Page 36 of Givin' Me Fitz!
Hardy stopped the video again. “I don’t think that’s what it was at all. Maybe it was a tryout. If Germaine didn’t want anyone to see TJ fight, they wouldn’t have held it at the gym, right? TJ only sparred at Boxed In a couple times from what one of the trainers told me.” Hardy sped the video again and stopped it.
I turned to him and stared for a moment. “What were you doing at Boxed In? Don’t get yourself into trouble, or your dad will have my ass.”
Hardy chuckled. “Don’t worry. I went in to see about signing up for self-defense classes, which they don’t have. Monty already taught me some stuff about defending myself. Besides, I already knew they didn’t have the classes. I said a guy I’d recently met at a bar on Fremont suggested I check there. The trainer, Voss Graham, knew TJ and said he sparred there but hadn’t been in for a while.”
That was interesting, though there were still a few pieces missing from the story. “How long ago was this?”
“Monday. Now, check this out and tell me if this is a coincidence.” Hardy pushed the button to advance the video.
There, on the sidewalk to the left of the crowd, were two men. They were staring in the direction of the gurney. Romero held his arm up in the air and made a thumbs-up gesture, and the two men to the side pounded fists.
We watched the footage of the two of them turning around and walking away. That was when I noticed the cuts. “Stop it and zoom in.”
Hardy was on it, but the picture was blurry. “Can you clean that up a little?”
He tapped away on the keyboard, and the screen became clearer, but we still couldn’t make it out. “That’s the best I can do with the footage on this laptop. I’ll work on it at my other computer if you want me to clean it up more.”
“Or you can send it to my friend. He can probably fix it up.”
Hardy stiffened beside me. “I can take care of it. Give me a few hours.”
He slammed the lid on the laptop and gathered the file and his computer, storming out of the room without another word. Clearly, I’d pissed the kid off.
I chuckled, remembering back to when I had so much to prove. Apparently, my young friend was in the thick of it at the moment.
“Jagger Hansen, Sparks Bail Bonds. We’re here for Albert Wilcox.”
Jagger and I were outside the Clark County Detention Center to bail out a guy arrested for trespassing at one of the casinos. The bail was five thousand, and while most folks could come up with ten percent, Sparky had given us five hundreds and asked us to bail out the guy, so there we were.
The door buzzed and we went inside to the front desk. It was six in the evening and I’d have much rather been anywhere else on the Wednesday night before Halloween, but I had a job to do, and it required me to bail out a guy for trespassing. It wasn’t like I had any plans anyway.
The redheaded female clerk I’d seen the first time I’d gone to the county jail to bail someone out with Greeley was smiling at us. “Fresh meat, I see.”
I chuckled. “Fitz Morgan and Jagger Hansen, ma’am. You are?” I extended my hand to shake hers. We weren’t properly introduced the last time.
“A gentleman, I see. I’m Anita Graves. Tell Greeley that we miss him at Piggy’s.” I nodded, and Jagger handed her the paperwork before she disappeared through a door that led back to the holding area.
A few minutes later, Deputy Dirk Marin stepped through the door with a middle-aged Black man, hands cuffed in front of him. The man appeared to be none the worse for wear.
“Albert Wilcox for Sparks Bail Bonds.” Marin uncuffed the man, who immediately rubbed his wrists.
I approached the bailee while Jagger went to the window and paid, waiting for the receipt and getting copies made of the paperwork. “Mr. Wilcox, sir, did they treat you well?”
The man glanced around the large waiting room, but didn’t answer, clutching the envelope with his personal belongings. I wondered if he was hard of hearing, but I didn’t dare ask, not seeing any hearing aids.
Jagger returned to where we were standing and stared at Mr. Wilcox. “Can we drop you somewhere, Mr. Wilcox?”
Without answering, the man walked out of the building. When we exited the intake area, Mr. Wilcox was waiting for us on the sidewalk.
“I need to see Jesse Sparks.” Wilcox lifted an eyebrow as he glanced at Jagger, then me.
I’d driven my truck from the office, so I nodded and led the way. I opened the back passenger door, and Jagger got in. I opened the front door for Mr. Wilcox before heading to the other side and hopping into the driver’s seat.
For the first five minutes, it was awkward. Jagger, who had been a talker during our ride from Laughlin, had clammed up. Based on the way he was staring at his phone, my partner had no plans to talk Mr. Wilcox’s ears off like he’d done mine.
“Do you live in town or are you visiting, Mr. Wilcox?” I wondered if I should warn Sparky that Mr. Wilcox was on the way. I’d assumed Sparky knew the man, which is why he gave us the cash for the bond, but what if they were enemies? Was I delivering a deadly weapon to my boss?
“I’m a private investigator in Tallahassee. I’ve known Sparky since he worked as a fire investigator back home. We’re not besties, but I have some information for him that he might want to know.”
