn good-looking one too, with dark blond hair and green eyes and a sharp little cleft in the middle of his chin. I had a feeling those good looks accounted for a fair number of the band’s female fan base.
I debated briefly about not telling him that we’d met before when I’d taken his witness statement after the attack, then decided it would probably be more than a little awkward if he figured it out later.
“Oh, right!” he exclaimed after I mentioned the task force. He grinned, showing perfect teeth. “Man, that was some crazy shit, huh!”
“Yeah, sure was,” I said as I settled myself carefully into one of the plastic chairs. Maybe they made the chairs deliberately uncomfortable so that people wouldn’t want to sit for long and instead would eagerly rush out to exercise? “Seems kinda strange that Lida doesn’t seem to be worried that it could happen again.”
He shrugged. “Lida’s a strange girl. I mean, she’s cool and all, and super tough and driven, but at the same time she kinda does whatever her uncle and Adam say.”
I desperately wanted to pursue that, but Roger didn’t give me a chance. He plopped a chart down in front of me.
“So, I know that I’m not a family member or anything of Vic’s,” he began, expression earnest, “and I know he hasn’t been missing very long, but if there’s one thing he was super committed about it was his workouts. In the past three years he’s only missed three appointments, and each time he made sure to let me know way in advance.”
I obediently perused the chart, more than a little intimidated at the number of training sessions that Vic had scheduled. The man worked out five days a week—and that was just the sessions with Roger. I could also see that he was expected to do a fair amount of cardio on his own. “Wow, he must really be in shape,” I said.
Roger gave a proud smile. “He’s my star client. Three years ago he was close to four hundred pounds. Then he had a scare during a Christmas party—thought he was having a heart attack and was rushed to the hospital. Turned out it was only gastritis, but when they ran all the tests they found out that he was inches away from having a real one. He had a couple of stents put in, and as soon as he recovered, he decided he was going to change his life. He came here and signed up, and got serious.” Roger pulled out two pictures and set them side by side for me to see—before and after pictures. I barely recognized that it was the same man in both pictures, and if Roger hadn’t told me so, I might not have at all. The picture on the left showed a man dressed only in gray shorts—balding, morbidly obese, skin pasty and pale, and a deeply fatigued expression on a round and almost babyish face. The picture on the right had him in a white T-shirt and black shorts, and clearly about two hundred pounds lighter, but the differences went beyond the weight loss and the clothing. Vic Kerry was smiling, standing straighter with obvious muscle tone in his arms and legs. He’d gone and shaved his head and even though he still had a faintly cherubic roundness to his face, it was possible to see that he had cheekbones, and he no longer looked as if he never saw the light of day.
“Holy crap,” I said, sincerely impressed.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Roger said, nearly beaming. “Now he weighs one-ninety and his doctors say he’ll probably outlive all of us.” Then his smile slipped. “I went by his house and his office and he wasn’t at either place. I have keys,” he explained. “If Vic was busy he’d have me come to him so that he could still get a workout in.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Vic’s not just a training client. I mean, he’s a friend as well. He’s helped me out of some tough spots and given me some great financial advice, and ... well, I’m really worried about him.”
“I understand,” I said in a reassuring tone. I asked a few questions about Vic and his family—of which there was practically none. Parents deceased, no spouse, no kids. A brother who lived in Seattle who Vic almost never spoke to—not out of any sort of antipathy, but more because they’d gone different directions with their lives, and their contact was now down to obligatory phone calls on birthdays and Christmas.
“Let me make some calls,” I said. “I want to rule out the possibility that he had an accident and hasn’t been able to get in touch with you.”
He gave me a relieved smile. “I tried calling hospitals but they said that they weren’t allowed to give patient information because of privacy rules.”
“Right. I should be able to get more info.” I’d also call the coroner’s office to see if Mr. Kerry was in the morgue, but I wasn’t going to tell Roger that. I was sure he knew that would be one of my calls, but that didn’t mean I had to say it outright.
Roger excused himself to go tend to a client, and I used the opportunity to make the calls.
“Well, no one with his name or fitting his description is in any of the local hospitals. Or the morgue,” I told him when he returned about ten minutes later.
He gave me an uneasy smile. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or more worried.”
“Sorry,” I said. “But that’s only the first step. Do you have time to take me by his office and house?” Since he had keys and—I assumed—permission to enter, that made my life a bit easier.
“Yeah, I just had my last client. I start at five A.M.” He grinned at my involuntary shudder. “I’m free until about four-thirty this afternoon. Band rehearsal every night this week,” he explained.
“Oh? Where do you rehearse?”
“Adam owns a studio in town—Sound Systems. It’s convenient and free,” he said, “which is nice since we’re spending so much time practicing right now.” A faint grimace flashed across his face. “Lida’s putting together some new songs and it usually takes us some time to get all the instrumentation right.”
I thought I could sense a touch of resentment about the amount of time the band demanded. “Lida writes all of the songs?”
“Most of them,” he said, “though Trey’s put together a few as well.”
“What about Michael?”
