Chapter 7: Wanted

"You can't walk into his gym," Jo said.

"He doesn't know I'm coming."

"He'll have security."

"He'll have a trainer and a smoothie."

She stood in her doorway with her arms folded and my wrinkled shirt hanging off her shoulders.

"If you get arrested, I'm not bailing you out."

"You'd bail me out."

"I'd think about it for a day."

I kissed her forehead.

She let me, which was a very good sign.

Brant Collier worked out at a private club in Bethesda that had no sign and a doorman in a gray coat.

I wore Jo's brother's old ball cap and a hospital badge she had lent me.

The doorman looked at the badge, then at the cap, then at his tablet.

"Delivery for Mr. Collier," I said. "Medical."

"He's not expecting a delivery."

"That's why they send it in person."

He let me through.

I have never been so frightened of a revolving door.

The gym was glass and chrome, smelling of eucalyptus and money.

Brant stood at a cable machine in a sleeveless shirt, pulling slow, perfect reps.

A trainer in a headset counted for him.

Two phones sat on a towel, both lit.

"Mr. Collier," I said.

He did not turn.

"Mr. Collier. Morris Cunningham's friend."

His shoulders went rigid.

The trainer stepped toward me.

"It's okay," Brant said. "Give us five minutes."

The trainer looked at me, then at his boss, and left.

Brant let the cable go and turned around.

He was bigger up close, and his smile had worn off.

"The file clerk," he said.

"Caleb Benton."

"I know. I read the memo this morning. Lyle says you're dangerous."

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