Ilse frowned at the small, painted sign in the window of the flat, single-story gym occupying most of the center strip mall.
The windows were clean, but the sign was practically hidden. Jade Fitness clearly wasn't interested in advertising.
And yet, as they pulled to a halt, parked, and Ilse stepped out into the parking lot, she glimpsed many gym-goers through the large windows, moving on fitness machines or using the workout benches in the back near the rows of mirrors. She could hear the faint whir of the nearest elliptical and treadmills even through the window.
Sawyer didn't seem to care about any of it—his eyes were down, his hat low as he moved towards the rotating doors of the gym.
Ilse fell into step as well, keeping quiet as she did. Sawyer had preferred to pass their time in the car in silence. Even more silence than was usual for the man.
Was he intentionally avoiding speaking with her? The thought upset her somewhat. But she also knew what it felt like to bare one's soul to another. He'd done that. He'd invited her into a dark portion of his most hidden life.
Now, Ilse wanted nothing more than to help him. His own sister had been killed by a serial killer. A sadist. Not too unlike the man they were currently hunting. She worked with survivors for a living. Was that why Sawyer had told her? Did he want her help... maybe he just didn't know how to ask.
But as she considered this, she frowned, wrinkling her nose, stepping from the asphalt to the curb and moving through the spinning doors. Sawyer was just a step ahead of her.
Tom didn't seem like the sort of man who'd ever willingly work with a shrink. Especially not a friend...
They were friends, weren't they?
More than friends?
Ilse felt her cheeks warm at even considering the thought. She felt grateful at the distraction as Sawyer cleared his throat near the reception counter, and said, “Manager.”
The teenager behind the counter blinked once, began to speak, likely searching to recollect memorized words, but Sawyer cut the young man off.
“Manager,” he repeated, a bit more firmly.
The teenager hesitated but seemed to see something in Sawyer's gaze and then winced, nodding and turning on his heel, skipping and half-jogging through a door behind the counter as he retreated.
Ilse leaned on the marble counter next to Sawyer. The faint scent of sweat, rubber, and cleaning liquids all mingled on the air in the familiar odor of gyms everywhere. The door had barely swung shut before a new figure emerged, frowning.
The woman looked like she spent a good amount of her time on the machines herself. She was trim, wearing a pink tank top that displayed more than the usual number of tattoos and musculature. Her frown seemed a permanent fixture as she mean-mugged the two FBI agents across the top of the sticky counter. She opened her mouth to speak, but Sawyer beat her to the punch.
“FBI,” he said in a lazy drawl.
Instantly, the woman's expression changed, as if suddenly rebounding. She blinked, shooting a quick vengeful look back towards the assistant behind the glass door who winced. Then, she cleared her throat. “You got proof of that?”
Ilse flashed her ID. Sawyer didn't bother.
The woman crossed her impressively toned arms. “You're not looking for memberships, are you?” she said in a flimsy attempt at humor.
Ilse rewarded the try with a smile, but then said, “I'm afraid we're looking into previous clients of your establishment. Do you own the place?”
“Nah. Just manage. Who are you looking into?”
“We'd like you to provide all the information you have on Adelaide Stevens and Arthur Lehman,” Ilse said without missing a beat. “Phone. Address. Emergency contacts. Dates of joining the gym. Anything.”
“I—I'm not sure I can just give you that info. You know. Health concerns.”
“You're not a hospital,” Ilse replied with a frown. “This isn't a medical facility. Are you really going to make us get a warrant?”
“Will have to shut the place down,” Sawyer added, nodding towards the gym-goers behind them. “And we're just getting into the busy part of the day.”
The manager hesitated, but then sighed, turning her attention to the computer behind the curving marble desk. She clacked at the keyboard, and then frowned. “What'd you say the names were?”
“Adelaide Stevens,” Ilse replied, enunciating clearly. “And Arthur Lehman.”
“Alright, yeah. I got them both. They had the special plus memberships. Looks like... Though Lehman hasn't been with us for the last two years. His membership ended in August.” She looked up with a shrug, studying the agents' faces to see if this information would be deemed useful.
Ilse said. “What does special plus, mean?”
“Access to the sauna, permanent lockers, and one on one training sessions with personal trainers,” the manager rattled off with practice ease. “Why? You looking?”
Ilse had to credit the woman's industriousness. This was the second time now she'd tried to recruit the investigators. “What sort of personal trainers?” she asked.
“Umm... Ah, well... Actually...,” now, the manager was stuttering, her cheeks reddening as she stared at something on the screen in front of her.
