The Solstice, on the other hand, sported three levels with a top floor suspended over the main one where men and women pedalled stationery bikes and climbed ropes and ran in place like the starting gun of the New York Marathon would go off any second. Clients male and female in matching gray-and-white togs from the in-house boutique slow-jogged over to the juice bar or maybe for their massage. Disco on formidable speakers rivaled the sound level of the Tube’s techno tripe, and the locker room was operating-room clean, the lockers themselves roomy, with towels included.

The endless array of equipment gleamed like a 1930s Hollywood-movie nightclub, with all the weight machines, treadmills and Stairmasters you could ever hope for, though no bags to punch. Personal trainers supervised about a third of the clientele, and in various areas coaches worked with groups.

It cost thirty bucks for a one-time workout, which made me regret not going on expense account. I was the sole soul in sweats from home, and easily the oldest person there. I put in a good workout and the six-foot guy about thirty who’d checked me in came over as I sat on the edge of a leg-weight machine, toweling off.

“What do you think, Mr. Hammer?” His voice was as husky as he was, muscular but not muscle-bound, a blandly handsome bullet-headed guy in a black t-shirt, matching polyester sweat pants and gray sneakers. He had a name tag that said ROD and a whistle around his neck. “Is Solstice for you?”

“I like all this equipment,” I said. “Where I been going, the machines seem tied up half the time.”

“We have a special going.”

“Yeah?”

“Fifteen thousand a year. Regularly twenty-five.”

Bing’s was fifty bucks a month. Of course, I had to pay for towels.

I stood, wrapped the towel around my neck. “You wouldn’t happen to know who I am, would you?”

“You’re Mr. Hammer.”

That’s what I thought.

“My badge is in my locker,” I said, which was a good way to make him think I was a cop without lying. He didn’t have to know it was a private investigator’s buzzer. “Casey Shannon was a member here, right?”

His expression didn’t shift at all. “That was in the papers and on TV. He was killed, huh? Terrible.”

Rod here didn’t know how terrible. Pat Chambers was holding back the exact cause of death—“blow to the chest” was as far as the statement to the press went.

“Terrible,” I agreed. “You mind answering a few questions, Rod?”

“No.” He gestured toward where I’d checked in. “We can go in the office if you like…”

“This is fine right here. How long had Lt. Shannon been a member? Your rates are pricey on a civil servant’s pay.”

The trainer shrugged. “He had a trial membership, three months. It was almost up.”

No, completely up. Now.

“Rod, how did he get along here?”

“He was like you, Mr. Hammer. Really good shape for his age.”