Words With Fiends (21 page)

“Robert, why don't you help that lady who just walked in,” Darla quickly suggested, pointing him in said elderly woman's direction.

The youth shot James an uncertain look, obviously aware that this might be
the call.
Then, with a nod, he went off to assist the customer while Darla tried to discreetly listen in on James's half of the call. The store manager had anticipated her interest, for he just as discreetly took himself off to the upstairs lounge to finish the conversation.

He returned a few minutes later, giving away nothing by his expression. Robert hurriedly checked out his customer and even carried her purchase to the exit for her. Then, bells jingling as the door shut after the woman, he rushed back to the counter.

“Was that the rescue lady?” the teen anxiously demanded, all but wringing his hands. “What did she say about Roma?”

James inclined his head. “Yes, that was she, and I believe that we have a conclusion to the Roma situation.”

“A good conclusion?” Darla asked in a hopeful tone, drawing closer to the counter where he stood.

Now the manager gave an unmistakable sigh.

“I fear not. The women took Roma to the veterinarian's office per protocol and had her scanned for a chip. Unfortunately for Robert, her previous owner had done the right thing, and so Bonnie was able to put in a call to Dr. Tomlinson letting her know that Roma had been found.”

“And she wants her back,” Darla flatly stated while Robert stared in silent disbelief. “Didn't you tell Bonnie that they want to sell off Roma to a puppy mill breeder?”

“As a matter of fact, I had that conversation last night with Bonnie when she first informed me that the dog was chipped. I let her know in the strongest possible terms that such a situation was likely. Bonnie understood, but she was legally obliged to make contact with Dr. Tomlinson, anyhow. And Dr. Tomlinson called her back this morning claiming that she has been distraught over the dog's loss and very anxious to recover her.”

James paused and gave Robert a sympathetic look.

“Bonnie assured me that she emphasized to the doctor that she had a waiting list of people who would be happy to adopt Roma,” he went on. “Beyond that, she made certain that Dr. Tomlinson understood the fate of any dog turned over to a puppy mill breeder. I do not know if Dr. Tomlinson found that unexpected proselytizing suspicious, but she claimed that she had no such plans. She said that she wanted to keep Roma as a reminder of her late husband. And so Bonnie will be meeting her in the next few hours to return Roma to her rightful owner.”

“No!” Robert gave his head a vigorous shake, swiping tears from his cheeks. “I can't let her take Roma. I can't!”

“I fear you have no choice,” James gently reminded him. “And perhaps the doctor had a change of heart and truly does intend to keep her as a cherished pet.”

“She won't! She'll sell her, just wait and see. All of them hate Roma. I'm the only one who cares!”

With that, he turned and rushed to the front door, flinging it open and letting it slam behind him as he raced from the store. Darla made a move to run after him, but James put a restraining hand on her arm.

“Let the boy go. I agree it is a hard lesson, but it is better for him to accept the situation and move on than for him to keep hoping for something that will not happen.”

“Well, you can't blame him for being upset,” Darla replied, wiping a suspicious bit of moisture from her own eyes. “He really loves that little dog.”

“I understand fully. And that is why, in a few days, I will also suggest that he do a bit of volunteer work with the Fuzzy Berets. He will find many pets that need a loving home, and perhaps Mary Ann will even let him foster a small dog or two in his apartment.”

Darla gave him a grateful look. “That's a wonderful idea. It won't make up for losing Roma, but I'm sure he'll feel better if he sees he can help other animals like her.” Then, turning a worried eye on the door, she added, “Are you sure I should let him run off like that? What if he does something drastic?”

“Robert is a responsible young man. I am certain after he has an opportunity to compose himself that he will return to his duties.”

And James proved right, as usual. A quarter of an hour later, a subdued if red-eyed Robert crept back into the store.

“My bad, Ms. P.,” he muttered, giving her a shame-faced look. “I shouldn't have, you know, run off like that. Maybe that can count as my break or something.”

“Don't worry, we all understand,” she assured him with a smile. “Now, see if you can break down all those shipping cartons for the recycle bin.”

The remainder of the afternoon proceeded without incident, the only other excitement occurring when Reese dropped by to update Darla on the Grace Valentine situation.

“The broad's got some heavy hitters behind her,” he said with a sour look. “Turns out her mouthpiece, Jerry Titcombe, is the same sleazeball attorney who just got that doctor in the pill mill case acquitted for lack of evidence. He got the Valentine woman bailed out in a couple of hours yesterday, which is almost impossible to get done. Chances are he'll get the assault charge against her dismissed, too.”

“What about murder?” Darla wanted to know. “You're not planning to arrest her for that, too, are you?”

