Destiny

"Those fingerprints popped up on a computer search?" A

"At Interpol," Bart replied. "They're called friction ridges in cop speak, by the way. Back in the day, so the story goes, the L.A. investigators thought maybe the guy was from out of the country. On account of how Doris Cooper bought a lot of things from overseas. So they sent the friction ridges over to Interpol. After you sent them to me, I sent them on, thinking maybe you were looking for an international guy."

"Interpol happened to have the fingerprints of a sixty-three-year-old murder suspect?"

Bart blew out his breath. "Interpol has a lot of information. That's why they're a clearinghouse for international crimes. They've gone almost totally digital. Searchable databases. You get a professional out there in the world doing bad stuff, they've got a way to catch them. This case was one of those they'd archived."

"There's no doubt about the prints?"

Bart shook his head. "I had one of our forensics guys match them up for me. When I saw what I saw, that these friction ridges belonged to the suspect on a sixty-three-year-old murder, I knew I wanted a professional pair of eyes on that ten-card."

"Was there a name attached to the friction ridges?"

"No."

Two of Maria's cooks arrived with steaming plates of food. They placed them on the table in quick order and departed.

A

"So this guy you printed," Bart said, "he was what? Eighty or ninety?"

He didn't look it, A

"I found the fingerprints on a coin," A

"So you thought you'd send them along to me?" Bart shook his head. "You had more reason than that."

A

"I was given the coin by a man in France," she told him. "He swapped it, while I wasn't looking, for a charm I'd found."

"Was the charm valuable?"

"Maybe. It was made out of hammered steel, not gold or silver. Not even copper. I haven't even found a historical significance yet." A

Bart took a small notebook from inside his jacket. "Did you get his name?"

"Roux," she answered. "I'm not even sure of the spelling."

He wrote anyway. "No address?"

A

"No," she said. "No address."

Bart sighed and closed the notebook. "I can ask Interpol to look up records on this guy. Maybe we'll get a hit on something."

"Sure," A

A

Using the green screen setup in one corner of the loft, she filmed different intros for the segment, a couple of closings, and completed the voice-overs. When she had it all together, it was late and she was tired.

She watched the completed video and timed it. Chasing History's Monstersgenerally only allowed nine to ten minutes per segment, allowing for setup by the host and the ensuing commercials.

So far, she was three minutes over but knew with work she could cut that down.

Okay, she told herself, all work and no play makes A

After grabbing a quick shower and a change of clothes, she packed her gym bag and headed out of the loft.

Eddie's Gym was an old-school workout place. Boxers exercised and trained there, smashing the heavy bag then each other in the ring. It had concrete floors, unfinished walls, and trendy exercise machines had never taken up residence there. Free weights clanked and thundered as lifters worked in rotation with their spotters.

It was a place where men went to sweat and burn out the anger and frustration of the day. Young fighters learned the intricacies of the fighting craft and the statesmanship necessary to sweep the ring and move up on a fight card. No one ta

There really was an Eddie and he and another old ex-boxer had each been Golden Gloves and fought professionally for a time. They owned the place outright and didn't suffer poseurs or wa

Training wasn't part of what a membership bought. That was given to those deserving few who caught the eye of Eddie and his cronies.

Occasionally, young men who had seen Fight Clubtoo many times came into the club and tried to prove they were as tough as Brad Pitt or Edward Norton. The regulars, never very tolerant, quickly sent the newbies packing with split lips and black eyes.

Eddie's was all about survival of the fittest. A

When she'd first started working out there, she'd had trouble with some of the men. Eddie hadn't wanted her around because he didn't want the complication.

But she'd stood her ground and won the old man over with her knowledge of boxing. The knowledge was a newly acquired thing because she'd liked the gym, had wanted to work out there and did her homework. She also worked out at a couple of martial-arts dojos, but she preferred the atmosphere at Eddie's. She was a regular now and had nothing to prove.

"Girl," Eddie said as he held the heavy bag for her, "you musta been eatin' your Wheaties. You're pounding the hell outta this bag more than ever before."

A

"You're just getting weak," A

"The hell I am!" Eddie roared.

A

Eddie claimed he was sixty, but A

"Don't tell me you just dissed me in my own place of business!" Eddie shouted.