Words With Fiends (19 page)

But she'd only made it through the first wing and a couple of mouthfuls of soup when Reese's cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and stared at the caller ID, frowning as he hit the “Talk” button.

“Reese.”

Darla watched the brief, one-sided conversation, which mainly consisted of the detective frowning, nodding, and repeating “uh, huh” a few times. Finally, he said, “I'm two minutes away. Keep everyone there and don't do anything else until I get there.”

“What's going on?” Darla asked as he hung up the phone and got to his feet.

Reese shook his blond head as he headed for the door. “Trouble down at the TAMA dojo. Wing was the responding officer. I'm going to give him a hand sorting things out.”

“Wait!” Darla called after him. “Robert is there practicing. I'm going with you.”

“No way,” he shot back as he paused in the doorway. “We're talking police business. Last thing we need is an extra civilian hanging around.”

“Fine.”

As he trotted down the stairs, not bothering to close the door, she grabbed the wing platter and shoved it into the fridge. Snatching her coat and purse off the door hook, she threw on the first, shouldered the second, and then grabbed up her boots from where they sat beside the entry and stuck them under her arm.

“Don't worry,” she called down the stairwell, “I'll run. I'll probably beat you there, anyhow.”

She heard the click of the front doorknob echoing in the silence, followed by the sound of an unmistakable sigh. “You've got two seconds to get your butt down here. One, two!”

But she'd already started down the stairs, and so by the time he called two, she was at the front door with him.

“Put those on first,” he demanded, pointing to the boots she still carried. Hopping on one foot and then the other, she pulled on the boots and then, locking the door behind her, followed him out to his car. As usual, it was another drab, department-issued beater.

“Stay in the background, keep your mouth shut, and don't talk to anyone when we get there,” were his instructions as they accelerated down the street, colored lights flashing.

Darla clung to the armrest for balance and nodded. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“All I know right now is that a couple of the students in the sparring class got into it for real, and someone pulled a weapon.”

Weapon? Robert! Was he okay?

“Don't worry, no one's hurt,” he added as he heard her gasp. “Hank and Hal disarmed the guy and held him while one of the students called us. Tommy—Officer Wing—and a couple of other guys showed up, and they've got the perp in handcuffs. As soon as I get there, we'll get statements from everyone.”

Reese said nothing more during the brief ride to the dojo, save to call into dispatch on his radio and mutter some cop jargon she couldn't make out. Darla paid him little heed, however, heart pounding as she wondered what had gone wrong. She pretty well knew—at least, by sight—all the students who attended the sparring class. She'd never witnessed any genuine altercations before, not even when Chris tried to pull rank and attitude on the others. And the idea that someone had brought a weapon into the same studio where little kids practiced was nothing short of appalling!

Reese, meanwhile, screeched his car to a stop outside the dojo, pulling halfway onto the walk alongside the two marked police cars already there.

“Remember, out of the way,” he said as he strode into the building.

Darla nodded as she followed him past the vestibule and the office with the broken door. As they wound through the waiting area, she could see the sparring students through the partition window. Adults as well as teens stood silently near one of the new folding screens that served as a makeshift dressing room. Hank and Hal had taken up position on either side of the group. With their crossed arms and grim expressions, they fleetingly reminded Darla of the fierce fu dog statues that stood protectively outside the studio.

Robert and Chris were among the others, both youths looking troubled. Indeed, Chris appeared on the verge of tears; Darla wondered if he was the student who'd been attacked. As she and Reese entered the mat area, Darla broke away from the detective and hurried over to where Robert stood.

“Are you okay?” she murmured.

He nodded, apparently distraught enough over what had happened that he forgot to be embarrassed by the way she'd just swooped down on him like his mom.

“Everything's, like, under control,” he whispered back. “Hal and Hank, they took care of stuff.”

“Was it a gun?”

He shook head.

“Knife,” he softly replied, pantomiming a gang-like slicing gesture. “Hank did some kind of fancy arm grab thing. Don't worry, no one got hurt,” he added, attention fixed on the group across the room.

Officer Wing and the two other cops were gathered at the front. While Reese joined them, Darla noticed another student seated on the mat a short distance away. His back was pressed to the mirrored wall, and his head was buried in the crook of his folded arms that rested atop his upraised knees. Then, as if feeling her gaze on him, he raised his head and stared directly at her.

Mark Poole!

