Words With Fiends (15 page)

“Hey, what are you doing?” the man protested as he stumbled after her.

Darla made no reply until they were safely out of earshot of the others; then, letting go of his sleeve, she gave him another outraged look. No matter that the man was a customer of hers, it was time to put him in his place.

“First, don't ever poke me again like that,” she gritted out. “And, second, why in the world would you think it was appropriate to ask me about finding the sensei, especially here?”

“What? I thought we were friends,” he whined. “And friends tell friends stuff. I didn't mean anything by it. I just wanted to know.”

Darla took a deep breath, debating whether or not to correct him regarding that whole “friends” assumption. Finally, she said, “Let's get one thing straight. I'm not gossiping about this with you, or anyone else at the dojo, and neither will Robert. So show a little respect, will you?”

“All right, sorry.”

The man sounded chastened, although his blue eyes behind the glasses shimmered with an emotion that she could only interpret as resentment.
Too bad,
was Darla's own annoyed response. He had no right to play the injured innocent when he'd shown no similar consideration toward the late sensei and his family. And if she'd lost a customer by telling him off, then so be it.

Then, to her surprise, Mark began to sob.

“I know, I was being a jackass, but I just can't believe he's dead,” he said between gulps. “I mean, one minute he's alive, and the next minute he's gone.”

“It was quite a shock,” Darla agreed, taken aback by this sudden show of emotion. She'd had no idea that the man was so attached to their instructor. Maybe, like Martha had suggested a few days earlier, he
was
off his meds and, as a result, overly emotional. When the sobs continued, she sighed and gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder.

“Don't worry, it's okay to be upset,” she reluctantly assured him. “But the best thing we can do is keep Sensei's memory alive by being good students and following his mantra. Now, I'm going back to watch the rest of the junior class. See if you can pull yourself together, then come sit with us.”

He nodded, snuffling into his sleeve, and then made as if to give her a hug. Darla had been watching for such a move, however, and so she was able to sidestep the attempt.
Why does he always try to hug me?
she thought, hurrying back to the training area. As she retook her seat, Robert shot her a sidelong sympathetic glance and gave his head a disgusted shake.

“What a loser,” he muttered in a voice just loud enough for her to hear.

She was tempted to agree; still, she couldn't help feel a bit sorry for the man. Awkward and socially inept as he was around other people, especially women, it probably was easy for him to read something that wasn't there into even the most casual relationship. But that didn't mean she intended to encourage his touchy-feely shtick.

By now, the junior class was ending. As the twenty or so small warriors made their final bows and soberly broke ranks, Hal made his way to the waiting area. Looking sober himself, he began conferring with the gathered parents, simultaneously discussing the upcoming tournament and accepting condolences.

Darla and Robert, meanwhile, made their way to the mat area along with their fellow students to prepare for their session. It was the moment that Darla had been dreading, returning to the scene of the tragedy. How could they casually gear up in the same place that such a heinous crime had occurred?

She knew Robert felt the same apprehension as well. She felt his sudden grip on her sleeve, rather like a shy child hanging on to his mom, and gave him an encouraging smile. “We can do it,” she softly assured him.

But as they stepped around the divider and onto the mat, she noted in surprised relief that the two dressing rooms were no longer accessible. Instead, the American and Japanese flags that once had graced the opposite wall now hung there, one over each door. Anyone unfamiliar with the studio would not guess that anything but a wall lay beneath. The dojo's altar with its reclining Buddha had been moved as well, now positioned directly in front of the flags and effectively blocking any access to the small rooms beyond. To complete the impromptu remodel, two folding screens had been set up in the far corner to serve as replacement dressing areas.

“All right,” she heard Robert say in similar relief beside her, his grip on her sleeve easing as the breath he'd been holding whooshed from him.

Slightly more at ease now, Darla changed quickly into her uniform and then rejoined her classmates for their usual few minutes of informal warm-up. She saw in surprise—because she'd not spied his mother among the other parents—that Chris Valentine was among the night's students. The teen caught her gaze and walked over toward her.

