It was two days later, and I was back at the gym in downtown Los Angeles.

I watched from the shadows as a cadre of boxers did their best to punch the stuffing out of everything from punching bags to speed bags to padded mitts.

Seated with me was Allison Lopez. I held her hand in a comforting, reassuring way. I didn't worry about my cold flesh, and, indeed, she seemed to revel in it. She wanted to meet me here, a place she always found comforting. Apparently, she loved hearing the sounds of boxing. The scuffing feet, the smell of sweat. It was here, after all, that she had watched Caesar Marquez blossom into a world-class fighter.

Now, we were watching a young flyweight, smaller than me, even, punching the unholy crap out of his trainer's mitts.

"His own brother," she said again, shaking her head.

"Yes," I said.

"But why?"

I looked at the posters that surrounded the gym. Most were of Caesar Marquez. None, as far as I could tell, were of Romero. "My best guess," I said, "was that he was jealous."

"Romero was an accomplished trainer. He was never a boxer."

"Never a boxer of note," I corrected. "His official record was nine wins and twenty-three losses."

She blinked and squeezed my hand. "I had no idea."

"Few did. A very unremarkable career."

"But he was so successful as a trainer."

I shook my head. "He was successful at training his successful brothers. Many of whom have had title shots. And Caesar, according to all reports, was the best of the lot."

"Still, why kill him?"

"Maybe he never expected him to die," I said. "Or he never believed he would die."

"He had to believe that some injury would occur."

I nodded. I assumed so, too.

"But how did he know to hire Andre Fine?"

A good question. Two days ago, after meeting with Andre Fine, I had spent the morning doing some investigating. A quick call to Caesar's promoter, Harry, confirmed that Romero had arranged for the exhibition against Andre Fine. This had surprised Harry, as Romero was rarely involved in fight promotions, or even publicity events. And what Harry told me next surprised me, although it shouldn't have: Andre Fine had once been an up-and-coming boxer, until he turned to martial arts.

"Let me guess," I had said to Harry over the phone. "Romero had been his trainer."

"Bingo," said Harry.

I had next called Allison Lopez and asked her the one question that I knew would break this case wide open. She confirmed my suspicions, and a few hours later, I was at the LAPD in downtown Los Angeles, meeting with a homicide investigator named Sanchez. Sanchez was a big guy with wide shoulders, who sported pictures of his UCLA football days on his desk. His desk also sported pictures of a very lovely wife.

Sanchez listened to my story, listened to the wild tales of dim mak and of hired killers and touches of death. To his credit, he didn't laugh or joke or even crack a smile. I told him of Romero's connection to Andre Fine, of Romero setting up the exhibition, and who had benefited the most from Caesar's death. Romero. Romero also happened to be the beneficiary of his brother's life insurance.

Detective Sanchez listened to all of this, then told me he would get back to me.

And he did, a few hours later. They had sent a squad car out to Andre Fine's residence in Malibu, where they had found his body swinging from a rope off his third-story balcony. All indications suggested a suicide. I tried to feign shock and horror at hearing this news, but in truth, I had seen it coming.

They next picked up Romero for questioning. To his credit, he admitted to almost everything. Apparently, Romero was looking to get out of the family business. And he also confessed that he planned to fly the coop, all the way to Bermuda.

Now, I caught Allison up on my investigation.

She said, "God, I remember now. Romero practically forced Caesar to do the fight. He claimed it was great exposure and publicity. Caesar didn't want to do it but his brother reminded him it was for charity and finally, Caesar gave in." She shook her head. "Jesus, set up by his own brother. What a bastard. I fucking hate him."

We were quiet. The gym wasn't. It was a cacophony of grunts and thumps and pounding. It sounded sexier than it was.

"Has the insurance money been awarded to Romero?" asked Allison.

I shook my head. "Not yet. These things take some time on the insurance company's part."

"And now?" she said.

"He paid to have his brother attacked. That will nullify the life insurance policy."

"So, what will happen to Romero now?" she asked.

"He'll be charged for soliciting Andre Fine to hurt his brother. There's no way a murder charge will stick, not with something like dim mak."

"Maybe he never meant for his brother to die," she said.

"Maybe," I said. "But he was willing to take that chance."

Allison nodded. "His brothers won't look kindly on what he did," she said.

"I don't expect they will," I said. "I have no doubt that Romero's life will be a living hell from this moment on."

She nodded and squeezed my hand and rested her head on my shoulder, and, as she wept silently, I watched two young fighters in the center practice ring exchange a flurry of punches. Both were wearing padded helmets. Both were sweating profusely. More importantly, one of them was bleeding from his lip.

I was dismayed to discover that it was the blood, above all else, that interested me the most.