Then one of the cops shifted position, and Darla saw yet another student kneeling within the semicircle that the four men had formed. The seated pose was the same that the dojo's students assumed during class meditation . . . and also the same pose temporarily taken by the victor when a sparring opponent went down. Unlike the others in the dojo, who were all dressed in white or black, the kneeling student wore a red gi the same blood-bright color as the mats.

This, then, was the person who'd pulled the knife, Darla realized. And maybe the reason Mark was separated from the rest of the class was because he had been the one who'd been attacked. But who—

Abruptly, the two other uniformed cops reached down and pulled the kneeling student into a standing position. The student made no struggle, doubtless because both arms were cuffed securely behind his back. At first, all Darla could make out was a slim form and long black hair obscuring any facial features. Then Officer Wing, in a considerate gesture, brushed aside the captive's hair from his face.

Her
face!

Darla choked back a gasp, her gaze whipping from the handcuffed woman to Chris standing nearby. Another look at the teen's miserable expression confirmed it.

The student who'd pulled the knife was none other than Chris's mother, Grace Valentine.

“IT WAS, YOU KNOW, PRETTY WEIRD,” ROBERT WHISPERED
to Darla in what she privately determined was a gross understatement.

They were seated along the mirrored wall of the training area, patiently waiting for Robert's turn to give his statement to the police. Reese had allowed Darla to stay with the youth, as long as they refrained from chatting with any other of the witnesses regarding the incident. And, of course, that same admonition applied to the other students, too. That meant that the twenty or so in the sparring class were now scattered along all four corners of the room while the officers took statements in the waiting area behind the partition.

“You know how it goes,” Robert now told her in an undertone. “We, like, spar for a little bit, and then everyone on one side moves over one spot so you can spar with someone new. That's what we did tonight. It was all going fine until Grace and Mark got paired up.”

He gave his head a disgusted shake. “You know what a creepoid that Mark is. Grace kept scoring points on him, and he was getting all mad, getting beat by a girl. Then he said something to her that really ticked her off, I guess.”

“And she pulled a knife on him?”

“Not right that second,” Robert replied. “But I could tell she was mad. When the round was over, she ran over to her gear bag and got something out of it. And then she told Mark she wanted, you know, a rematch. She made him swap places with her new partner so they could fight again. I guess Hal and Hank were busy, 'cause they didn't seem to notice. But I was right next to them, so I saw everything.”

Dropping his voice even lower, he continued, “I think she was, like, messing with him, because he started scoring points on her. So he got all loud about how good he is. And then,
pow
, she knocked him right on his butt,” the teen said, pantomiming the winning blow.

“Then what?”

He shrugged. “Everyone started laughing at him. Then he got all mad, calling Grace, like, bad names. I mean, real bad names. And then suddenly she had this, you know, knife. And she goes,
Say it again and I'll cut you
.”

His expression disgusted again, he went on, “So Mark, I can tell he's all scared, but he still calls her names again. By then, Hal sees what's going on, and he goes all badass on Grace. He does some kind of cool thing and grabs the knife out of her hand, and then pins her on the mat. And then he tells me to phone the cops.”

So Robert had been the one to put in the call. She gave him a proud smile.

“I guess you really kept your head, didn't you? Sometimes that's more important than being the best fighter in the room.”

“Yeah, well.”

He ducked said head and then glanced over to where Chris now sat in the far corner, his youthful features frighteningly blank. “I was thinking I might ask Chris if he wants to stay at my place tonight until, you know, his mom gets home.”

Darla followed his gaze to give the younger teen a sympathetic look. To her mind, the worst part of the whole night so far had been when the uniformed officers, each gripping one of her arms, began escorting Grace out of the training area. Chris, who had shrunk down into his bulky gi jacket like a lanky blond turtle, had abruptly straightened.

“Mom? Mom?”

The plaintive cry as he'd rushed toward the handcuffed woman had brought tears to Darla's eyes. Grace, however, apparently had felt no similar rush of motherly concern. Instead, she had shot her son a sour look and snapped,
“For Chrissakes, quit whining and call Jerry to come bail me out already.”

Darla turned her attention back to Robert, while wondering again just who this Jerry person was, and why he was supposed to do the bailing out. Of course, with a temper like hers, the woman probably had a lawyer on retainer just for such situations.

“You can ask Chris to stay,” Darla agreed, “but don't be surprised if he'd rather wait at home for his mother to make bond.”