“Why? You developing a soft spot for the broad, or something?”

“She might be a first-class B-word,” Darla replied, keeping it G-rated in case a customer was in earshot, “but let's just say I'm pretty sure she didn't do it.”

Despite her earlier vow to “butt out,” she added, “I'll admit, she was my original suspect, especially after she went after Mark Poole with a knife, but I've crossed her off my list. Why would she have wanted to kill her son's father? She was probably getting some sort of support from him, so it was in her best interest for him to stay healthy. And she's stuck around all this time, so maybe she still had hopes of prying him away from his wife.”

“Yeah, that's one way to look at it.” Reese sounded less than convinced. “On the other hand, maybe she was tired of getting the short end of the stick, he told her to take a hike, and she decided to show him who's boss.”

“But no way could she have dragged someone the sensei's size up onto that hook even after shooting him up with the Botox,” Darla countered. “She might be training for her black belt, but she's not any bigger than me. I could barely carry his legs when Robert and I dragged him out of the changing room.”

“So she had that lawyer guy give her a hand.”

Darla shook her head. How could she convince him to focus on Dr. Tomlinson without confessing that it was Hamlet's bit of word juggling that was behind her theory? As for the matter of being strong enough . . . well, the good doctor had two burly sons. Maybe despite their protestations of filial devotion it was time to put them back on the suspect list, too.

“I'm not sure, Reese,” she cautiously offered. “What about another look at Jan Tomlinson? What do they say on the cop shows? She's got means, motive, and opportunity.”

“Yeah, I'm familiar with the concept. So what's the motive according to Darla?”

Ignoring Reese's patronizing tone, she replied, “I'm betting she just found out that her husband had an affair that resulted in a child, and I'm betting she wasn't too happy about it. Besides, isn't the spouse always the prime suspect?”

“You did notice that she's not any bigger than Ms. Valentine, right?”

“So she had one of her sons give her a hand.”

He raised his brows at that last before shooting a look over at Hamlet, who was snoozing again beside the register.

“Whatever floats your boat, Red, just as long as this is your theory, and not the cat's. But if it will make you feel better, no one—except maybe you and Robert—has been crossed off my list. I'm going to be keeping an eye on everyone at that tournament.”

“MAYBELLE'S WAITING OUT FRONT,” DARLA TOLD REESE VIA
the intercom as she buzzed him into the building a few minutes before eight thirty on Saturday morning. “Come on up. I'll call Robert and let him know that you're here, and then we can grab my stuff and get on the road.”

She propped the apartment door open for Reese and then dialed the teen. By the time she had hung up with Robert, the detective was already inside and pouring himself a quick cup of coffee into a to-go mug he carried.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I think so,” she said, zipping up her overstuffed duffel bag, which had been sitting on the kitchen table. “I've got my uniform and gear, and I've printed up directions to the gym where the tournament is being held.”

“Nervous?”

“A little . . . well, yes, a lot,” she confessed, putting an anxious hand to her hair, which she'd braided into a neat, tight French braid to keep it out of the way. “It's silly, I know, but it would be nice to win.”

“Nothing silly about wanting to be the best in your class. Don't worry, Red,” he added with a slow grin that abruptly set the butterflies in her stomach flapping even harder. “No matter how you do today, you're a winner in my book.”

“Thanks,” she managed, feeling herself blush bright as her hair. It didn't help that the man was dressed for the weekend in a tight black sweater under his black leather bomber, which topped an equally tight-fitting pair of jeans. Distracting, to say the least!

Grabbing up her keys and the directions, she changed the subject and gestured toward her bag. “Remember, you volunteered to be official luggage bearer if I let you come along. So, time to start bearing.”

Obediently, he hoisted the bag, only to grunt in surprise. “What the heck do you have in there, bricks?” he demanded as he settled it on his shoulder.

Darla turned at the door and gave him a pitying look.

“It's just my uniform and a towel, and some sparring gear I bought from one of the women in my class. Oh, yeah, and my wallet and phone. Really, Reese, I didn't know you were such a wimp. I haul that same bag with me to class a couple of times a week.”

“Remind me not to ever tangle with you, then. C'mon, let's get out of here.”

By the time they made it downstairs, Robert was already pacing nervously by the Mercedes, his own bag in hand. “We're gonna be, like, late,” he exclaimed. “Hurry!”

“We've got plenty of time,” Darla assured him, opening the rear door so they could pile in the gear on one side, and Robert could sit on the other.

Reese, meanwhile, gave the youth a friendly clap on the shoulder that almost sent him reeling. “Don't worry, Robert, a little case of nerves is good for you. Keeps you from getting overconfident, know what I mean?”

