Words With Fiends

by Ali Brandon

  But she’d barely made her way up the steps and reached her front door when her phone began ringing. She glanced at the caller ID and then shook her head.

  Too late for fireproof undies now.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE CONVERSATION WITH REESE WAS SHORT AND WENT pretty much as Darla had expected . . . meaning the detective had remained relatively calm until she brought up how she’d found the photo of Master Tomlinson with Grace Valentine. At that point, holding the phone at arm’s length from her ear, she’d decided that a whole fireproof apartment might be a worthwhile investment.

  Eventually, however, Reese piped down enough to tell her that he was getting a warrant for a more thorough search of Master Tomlinson’s files. “And unless I tell you different, I don’t want you going back there anytime soon.”

  “Actually, I have to,” she replied, bristling a little at his commanding air. “Hal gave me my yellow belt last night, and I signed up to compete in beginner forms at the tournament Saturday, so I have to get in some more practice before then. Who knows, I might even bring home a trophy.”

  “Hey, Red, that’s great,” he answered, warm approval now in his tone. “Okay, change of plans—I’m going to go with you to the tournament. Don’t worry, it’s not a date,” he clarified as, in a fair imitation of Brody’s mind-meld routine, he apparently picked up on her reflexive rejection of the suggestion. “I’ll carry your gear, and I’ll be out there in the crowd cheering you on. But in between I’ll do a little unofficial poking around to see what sort of bad blood there might be between your sensei and anyone else.”

  “I suppose that’s all right. But you pay your own way into the tournament.”

  “Deal. And in the meantime, keep on practicing at the dojo, but stay out of file cabinets and desk drawers and any other place you might be tempted to snoop in.”

  “I’ll try to control myself,” was her sardonic response.

  He either didn’t catch the tone or chose to ignore it. “Oh, and by the way, good find on that photo. It’ll probably be a dead end,” he cautioned as she perked up at the unexpected atta girl, “but it’s definitely worth checking out.”

  He hung up before she could make any response, leaving Darla to stare in amazement at the phone before pressing the “End” button and setting it down on the couch beside her. Hamlet had wandered his way back to the apartment following Roma’s departure, and he now lay in his usual spot sprawled along the sofa back. Darla gave him a fond smile and put out her fist.

  “How about a little fist bump love?” she asked the cat. “Reese actually complimented me. Twice. In the same conversation.”

  Hamlet looked at her clenched fingers and then turned his head.

  “Right, you only do that with Robert and Roma,” she said with a pretend huff, dropping her fist again. “That’s fine, don’t mind me. I’m only the one who keeps you in kibble and fresh litter. Oh, and I’m only the one who bought you this,” she added, grabbing up the kitty wand and waving it enticingly before him.

  This, Hamlet deigned to acknowledge. They played companionably for several minutes, until Darla reluctantly reminded herself that she really needed to get back to the store.

  “James’s shift is almost up,” she apologized to the feline. “But if you want, we can go on a practice walk outside tomorrow. How would that be?”

  Hamlet gave her another blink that she interpreted as a sure, why not? She checked first to make sure he had plenty of food and fresh water; then, with a guilty look back at him, she paused a moment at her desk to check her computer.

  It was open, as had been usual these past weeks, to her favorite online word game. Preoccupied as she’d been with what had happened to Master Tomlinson and, now, the Roma situation, she’d let most of her in-progress matches sit for a good day. A few of her virtual friends had already “nudged” her—an instant message reminder that it was her turn.

  Swiftly, she shuffled her letters for each game and played them, on the virtual board. Fetid, acids, heaven, chaw . . . all combined with existing words for decent scores. But her best this round was the game with her virtual buddy, Fightingwords. Darla smirked a little as she played chart on the existing word ale which turned it into tale. With the help of a triple word tile, her turn netted her a cool fifty-nine points. Not too shabby! And the score, which had just been at a virtual tie, now tipped way in her favor.

  Even as she was savoring this little victory, a “ting” sounded, telling her that Fightingwords had just sent her a message. She pressed the word bubble icon to go to the chat function, which this particular gaming pal used quite often. His/her latest missive said in text-speak, i’ll get u my pretty.

  “And your little dog, too,” Darla replied, typing out that same sentiment while her smile broadened. Whoever it was on the other end had a dry sense of humor that added an extra bit of fun to the game. Then, reminding herself she was supposed to be working and not playing, she hurried back downstairs to finish out the shift.

  Right before closing, Robert announced he was going to grab his gear and head to the dojo for the sparring class as soon as Darla gave the okay. “I want to, like, get in some more practice before Saturday. You wanna go, too, Ms. P?”