“Uh, hi,” he greeted her, his expression uncomfortable. “It's okay, you know, about last week. Hal said I could fight in the tournament, after all.”

“That's great. I hope you win your division,” Darla told him, sincere in her congratulations. Showboating and attitude aside, he seemed like a good enough kid who had learned his lesson.

Chris nodded. “Yeah, but it doesn't mean that much now, know what I mean?”

He shrugged, and trotted off to practice the previous week's technique. Knowing that any show of sympathy she might make would be brushed aside, Darla let him go. Instead, she found one of the other adult female students and paired up with her to review the previous week's holds.

“Line up,” Hank called a few minutes later, striding to the front of the class.

As he stood waiting for the students to take their places, Darla frowned. Something about the man looked different, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Black gi, check. Hair tied back in a ponytail, check. Ticked off expression in place, check. And then it hit her. For the first time since she'd known him, Hank's black gi jacket actually had long sleeves.

A new mark of respect toward his late stepfather? Or, far more disturbing, perhaps the convenient camouflaging of the marks of a struggle?

The last possibility sent a shiver through her, but she had no time to mull that over, for he called out, “Let's begin. Bow to the flag, bow to the instructor, bow to each other.” Then, those obeisances made, he added, “Now, repeat your student creed.”

“Run when you can, fight if you must, never give up, and never let injustice go unpunished,” the group obediently chorused.

Darla knew that most of the adult students had always considered the words an eye-rolling exercise in feel-good, better suited to the junior class. But for her and Robert, the rote recitation had become a rallying cry, especially now. She exchanged a glance with the teen beside her. Maybe he was right, she told herself, and they
should
poke around the dojo for clues that Reese and his men might have missed.

With that in mind, she did her best to blend into the background during the night's lesson, but it soon became obvious that Hank had his eye on both her and Robert. The realization made her nervous, so that the routines she thought she had down pat seemed a greater challenge than usual.

Robert felt the scrutiny, too. At one point during a practice drill, he sidled up to her and murmured, “I think he, you know, knows about the d-o-g.”

“I don't think that's it,” Darla reassured him in a low tone, “but you're right, something's up. Maybe he's just uncomfortable with us here, since we were the ones who found his stepfather's body.”

Robert shook his head, seemingly unconvinced, but returned to his spot. Darla focused as best she could on the series of blocks and punches, even as she continued to be awkwardly aware of Hank's scrutiny. She couldn't help but wonder if he realized she had her own suspicions about him.

She managed to get through the class, however, and after the final bows, she quickly pulled Robert aside. “Are you going to stay for the sparring class?” she asked him.

At his nod, she went on, “Good. Keep your ears open in case any of the senior students say something incriminating. I'm going to hang out at the registration table and talk up the karate moms. Maybe there's an old friend of Sensei's from out of town that we should know about.”

“Yeah, maybe Norris or Seagal will be there,” he said in excitement, “except I doubt they, you know, had a grudge against him.”

“Probably not,” Darla agreed. “I had in mind someone more like a rival, or another dojo owner,” she added, recalling how Officer Wing had mentioned how his old sensei had kept a rivalry going with TAMA and Master Tomlinson. “Just keep your eyes and ears open for anything that doesn't seem right. Now, go get changed and I'll meet you up front.” But barely had she said that when a familiar voice called their names.

“Pettistone, Gilmore . . . front and center!”

HANK.

Darla and Robert exchanged wide-eyed glances and then turned as one to face the black belt. Bulky arms crossed over his chest, he gave them a sharp look from across the training area. “You two, come to the front office with me.”

“We don't have to, do we?” Robert whispered. “I mean, he can't make us.”