Ilse watched curiously, Sawyer, sensing the same thing, leaned in. “What was their trainer's name?” Sawyer asked. “Same guy?”
“Umm, yes, in fact. It was the same person. Actually, Ms. Stevens stopped seeing trainers last year. Mr. Lehman saw the trainer up until he left.”
“What was the trainer's name?” Sawyer asked, eyes narrowed, looking engaged all of a sudden by the way he leaned in, studying the woman.
“Nolan Kent,” she said with a noncommittal shrug. She glanced off to the side though and paused long enough so it didn't look like she swallowed right after speaking the name. But the tell-tale signs of nervousness were all there.
“This Mr. Kent,” Ilse said carefully, “does he still work with you?”
“I—I'm afraid not. Mr. Kent is no longer employed at Jade Fitness due to a mutual parting of ways.”
“What sorta mutual parting?” Sawyer asked.
The woman's expression was a bit more like a mask now, and she stared straight ahead as she answered. “I'm afraid I don't have that information in front of me.”
“Nah, but you know it,” Sawyer said. Then, he added, “Lying to a fed is a crime.”
The manager caved, looking panicked. “No—no, look. Just, Mr. Kent was rumored to have engaged in inappropriate conduct towards his clients. There were accusations. He was fired last year.”
“The same year Ms. Stevens stopped training with an individual trainer?” Sawyer said with a significant tilt of his brow.
“I—yes, I suppose so.”
“And were either Lehman or Stevens among those who filed complaints?”
The woman's eyes darted towards the screen, then back up again. “What is this about?” she asked carefully. “Because I'll have you know, Jade Fitness can't be found liable for the actions of an individual. We took all the necessary precautions, and, I'll add, most the incidents of inappropriate behavior were off premises. In addition—”
“We're not here about that,” Ilse cut in. “We just need to know if either of them filed a complaint against this guy.”
The manager hesitated, swallowing once. She opened her mouth, but Sawyer cut in. “Remember what I said about lying to a fed.”
She closed her mouth again, glancing at the computer, then sighed. “I'm afraid that I had to personally handle one of the complaints. When I found out, I immediately took it to ownership. But yes... Yes, Ms. Adelaide Stevens did file a complaint of sexual harassment against Mr. Kent.”
She winced, shaking her head and giving a sort of defeated sigh as she leaned back on her heels and glanced between the agents. “Is that all?”
“You got an address for the guy?” Sawyer said.
The woman shrugged. “Not available to me.”
“Whatever,” Sawyer muttered. “We can figure that out ourselves. Mind giving a brief description of this Mr. Kent?”
***
Back in the car, moving slowly through traffic, Ilse watched where Sawyer tapped his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. She glanced down at his phone, which he'd handed her. She swiped at the screen, frowned. Swiped again, rubbing her finger along the glass. “Dammit,” she muttered.
“Swipe up, doc,” Sawyer muttered, glancing out of the corner of his eye. “Gotta swipe up—one of these days, you're going to have to join the twenty-first century, you know that?”
“I hate these things,” Ilse muttered, trying to swipe up, but still failing to open the device.
Sawyer gave a closer look, then snorted, returning his attention to the slow-moving traffic. “You got it upside-down doc. Flip it.”
She did, swiped, and finally the screen opened. She scowled now at the device, refusing to give Sawyer the satisfaction of a comment. Instead, she scanned through the file Agent Sawyer had pulled up earlier, outside Jade Fitness.
“You really think he's couch surfing?”
Sawyer shrugged. “You're seeing what I'm seeing.”
Ilse studied the phone screen. According to the file, Mr. Kent had been evicted from his apartment the previous year, just around the same time he'd been fired from the fitness center, suggesting he hadn't been able to keep up rent.
Now, they were heading towards Mr. Kent's only surviving relative's home—his mother.
“Think she knows anything about all this?” Ilse asked.
“Guess we'll find out—here's our exit.”
Ilse gripped the armrest as Sawyer whipped the vehicle, a bit more rapidly than necessary in her assessment, onto the ramp, curling around towards the suburb where Mrs. Kent's home was located.
Sawyer followed the chirp of the GPS and turned down a side street, moving to the far end of a cul-de-sac set against a small, wooded area with a playground that was completely abandoned. As the afternoon stretched into evening, Ilse frowned in the direction of the numbers on the houses as they rolled by. Then, she clicked her fingers, pointing. “That one,” she said.
The home was a flat, single-story structure shaped like a shipping container with a roof.
A woman was sitting on the front porch, her legs curled up beneath her, a book in one hand and a glass of iced tea in the other.