“Yeah, but I'm not overconfident,” he confided as he slipped into his seat. Once Darla and Reese were in the car with him, he added, “What if I, you know, lose or something?”

Reese had put on his sunglasses, the black wraparound ones that neatly hid his expression. Now, looking like the younger brother of Ah-nold from one of those Terminator movies, he shot the youth a look via the rearview mirror. But instead of a poker-faced
Ah'll be bahck
, he said, “You got the guts to go out there and compete, you're not a loser, no matter where you place.”

The sentiment seemed to resonate with Robert, for he smiled and appeared to relax a bit. “Yeah, I guess you're right. The only loser is the one who's afraid to fight.”

Traffic on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway was its usual weekend snarl, but they still arrived in plenty of time at the small college gymnasium where the tournament was taking place. Darla was amazed and a bit daunted to see that the parking lot was already half full. Between competitors and spectators, it was going to be a respectable crowd. The same unsettling thought must have occurred to Robert, for he glanced nervously through the window as they trolled for a parking place.

Reese pulled into a slot near the gym's main door that, if not technically illegal, wasn't exactly authorized parking. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out one of his business cards with the NYPD logo and tossed it, face up, onto the driver's side dashboard.

“There's a reason you ride with me,” he deadpanned as he threw the Mercedes into “Park.” “C'mon, let's get going before I'm any older. My back's starting to ache at the thought of carrying your bag again.”

They piled out of the car, Robert carrying his own gear bag and Reese carrying Darla's. “You know, I could get used to this,” she told him with a smile as, shifting the bag, he pulled open one of the gym's double doors for her.

He raised a brow. “Yeah? Well, don't,” he cheerfully warned her.

A couple of dozen other competitors, mostly teens, were milling about in the long foyer next to a refreshment stand serving drinks, hot dogs, and chips. Small, arrowed signs taped to the walls pointed in the direction of the registration table, which was set up near open double doors leading to the main gym. The noise level coming from there was already high enough that Darla had to repeat her and Robert's names twice to the karate moms checking off incoming registrants.

In return, they both received programs listing their divisions, small tournament patches, and blue paper wristbands to show they were registered as competitors. Reese paid his spectator fee, and then caused a moment of amused consternation with the karate moms as he held out his arm for a yellow guest wristband.

“Here's another one it won't fit, Suze.” The middle-aged, bleached blonde giggled to her fellow mom as she held up a paper band that obviously was too small for Reese's wrist. Giving him a coy wink, she added in a cutesy voice, “Guess we're going to have to do like we did with the other big boys earlier and put two of these together for you.”

The brunette snorted, and murmured to her friend just loud enough for Darla to hear. “I wouldn't mind putting two together with him, you know what I mean?” she said, jabbing her friend with a sharp elbow as she blatantly ogled Reese. “You know, this is lots better than working another high school golf tournament.”

“I'll take those,” Darla smoothly interrupted. Snatching the paper bands from the first woman, she quickly made them into a single strip which she wrapped around Reese's wrist.

“There you go, honey, all set,” she told him, giving his arm a familiar pat. She turned and favored the women with a bright smile. “Now, would you ladies mind telling us where the changing rooms are?'

“Through there and to the left,” the brunette answered, indicating the main door behind them, and pouting a little as she settled back in her folding chair. Obviously, she knew a tossed gauntlet when she saw one.

Her friend chimed in. “Yeah, and make sure you listen for your division. You know how it goes. The times on the program are pretty much suggestions only. They call your group, and you're not there for the start, you're out,” she explained, jerking her thumb over her shoulder like a baseball umpire.

Darla gave them another fake smile and then turned to Robert and Reese. “Let's go, boys. We've got trophies to win.”

“Wow, reverse sexual harassment much?” Robert exclaimed as they entered the auditorium, looking a bit shell-shocked from the obvious sexual banter.

Reese, who'd maintained a poker face throughout the incident, now shoved his sunglasses up onto his head with his free hand and grinned. “Hey, kid, don't knock it until you've tried it.”

“Don't listen to him, Robert,” Darla countered. “Detective Reese is not exactly the poster boy for equal rights.”

She didn't hear Reese's sputtered protest to her dismissal, however, for her attention was abruptly fixed on the scene before her. The broad wooden court below where basketball or another indoor sport would normally be played had been converted into six large areas of colored mats, each flagged with a number. Tables and chairs that she assumed were for the tournament officials were set up between them, with the spectators sitting in the surrounding bleachers. At the court's far end, a raised stage complete with TAMA bunting had been set up. Before it sat a long, cloth-covered table covered with the trophies that would be handed out over the course of the day.