It was another good thirty minutes before it was Robert's turn to give his statement to Officer Wing. By then, most of the other remaining students had already somberly filed out of the dojo. Darla waited out in the vestibule for Robert to finish, absently studying the collection of photos that were now becoming as familiar to her as her own family album. Finally, she heard a step behind her and turned.

“Uh, hey, Darla,” Mark Poole ventured, clutching his gear bag to his chest like he was afraid someone was going to steal it. “I guess we had some excitement tonight. It's a good thing I was able to kick that knife out of Grace's hand, or I might have ended up . . .”

He trailed off and gave a wordless squeak while slashing a forefinger across his throat.

Darla raised her brows and favored him with a frosty look. “Really? Story I heard was that Sensei Hal was the one who disarmed her and saved your sorry butt.”

Mark's face flamed an ugly red. “Yeah, well, maybe he got there before me, but I had the situation under control. A tramp like Grace, I'm not letting her show me up.”

“I'm sure you're not,” she agreed and deliberately turned away.

Though Grace's actions were indefensible, Mark certainly didn't come out of the situation smelling like a rose.
More like stinkweed,
she told herself. He'd deliberately goaded a volatile woman with his taunts. Darla found that she had very little sympathy for the man, no matter that he'd almost become Grace Valentine's personal pincushion.

She studiously kept her attention on the gallery until, from the corner of her eye, she saw Mark slink past her and go out the door. With luck, this might be the last time she'd have to see him at the dojo, assuming Hank and Hal decided to ban him . . . presumably along with Grace. Of course, he'd probably still show up at the bookstore, but at least she'd be getting paid for enduring his presence. “Hey, Ms. P,” Robert spoke up behind her a moment later. “I gave my statement. Can we, like, go now?”

“Sure. Did you talk to Chris?”

He nodded. “You were right. He wants to go home and wait for his mom. I guess I understand.”

“All right, let me tell Reese we're out of here. Oh, and I have a few leftover wings at the house if you want some.”

Leaving Robert there for a moment, she made her way back into the training area. Now, it was just Reese, Officer Wing, and the two black belts remaining. Spying her, Reese abruptly broke away from the group and walked over to her.

“I don't know what's going on around here,” he muttered, taking her by the arm and walking her toward the vestibule, “but I don't like it. It's, like, bad karma or something is hanging over the place.”

“Bad feng shui,” Darla automatically corrected him. “Karma is an Indian concept. Feng shui is Chinese.”

“Karma, feng shui, whatever. You know what I mean,” he replied, sounding annoyed. “And the Tomlinsons agree. They just told me they're going to shut down the dojo, at least until after the tournament.”

“I wonder if Dr. Tomlinson will agree to that. Isn't the dojo hers now?”

“That's not my problem. My concern is with this Valentine woman.”

They'd reached the vestibule where Robert still waited. Bag at his feet, he had his phone out and was frantically typing away with both thumbs.
Forget the eleven o'clock news,
Darla wryly thought. These days, the only things necessary to spread the word were a smartphone and a Twitter account!

Dropping her voice so that Robert wouldn't overhear, she replied, “Do you think Grace is the one who murdered Master Tomlinson?”

“Let's just say she's moved herself to the top of the suspect list with tonight's little stunt. And, by the way, we got into your sensei's office this afternoon and took a few things with us, including that photo you told me about. Her personal connection to Mr. Tomlinson via that picture sure paints a possible motive, and she's proved she'll strike out when provoked.”

Like a bad-tempered leopard,
Darla thought, recalling the woman's penchant for animal print.

Then, following her cue and glancing Robert's way, Reese added, “But unless we get a written confession out of her, I still plan to be at that tournament with you on Saturday. The more people I talk to, the more reasons I'm finding for someone to have had a good reason for offing him.”

“Wait, what?”

Darla stared at him in confusion. Who else besides Grace Valentine and the Tomlinsons—whom Darla had pretty well crossed off her own private list—could there be?

Reese, meanwhile, was shaking his head. “Sorry, Red. Can't tell you any more. You'll have to read about it in the papers like everyone else.” Then, ignoring her look, he added, “So, pick you up at, say, ten o'clock on Saturday?”

“Make it eight thirty. We have to be registered and ready to go on the floor by ten or else risk being disqualified. And why don't we take Maybelle, instead?”