“Don't worry, it's probably no big deal, maybe something to do with the tournament,” she softly assured the youth while giving Hank what she hoped was a disarming smile. Taking Robert by the sleeve, she urged him forward, murmuring, “It will look suspicious if we run out. And if this has to do with you-know-who, we'll call his bluff. He can't know that you have her.”

They followed Hank off the mat and past the registration table with its knot of students waiting for the intermediate class. Mark was among them. He gave Darla a curious look but prudently refrained from touching or calling out to her.

Once they reached Master Tomlinson's office—which now, of course, was Hal and Hank's domain—the latter ushered them in and shut the door behind then. “No, don't sit,” he barked when Robert made as if to slip into one of the wooden folding chairs set before the desk. “I want you two on your feet.”

When Robert and Darla both snapped to attention, the man gave them a steely look. “Do you know why I called you here?”

Darla shook her head. “No, Sensei.”

“No, Sensei,” Robert muttered, gazing down at his feet.

Hank leaned against the desk and gave them both another considering look. “I know why you were here at the dojo on Sunday morning. Tom—Master Tomlinson—was going to test you for your yellow belts, right?”

Now, both Robert and Darla gave a cautious nod.

“Bad luck how things worked out . . . for everyone,” he darkly observed. “But that shouldn't mean you two get cheated out of what you earned. Take off your belts.”

The two of them exchanged confused looks but complied. Hank, meanwhile, straightened and reached behind the desk. Then, giving them what Darla realized was an actual smile, he held up two folded gold-colored cloth belts.

“I've watched you in class, and you've earned the rank. You are both now officially yellow belts.” Before they could say anything in reply to this pronouncement, he swooped down on them and swiftly knotted the new belts around their waists.

“Uh, thanks, Sensei,” Robert choked out, grinning as he made his bow.

Smiling, Darla followed suit. “Thank you, Sensei.”

Hank made them a formal bow back and replied, “Now, don't get big heads or nothing. You've still got a long way to go. But now that you've moved up to a colored belt, I want to see both of you competing in this weekend's tournament. Robert is already registered for the beginning sparring division. I'd like to see you there, too, Darla.”

“Me?” Darla squeaked. “I-I haven't registered. I don't think I'm good enough to spar with anyone yet.”

“You can compete in beginning forms and do your katas,” Hank assured her. “Your technique is nice and crisp. Besides, competition in your age bracket is pretty sparse, so you've got a good chance at a trophy.”

“Really?” she exclaimed, choosing to ignore the age reference as visions of a shiny silver cup abruptly flashed through her mind. She'd never been much for athletics in high school, and her only sports award of any sort had been a fourth place ribbon one year in the running broad jump. But a trophy! Why, she might even display it in the bookstore!

“Sure, I'll go sign up now,” she impulsively agreed.

The decision earned her a congratulatory fist bump from Robert. Then, turning back to Hank, he eagerly asked, “Hey, can I go show Chris my belt?”

The black belt nodded. “Go ahead. And we'll see you Saturday at the tournament,” he reminded Darla while Robert took off like a shot.

The smile Hank gave her was friendlier than she'd seen before, and as she started out the office door, her cynical side abruptly wondered if he was playing them. Maybe he simply was trying to follow in his stepfather's footsteps and encourage his students . . . or maybe the whole belt and tournament thing was a distraction to keep her mind off Master Tomlinson's murder.

That last thought made her pause. Turning again, she said, “I didn't really get to tell you this before, but we're all terribly sorry about Master Tomlinson. He was a great guy, and a wonderful teacher.”

“Yeah, he was.” Hank's smile faded, and his expression turned momentarily bleak. “We may have had our differences, but Tom was my stepfather for almost twenty years. Believe me, I'm going to make sure the cops find out who murdered him.”

“I know Detective Reese personally,” Darla hastened to assure him, “and I can tell you he's doing everything he can to solve the case.”

“Yeah?” Hank crossed beefy arms over his chest again, his stance menacing. “Well, if I find Tom's killer first, it ain't gonna be pretty. Let's just say that person is gonna wish he surrendered to the cops.”