At a second table set up to one side of the stage, teenaged girls in short shorts and TAMA tees appeared to be doing a brisk business selling similar shirts to admiring young men. Overhead, sponsorship banners from a well-known sports drink company and several martial arts supply houses hung in colorful rows and added a festive air to the event. This was, indeed, a professionally run event, she saw in approval. She wondered where Hank and Hal were, and what role they had played in coordinating it all.

“Look, someone's putting on a demonstration,” Robert said, pointing to the stage and raising his voice to be heard over the echoing hubbub.

Two men—the taller in a white gi, the shorter wearing dark blue—faced each other, the fighter in white acting as the aggressor. Nonstop, he charged his partner with a series of weapons. Though at a definite height disadvantage, the shorter man managed to disarm his attacker every time, drawing applause from the surrounding spectators as he used throws and chokeholds and takedowns.

“The program says they're doing Sambo,” Robert explained. “It's some kind of cool Russian martial art.”

“Pretty impressive,” Darla agreed, wondering if she could learn a technique like that. Of course, as easy as the demonstrators made it look, she knew both men must have studied the art for years.

The teen, meanwhile, was consulting the program again. “And look,” he added, pointing, “that's where we're going to be, areas five and six. Maybe we should, like, get seats over there.”

There
was, of course, at the opposite end of the court from the main stage. Doubtless the higher-ranking competitors fought in the more prestigious rings, which suited Darla just fine. Now that they were actually here at the tournament, she could feel the butterflies in her stomach taking flight again.

“Good idea,” she agreed. “Let's find a spot, and then we can go get changed.”

A few minutes later, they were settled on bleacher seats a few rows back from the floor, close enough to see, but high enough that their view was better. Reese set down her bag on the bench and promptly rubbed his shoulder.

“Next time, hire a pack horse,” he complained.

Darla grinned. “So much for being one of the big boys.”

She unzipped the bag and pulled her gi jacket, pants, and belt from the very top, and then zipped the bag back up and added, “Do me a favor and watch my stuff for a minute? I'm going to put on my uniform. I'll be right back.”

“Sure, but hurry. I want to wander around the place and see what's what. You two might be here to have fun, but I'm on the clock.”

Darla nodded. She'd almost forgotten in the excitement that Reese really was there for something other than luggage-bearer duty.

She and Robert parted company at the restrooms, Darla ducking into the women's side and Robert into the men's. She quickly swapped out her jeans for gi pants and, peeling off the sweatshirt she wore, fastened the gi jacket on over her tank top and sports bra. The last touch was her crisp new yellow belt, which she wrapped twice around her and carefully knotted so that both ends of the belt hung even. Then, with a final look in the mirror, she took her folded clothes and headed out into the auditorium again.

Robert was already waiting outside the door for her, his own new yellow belt tied every bit as carefully as hers. His smile looked a bit shaky, however, and so she raised her clenched fist, knuckles out.

“Fist bump for luck?”

He grinned now and touched knuckles with her. Then, as they headed back toward their seats, he pointed toward the main floor and waved at a middle-aged woman from their class who was warming up along the sidelines with a pair of kamas: short, handheld scythes that Darla knew were used as traditional Japanese weapons. With stylized moves, the woman blocked and then attacked an invisible opponent, wielding with deadly precision what were, for all intents and purposes, humble gardening tools.

Darla watched, impressed . . . and equally relieved that the woman didn't wave back at them. She'd already heard stories in the dojo of careless students putting out an eye or slicing a neck with even the blunted practice weapons!

“Probably half the school is here today,” Darla noted, scanning the crowd for more familiar faces. And then she saw a familiar face she
least
wanted to see, hanging out near the closest timekeeping table, earnestly chatting with one of the officials.

“Oh, great, there's Mark Poole,” she warned Robert, not daring to point lest she draw attention to them. “Quick, pretend we're looking at the schedule in case he notices us.”

Her plan didn't work, however, for Mark turned around and promptly caught her gaze before she could focus on the list. As for Robert, in a voice that sounded deliberately casual, he asked, “You think Chris will be here, and Grace? I mean, after the other night?”

“Chris, maybe. But Grace?” Darla shrugged. “If I were running the tournament, no way. Let's just hope Hank and Hal put her on the Do Not Admit list.”

By then, they'd reached their seats again. While the bleachers had filled even more during their brief absence, most of the spectators were along the two main sides of the court, the better to see the more advanced competitors. Only a handful of people were sitting near where they'd left Reese, and most of those were in the first two rows.

The detective rose as they approached.

“They should be getting this show on the road in a few minutes, so I'm going to wander around for a little bit. But don't worry,” he added at Darla's questioning look. “I'll be sure to get back here in time to see you two compete.”