Maybelle was the decade-old Mercedes sedan that Darla had inherited from her great-aunt. It had been a welcome gift for a Texas girl who got itchy feet if she couldn't hit the open road every so often. Sleek midnight blue on the outside, incredibly cushy on the inside, and with an engine that purred even more quietly than Hamlet, it was very much the coolest car that Darla had ever owned. And, fortunately for her in this city of limited parking, Great-Aunt Dee had prepaid a year's rental space in a nearby parking garage, so that the trusty Mercedes was always available for expeditions such as this.

She suppressed a grin as she saw Reese's eyes light up. The detective, she knew, had a weakness for luxury cars . . . probably because all he ever drove were junkers. And so, sweetening the pot, she casually added, “I'll even let you drive.”

“Eight thirty, it is,” was his prompt response. “Bring her around early, so we don't have to schlep all your gear to the garage, and I'll make sure you don't get any parking tickets.”

Darla left him studying the wall of photos and made her way to Robert, still madly texting away. “Let's go. Hamlet will be worried.”

He nodded his agreement, his attention fixed on his phone. Then, as they headed out into the chilly night, he held out the phone to her. “Look, Sylvie sent me a picture of Roma.”

Darla glanced at the tiny screen and smiled. The small hound had shed her mauve sweater but still had on her fancy martingale collar. She was squeezed between two equally small pups, a black teacup poodle, and what looked like a mottled dachshund. All three were grinning at the camera, mouths wide open and pink tongues lolling.

“She's got some new friends,” Darla said approvingly.

Robert nodded. “Yeah, maybe she won't be too lonely while she's in rescue.”

Darla heard the plaintive tone in his voice and gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “It hasn't even been a day yet. Let Bonnie and Sylvie do their thing, and I'm sure Roma will be back to you soon enough.”

He nodded, but Darla could see he wasn't convinced. And when they reached the brownstone a few minutes later, he took a pass on the leftover wings. “I'm not really, you know, hungry,” he explained. “I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Darla waited until she was sure the teen had made it safely into his apartment before unlocking her door and heading upstairs. A few moments later, she was opening the door to her apartment, which was ablaze with light. Feeling a bit guilty at how she'd rushed out earlier, she hurriedly snapped off some of the more egregious offenders, leaving on only a few low-wattage fixtures. She'd just have to recycle a few more plastic bottles to help offset that little lapse, she wryly told herself.

Jake, of course, would have genially sneered at her eco-guilt had she been there.
As long as I can afford the bill, I'll burn as much light as I want,
the older woman had proclaimed more than once. As Darla tossed her purse and coat back onto the hook and pulled off her boots again, she briefly considered giving Jake a call to discuss things over a glass of wine or maybe a decadent dessert. But Jake was away in Atlantic City on a client's dime now, and no way would Darla bother her friend while she was on the job.

As if on cue, her cell phone—which she'd just plugged in to recharge—abruptly chimed, indicating an incoming text message. She pulled up the app and grinned.

Hot on Bombshell trail, ETA looks good 4 Sat.

A second text followed a few moments later.

PS won $573 at slots. Ka-ching.

Darla typed back a quick
congrats
, but just as swiftly she found her grin fading. As Jake's clientele base continued to increase, the PI would probably be gallivanting off to Atlantic City and other places on a regular basis. Which meant that she, Darla, was going to be at a loss for a BFF on occasion. Maybe it was time to broaden her friendship horizon a little, now that she was well and truly settled into job and home.

She considered the idea as she cleaned up the soup dishes and pot. She and Martha had hit it off pretty well and seemed to have several interests in common. Maybe she should suggest lunch one day—assuming that the woman was not spending all her free time now with James. In the interim, though, she always had . . .

“Hamlet,” she called belatedly, looking around the living room for the feline. “I'm back.”

Hamlet did not deign to reply, nor was he lounging in any of his usual spots, as she discovered when she made a walk-through of the apartment. Maybe he'd felt neglected by the way she'd dashed out, and he had wandered down to the bookstore in her absence. With all the secret cat passages that existed in the brownstone, the feline pretty well had access to the store anytime he pleased.

While she waited for him to reappear, Darla opened the kitchen cabinet drawer where she'd stowed away Hamlet's new harness and lead, and set them on the dining table. Tomorrow morning, weather permitting, she and Hamlet would definitely go for a walk before the store opened. But tonight, she'd indulge in that movie that she'd promised herself earlier in the day. Especially after the debacle at the dojo—a great title for a film, she told herself—she deserved a bit of mindless fluff before going to sleep.