And Darla believed him, she realized as she left the office. His reaction seemed too visceral to be an act. Which meant that, Botox or not, Dr. Tomlinson likely didn't have anything to do with her husband's murder.
No
, she corrected herself. It only meant that if Dr. Tomlinson was guilty, then Hank was unaware of it. But if she
was
the killer, and Hank learned the truth, could he turn on his own mother?

That thought niggled at her as she returned to the studio area to fill out her last-minute registration. Several of her fellow students immediately noticed the new belt she sported and came up to offer their congratulations. Robert, she saw in amusement, was already preening about the area, doing a fair imitation of Chris with a spinning kick that nearly clipped the latter.

“Hey, a little control there,” she heard Chris scold him, sounding suspiciously like one of the adult students. Then, apparently realizing they were going to be late for the sparring class, the two teens hurried in the direction of the mat.

“Don't wait for me if you don't want to,” Robert called over his shoulder. “I can walk home by myself.”

“I'll stick around a couple of minutes and then I'll see you tomorrow,” she agreed, waving him on.

Not that she wouldn't mind watching the full class—particularly if Robert landed a lucky punch on Mark!—but the karate moms handling the registration were closing up shop now. In a few minutes, the only ones left in the dojo other than Hank and Hal would be the students sparring. While everyone else was concentrating on punching and kicking, she'd take a casual glance at the tournament roster, which was sitting out in plain view.

Unfortunately, since the sparring class had started, it was too late to return to the dressing area to change. Darla did the next best thing and slipped off her new yellow belt and gi jacket, folding them into her gear bag. Now, she was wearing just her gi pants and the tank top that she'd had on under her jacket. Hurriedly, she pulled on the oversized sweatshirt that she'd worn for the walk to the dojo. The combination of baggy white gi trousers topped by a University of Texas fleece wasn't the most fashionable look, but it was better than sitting around in her practice uniform. Besides, once she threw her long coat back on, said fashion faux pas would be virtually covered.

Waving good-bye to the last of the departing moms, she settled into her chosen seat behind the viewing panel. She knew, based on her usual vantage point from the opposite side, that anyone sitting in this chair could not be seen from the main mat area unless they pressed up against the glass for a look. Just as no one in the sparring class would notice her sitting there, neither would anyone notice when she slipped away after a few minutes to surreptitiously check out the tournament paperwork.

Once she was certain that the sparring students were well into their drills under Hank and Hal's direction, Darla shouldered her gear bag and casually sidled up to the now-empty registration table. The tournament registration list was neatly attached to a black clipboard alongside an alphabetized expandable file. Checking again to be sure she wasn't being watched, she flipped through the pages on the clipboard.

The top page was a list of the TAMA students taking part in the tournament . . . almost fifty of various ranks and ages. Subsequent pages had names of registered students from various other dojos, as well as a number of participants listed as unaffiliated with any studio. Many of the latter were from out of town, a few even from other states. At a quick estimate, perhaps two hundred participants were already registered. Obviously this tournament was a much bigger event than Darla had realized.

Keeping one ear open to the shouts and cheers from the training area, she scanned the list more closely. Not that she was certain what she was looking for, she told herself, it was just that she had a feeling there might be something of importance to be found. And then she spied a name that rang a bell.

Tiger Lee's Fighting Academy.

Darla frowned. Hadn't that been the dojo where Officer Wing said he'd trained as a youth? She counted sixteen names from that dojo, more than half listed as junior competitors under the age of twelve, and the rest adult students at red belt level and higher. Turning to the final page, she found the list of tournament officials—among them Tiger Lee himself.

Her frown deepened. Would Master Tomlinson have recruited a man who held a grudge against him to take part in such an event? Or had the cop's recollection been a boy's faulty memory, and the supposed rivalry was nothing more than a healthy competition between martial arts schools?

