Page 112 of The Body in the Backyard

The paper was a heavy-weight textured card stock that took a good tug for the locker to release it. It appeared to be the corner of a business card, but the only thing visible on it was a maroon triangle framed in gold and four digits.

When she returnedto the gym, Nick and Weber were in side-by-side squat racks in what was clearly a macho contest. Riley noted neither of them had nearly as much weight on the bar as Chupacabra had.

Nick dumped the bar into the cradles and bent at the waist. “Jesus. My spleen,” he complained.

“That’s not where your spleen is, idiot. Did you ever even take an anatomy class?” Weber huffed as he tried to catch his breath.

“I know where all the important stuff is,” Nick insisted, panting. He spotted her in the mirror and straightened, pretending not to be winded. “Hey, babe. I beat Weber in squats. What did you find out?”

“Your gym shorts are on fire,” Weber retorted.

“Chupacabra has a temper and a reason to want Griffin to pay. It involves a guy named Pete and possibly a car accident. Also, I found this in her locker after she punched it,” she handed over the sliver of business card.

“Nicely done. Now, get that sexy ass of yours on the treadmill,” Nick said and gave her sweaty rear end a slap.

She balked. “Shouldn’t we go run down this lead? Or get some doughnuts? Or take shower naps?”

“There’s no time-outs in danger boot camp for doughnuts and shower sex,” her mean boyfriend insisted.

“I said shower nap, not sex,” she grumbled.

“Treadmill. Now.”

“For what it’s worth, I’d take you for doughnuts,” Weber called after her as she trudged toward her cardio fate. His sentence was cut off by a grunt of pain, which Riley guessed meant Nick had elbowed him in the stomach.

She glanced behind her and found the big strong, danger-taunting men locked in what appeared to be a stand-up wrestling match. An aggravated employee with tattoos down both arms stomped over with a spray bottle and squirted them both in the face.

“Damn it, Sheila!” Nick sputtered.

“Don’t make me arrest you for assaulting an officer,” Weber threatened, using the hem of his T-shirt to dry his face. The man had a six-pack as impressive as Nick’s. Riley made a mental note to relay that information to Jasmine.

“You remember what happened last time you dumbasses got into a tickle fight? You knocked over the water cooler, turned this place into an aquacise class, and got banned for six months.”

Nick and Weber broke apart.

“Sorry, Sheila,” they grumbled.

She gave them each one last squirt in the face, then turned to Riley. “Here. Hang on to this. You might need it,” she said, handing over the bottle. It was labeledTestosterone Antidote.

“What’s in it?” Riley asked.

“Rose-scented facial toner. Makes dudes less fighty and improves their skin texture.”

Sheila left, and Riley climbed aboard the closest treadmill.

Nick and Weber took the machines on either side of her, sandwiching her between them.

“So what now?” she asked, stabbing the Start button and wondering how long Nick would allow her to walk at a 1.0.

“You start moving faster than a glacier,” Nick said.

Not long then.

“I mean in the case,” she said, cautiously bumping the belt to a 1.5.

Her jerk of a boyfriend took matters into his own hands and bumped up her belt speed to a slow jog.

“I’ll run background on the personal trainer,” Weber volunteered as he smoothly shifted into a run.