As Sawyer pulled the car into the driveway, he muttered beneath his breath, “Don't see the son.”
Ilse frowned. “Think he isn't here?”
Sawyer hesitated, glancing ahead then frowned. “Truck in the driveway.”
“Your point.”
“Middle-aged women don't usually buy trucks. Less than eleven percent of truck owners are women.”
Ilse turned, staring at him. “How on earth do you know that?”
Sawyer just smirked, and pushed open his door, slipping out onto the asphalt and beginning to stroll towards the porch. As Ilse joined him, the two of them glanced up at the woman sitting there. She lowered her book slowly, frowning in their direction. The cover flashed, reading “Chicken Soup for the Soul.”
The door to the house from the patio, Ilse noticed, was ajar.
Sawyer tapped his knuckles against the glass porch door.
“Hello,” the woman said, nodding politely at each of them. “You selling something?”
“No ma'am,” Sawyer replied. “FBI.”
The woman shifted now, going still. She brushed a strand of silver hair behind an ear with the same hand she held the iced tea glass. The cold, condensed liquid streaked against her cheek. “I see,” she said simply. “Are you here for my son?”
Ilse blinked at the direct nature of the question. Sawyer scratched the back of his head. “Yes, ma'am.”
“He's not here.”
Sawyer glanced towards the truck, then back at her. “Was he?”
She didn't hesitate but nodded. “He was.”
“Recently?”
“About as recent as I can remember was the scrambled eggs that he had this morning at the breakfast table.”
Sawyer crossed his arms. “Is that his truck in the drive?”
The woman snorted. “My boy—God bless his heart—ain't the truck driving sort. He's in one of those prissy electric things.”
Ilse hid a smile as Sawyer cleared his throat. “Where is he now?”
The woman sighed, but didn't rise from her recliner, slowly picking her book up again but not quite reading it yet. “He's working.”
“Working? We just came from his last filed place of employment. They said he hasn't been there for more than a year.”
“He's freelance now,” the woman said. “Leastways that's what he calls it.”
“I see. And your boy, did he tell you why he was let go from his last job?”
The woman shook her head, the ice tinkling in her glass from the motion. “No, afraid not. Also afraid I don't quite wanna know. He's my son. He's welcome under my roof whenever he wants, but I'm damn sure not gonna lie to save him from his own choices. What'd he do this time?”
“We're not sure,” Sawyer said.
Ilse glanced towards the man. She respected his decision not to mention the murders. No reason to upset the man's mother, even if—in fact—he was a sexual predator and a killer.
Ilse, though, had tensed as the conversation continued. If he really was the murderer, then the chances were he was still on the hunt. For all they knew, he would claim another victim before he returned—the killer was already moving at an extraordinary pace.
“So where's he freelancing?” Sawyer pressed.
“In-home training,” the woman replied. “He's a personal trainer, you know.” She sounded proud, but there was also a faint sadness in her eyes as they'd talked about her son.
Ilse's heart went out to the woman, at least, as much of her heart that hadn't already jolted in her chest at these previous words. In-home training could give him access to potential victims.
Sawyer seemed to have reached a similar conclusion. His tone went serious now as he said, “Any idea where he is now?”
She paused, lowered her book again, then sighed, rocking forward, grunting and rising to her feet. “I have the address in case of emergencies. You still didn't tell me what my boy did.”
“Nothing nice,” Sawyer replied. “Right now, though, we just want to talk to him.”
“Right. That's how it starts. Talk.” She shook her head, glancing towards the driveway, then back at Sawyer. She moved now towards the house, book in hand, pushing in through the front door.
“Excuse me,” Sawyer called.
She just held up a finger as if to say hold-on. She entered the house, leaving the door open, and Ilse watched where she moved towards a corkboard against the wall. A second later, the woman snatched a piece of paper, pinned there, and returned, handing it towards the agents.
“There you are. That's the address he gave.” She held onto it for a moment, meeting Sawyer's frown. “Just talk—that's what you said. Right?”
Sawyer made a crossing motion over his heart. “For the moment, yes. You have my word.”
The weary mother still had that sad look in her eyes, but it was joined by a strange expression of inevitability. She just nodded, pushing the parchment forward. “He's a good kid,” she said. “Or tries to be. He just... just lost his way somewhere.” She shook her head, her silver curls shifting.
And Sawyer gently took the address from her hand.
But there was nothing gentle about his subsequent spin on his heel and hastened steps back towards the car.
“Thank you,” Ilse said. But she was also moving, hurrying after Sawyer.
If Mr. Kent was their killer, they might already be too late.