Then she shook her head. Even in the unlikely event that the two men had been bitter enemies, nothing about Lee's name on the list was at all suspicious. She was fishing for clues, and not successfully. It was only coincidence that Officer Wing had happened to mention his old sensei, and even greater coincidence that the man happened to be officiating at the upcoming tournament.

On impulse, Darla left the waiting area and made her way to the vestibule. At this hour, the outer door was locked against anyone wandering in off the street, and the “hallway of fame” with its collection of photos was but dimly lit by a single fixture at the front. Squinting and wishing she dared flip on the overhead lights, Darla searched the hand-printed names on each picture frame.

She'd passed that wall many times these past weeks but had paid scant attention to any save the famous names: the pictures of Master Tomlinson sharing moments with Lee and Norris and Wallace and Burleson. Looking closer now, she saw other, even more personal photos. Here was the sensei caught in mid-jump, legs extended to land an in-air kick. Another one was taken as he accepted a trophy fully as tall as he. Several were snapped as he landed a blow on an opponent in some tournament or another. She even found one of the sensei and several other men posing in full ninja garb and wielding swords.

Finally, she discovered near the beginning of the photo time line a black-and-white snapshot of two youthful men, one American and one Asian. This was the one, she told herself in satisfaction. The label on the snapshot read,
Tom Tomlinson and Tiger Lee
.

She studied the photo more closely, smiling a bit sadly at the vibrant, sixties-era image of a ponytailed man in his twenties that had been Master Tomlinson. He was grinning, as was the slim, shaggy-haired Asian whose arm was around his shoulder. Small as the picture was, she could still readily make out the men's expressions . . . that of two kindred spirits sharing a good joke. No matter their relationship later in life, at that point the two men obviously had been fast friends.

Darla shook her head again. It had been a long shot anyhow, but finding the photo in a place of honor sealed it. Friends like that didn't murder each other. She'd have to look to someone other than Tiger Lee for the sensei's murderer. Barely had she made that determination, however, when she heard the scrape of chair legs against a wooden floor from the direction of Master Tomlinson's office.

She froze, feeling momentarily guilty at the possibility of being found there in the vestibule, yet knowing she could readily claim simply to be leaving the dojo after her lesson. Then she frowned. The office itself was even darker than the hall; still, through the open blinds of the office's broad window, she could see a dark shape moving about inside that room.

Hal or Hank?

Or neither?

For she had seen both men coaching the students in the training area before she left her seat, and neither had left the mat area while she was still perusing the registration papers. In the short time she'd been there in the vestibule, she hadn't heard footsteps behind her or a door opening to indicate someone's approach. Whoever was in the office must have entered it while she was still watching the sparring. Which meant that it wasn't one of the twins poking about in the shadows.

Heart pounding a little faster now, Darla stealthily moved through the dim hallway toward the window's far edge. Her white gi pants would surely reflect any ambient light, and she found herself wishing that she had on a ninja outfit like she'd seen in the sensei's photos. Failing that, all she could do was shift her gear bag so that it concealed as much of her lower body as possible. Besides, she sensed that the office intruder was more intent on searching than being seen.

As she drew closer to the window, she saw a pinpoint of light flicker on behind the glass. The intruder had turned on a penlight, its narrow beam slicing lines along the dark surface of the sensei's desk. Then the beam swooped over to the file cabinet in the corner, and Darla saw a drawer slide open.

What was this person looking for?

Crouching so that she was just peeking over the windowsill, Darla pressed closer to the glass. By now, her eyes were adjusted enough to the low light for her to make out a few details of the searcher. He—she?—appeared of medium height and an oddly shapeless build, until she realized that the person was simply wearing a long winter coat that disguised his—her?—actual figure. Worse, a stocking cap pulled low and a scarf wrapped around the lower half of the person's face made any identification—young, old, male, female—all but impossible. If Reese were to later ask her to ID the intruder, she'd have nothing.