Page 10 of Innocent Intent

Jab, jab, body blow.

Uppercut, jab, jab.

Davis remained in a zone while tucked away in the corner of the gym. His fists pounded a heavy bag with a trained force and precision, creating a steady rhythm that pulsed in his ears. Several days a week, he was up by five and at the gym half an hour later for an intense workout. Boxing allowed him the freedom to release stress and stay in shape. There had been a period when he’d considered investing the time and entering into professional boxing. He was good. A natural was what the trainers used to say, but neither of them had a clue about what it took to stay in it for the long haul. The small gym he spent time in as a teen and young adult was a ratty, old place with great potential. That was all they had ever been, but Davis didn’t care. He showed up whenever he could and welcomed anything they had to offer. He was a fighter. He had to be, or life would have taken him under.

Might as well use your fists ’cause you ain’t got the smarts to do anything else.

Cross, jab, cross.

Useless, just like your mama.

Uppercut, uppercut, jab.

Davis huffed at the memory and gritted his teeth even harder. His father was an asshole. He had shortcomings and used his words to take his frustrations with life out on his wife and son. Davis had always been a bright kid. When his grades slipped, it wasn’t because he lacked intelligence. It was because he was bored. Once his teachers discovered the issue, they’d set up a conference with his parents to suggest he be moved up a grade and placed in the gifted program to keep him busy and on track.

Jab, jab, cross.

You ain’t smart, Nate. Them teachers want to embarrass you. Put you in class with all those smart kids just to make you look stupid. That’s why they’re pushing you so hard. They know you can’t keep up. You’re gonna fail, and they’re gonna laugh in your face when you do.

Uppercut, uppercut, cross.

Davis hadn’t understood why his father hated him so much back then. Most parents would have been proud that their kid was smart. Not Malcolm Davis. His insecurities wouldn’t allow him to be proud of his son. Instead, he resented Nathanial and did everything he could to break him down. As a product of his environment, Malcolm Davis dropped out of school at age thirteen. He’d never done well in school, but not for lack of trying. He just wasn’t the smartest and didn’t have the support he needed from his teachers and parents to do the work.

Davis and his father were like night and day, which drove a wedge between them. As an adult, Davis realized that his father refused to be proud of him because he was everything his father could and would never be. How ironic was it that Malcolm’s life was ended by a uniformed officer who caught him robbing a local convenience store.

Malcolm fired at the cop, and the cop fired back, delivering a fatal shot. Two years later, Davis applied for the academy. He told himself that it wasn’t about his father, and at the time, it wasn’t, but in the years since, he realized the correlation. Malcolm often expressed his views about the legal system and his dislike for any formal justice. As a career criminal, Davis’s father deemed the authorities enemies. He hated cops and everything they stood for. Criminals and cops were like oil and water. And Davis had become the one thing his father hated the most. A silent “fuck you” to the man he’d never respected.

Davis pounded out several more combinations without pausing between them and then stepped away from the heavy bag, exhaling his exhaustion. His arms, chest, and back muscles were burning from being overexerted, and his body was drenched with sweat. His sleeveless Dri-Fit shirt was soaked through and clung to his body like a second skin.

With his workout complete, it was time to get to work. Davis left the open space of the gym, appreciating that only a handful of people were there. It was one of the reasons he chose early-morning or late-night visits. He was less likely to have to entertain useless conversations with strangers.

After he showered and dressed in slacks and a button-up, Davis left the gym. He tossed the duffle bag containing his workout attire into the trunk and settled behind the steering wheel to mentally run through his day. One perk of being assigned the case with Jerrod Williams was that the captain had decided all his focus needed to be on that one case. Having just closed out the murder of a hotel attendant, which ended in a conviction thanks to his skilled detective work, Davis didn’t have any other pending cases. That meant he was completely dedicated to solving the murder of Cassidy Evans’s husband—whoever that may be. Niles Anderson or Jerrod Williams.

Pressing the button to power on the vehicle, Davis settled into the space of contemplative thought while he navigated through the city. His mind scoured over what he knew thus far about the murder of Williams.

Eventually, he circled back to his impromptu visit with Cassidy the evening before. She appeared distraught but well put together. Her behavior felt controlled and reserved, which made sense considering her background. Cassidy was a psychologist who’d spent years working as a profiler.

I bet she profiled me the minute she stepped out of her house.

Davis scoffed at the thought. He revisited their discussion. Cassidy’s insistence that she wouldn’t have reported her husband missing until after the forty-eight-hour window seemed plausible. She credited it to understanding protocol, but Davis felt it was bullshit.

Something wasn’t right between husband and wife.

Evans’s husband had an alternate life. One she wasn’t aware of since she was bold enough to show up at an apartment that her husband kept under a false identity the morning after he was murdered.

That would indeed be bold or intentional. She knew the system. She understood what detectives would look for and how behaviors would be translated. She could have very well known every detail of Williams’s life and played the unassuming wife.

Or she honestly had no clue who her husband was.

Both scenarios were possibilities. It was now up to Davis to find the truth. For now, his focus was on Cassidy Evans. She would either lead him to her as the killer or prove that she wasn’t.

He had no idea just yet of the outcome, and part of that uncertainty was the woman herself. Cassidy was beautiful, midforties, intelligent, and accomplished. She took care of herself, which meant her age wasn’t visible in her features: soft brown eyes, cupid’s bow lips, and smooth, brown skin. Cassidy could easily fit into a space where a career driven by looks would be suitable. Model. Actress. That contradiction of intelligence and beauty only added to her intriguing mystique. Had this been a different space and time, Davis could see himself wanting to know more about Cassidy Evans, but for personal reasons, not deciding if she was capable of killing her husband. Unfortunately, this was where they were.

Hours later, the precinct was buzzing. Everyone seemingly lost in their own worlds, moving through files, interviewing suspects, or clicking through the internet. Some were bouncing ideas off one another about cases they were working, something Davis never did. Davis sat at his desk, closed off from everything around him until he received the email he had been waiting on all morning. After making a few phone calls, he’d managed to get security footage sent over without much fuss. The building owner wanted this wrapped up as quickly and quietly as possible. Davis was simply happy he didn’t have to serve a warrant to cut through red tape and get what he needed.

Security footage from the past seven days of the building where Williams died sat in his inbox waiting for him. Davis dragged the attached folders to his desktop and clicked to open the files, only to be interrupted by his captain, an unwelcome disturbance.

“Find anything yet?” Captain Jones murmured, standing over Davis. The position plucked his nerves. It was a trigger from his earlier years when his father would crowd over him, doling out insults about how he wasn’t shit and would never be shit. Things never got physical, but his words were lethal enough, cruel and vicious.

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