Page 51 of Festive in Death

“We weren’t buds.” His smile hinted toward a sneer before he guzzled down some more urine-colored liquid. “I hated his ever-fucking guts, but he wasn’t somebody I thought about much.”

“The altercation was due to his sexual relationship with your sister.”

Now those dark eyes fired. “Tricking a drunk girl into bed, then booting her out when she’s half sick and confused, then bragging on it, ain’t no relationship. He knew she was my sister. He did it to rile me. He riled me.”

“In your place, I’d’ve wanted to kick his ass.”

“Considered it. Maybe I would’ve, but you can add coward to his other sins. In the end I got in his face, I told him if he ever touched her again, ever said her name again, and I heard about it, I’d break that pretty face he was so proud of.”

“Maybe he did... mention her name again.”

“Not that I ever heard.” Rock rested a hip on the corner of his dented metal desk.

He was a big man with strong, defined arms, a broad chest, a face that sported a couple of scars and a nose that listed to the left. Attractive, she thought, in a rough, hard-edged way.

“You box?” Eve asked.

“Used to do some. I liked it okay, but I got tired of punching people, so I switched it up. Ziegler, he had that sweet gig at Buff Bodies, but he liked to give me the zing over my place here. Juice—he’s the one told me you’d be coming—said how Ziegler was jealous because he wanted his own place. No reason for him to go after my baby sister. Did it for spite. Did it because he could.”

“He beat you out of the top award the last couple years,” Eve pointed out.

“Yeah. Don’t give a shit about the trophy, but the prize money would’ve been handy. BB, places like that, they’ve got a strong rep, so their trainers get one, and that weighs on the competition. BB’s got—what do you call it?”

“Cachet?” Peabody ventured, and he pointed a finger at her.

“Yeah, that. I’ve been building up my place. Cachet, maybe not, but I’m solid, and I’ve got a strong following now. My time was coming. I don’t kill somebody over a contest and a grand.”

“Add in your sister,” Eve said.

“I don’t kill somebody over what’s done. It doesn’t change what’s done.”

“Where were you the day he was killed?”

“Here till about four. Got in at four-thirty—A.M.—that day to work with a guy—welterweight trying to make a comeback. So I left about four. Went home, had a beer, a shower, turned on some sports, did some paperwork. It’s hard to get any paperwork done here, work on programs for clients. Then I went to my mama’s for dinner. Got there about seven, I’m guessing. Maybe a little after. I didn’t clock it. Went home about nine, stayed in.”

“Did you speak or see anyone between the hours of five and seven?”

“No. You going to arrest me?”

“Not yet.”

“Where does your mother live?”

“Same apartment building, two floors down. I moved there to help her out. She thinks it’s the other way around. We’re probably both right on that.”

He’d smiled, a real one, when he spoke, but now his face hardened again. “She doesn’t know about Kyria. I don’t want her to know. You got no reason to bring that up, if you talk to her.”

“No, we don’t. We appreciate your time.”

“That’s it?”

“Have you got anything else to tell us?”

“It’s going to sound like spite.”

“Why would I care?”

“Okay. I’m just going to say, he had more money than he should have, seems to me. More than he should’ve had from the work. I don’t know how he came by it.”

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