  Darla raised her hands in mock horror.

  “No way. I’m competing in forms, remember? I don’t need some black belt using me for a punching bag until after I come home with my trophy. I’ll practice on my own upstairs tonight, thank you very much.”

  “Okay, but you’re missing all the fun,” he told her. “I’ll practice with Chris. He said he’d teach me a few tricks to use in the competition. Not anything bad,” he hurriedly clarified when Darla shot him a disapproving look. “He was talking about ways to, you know, psych out your opponents.”

  “So long as he’s not teaching you to fight dirty, I won’t say a word. But ask Hank or Hal if you need any real help.”

  “Yeah, I guess they’re not that bad, after all. But I’m still not telling them about Roma.”

  “Our secret,” she agreed, uncomfortably aware that more than one secret was drifting around that dojo. Glancing at the clock, she added, “I’ll finish up here. Why don’t you run home and grab your gear so you can get to class early.”

  “All right, thanks!” he said, shooting her a grin as he headed for the door.

  A few minutes later, she rang up a last-minute customer who’d only just remembered as he’d passed her store that it was his partner’s birthday. Feeling generous, Darla grabbed a fancy sheet of paw-print wrapping paper from under the counter and expertly wrapped the book for him, earning herself some good karma and a couple of air kisses as the man hurried out with his purchase. Smiling, she locked the door after him and made quick work of her shutdown routine. After the uproar of the past few days, all she wanted to do tonight was head back to the apartment, have a big bowl of veggie soup for supper, and watch an old movie with Hamlet before bedtime.

  Oh, and practice her forms, she reminded herself, mentally picking out a spot in the store for the trophy she expected to win.

  Once back upstairs, she put the soup on the stove to simmer and changed back into sweat pants and a T-shirt. Then, returning to the living room, she addressed the cat. “All right, Hamlet. Check out my form and let me know what you think.”

  She made her bow to a panel of invisible judges. Then, assuming her beginning stance, she moved through the stylized series of punches, blocks, and kicks that represented defense and attack against an unseen opponent. She finished the first kata. Then, with another bow, she moved on to the second kata, and then the third. Each was a slightly more complicated routine than the one before it, and a couple of times she needed to stop and regroup when she accidentally left out a move. Only when she’d made it through all three katas, one after the other, without error, was she satisfied.

  “All right, break time,” she declared a bit breathless
ly to Hamlet, dabbing away the sweat from her forehead. “Let’s have a little soup, and then—”

  The abrupt, insistent drone of the downstairs door buzzer cut her musings short and made her jump.

  “I have got to get that thing changed,” she muttered, rushing over to the door to hit the intercom button before whoever it was buzzed her again. With Jake out of town, and Robert still at sparring practice, she wasn’t expecting anyone.

  “Yes, who is it?” she cautiously greeted whoever was downstairs on her stoop.

  “It’s me, Reese,” a familiar voice shot back. “I need to talk to you.”

  Again? she thought with a sigh. She really needed to broaden her circle of friends. Aloud, she said, “About what?”

  “We’ll talk about that when I get up there,” was the clipped reply. “Look, Red, it’s freezing out here. Be a pal and buzz me in now before I turn into an icicle. I’ve even got a bag of buffalo wings I’ll share with you if you’re nice.”

  “Deal,” Darla agreed, unlocking the door. “Come on up.”

  She didn’t wait for him to knock at her apartment but already had the door opened by the time he’d made both flights of stairs.

  “You’re my new best friend,” she said as she surveyed his sauce-stained bag in approval.

  She gave him an approving look, too. He’d changed from his work clothes into the more familiar jeans and black leather bomber jacket, paired with a wool hat and thick scarf. She always did like a man in leather, she reminded herself.

  Gesturing him in, she said, “Let me get a platter to put those on. I’ve got some homemade soup ready to go, too. There’s just enough to split. You want some?”

  “Sure,” he agreed, following her to the kitchen. Then, taking in her outfit and sweat-dampened face, he added, “What, you’ve been working out?”

  Darla pretended not to hear the surprise in his voice. “Actually, I’m practicing my katas for the tournament. Hal says he thinks I’ve got a pretty good chance to win.”

  “Yeah, there’s usually not a lot of competition in your age group for beginners,” Reese observed with a shrug. Then, when Darla shot him an annoyed look—why did everyone seem to think the only way she could win was if she were the only one in the category?—he quickly backpedaled.

  “What I mean is, you won’t have kids in your group, so you have to be pretty good. You want to show me, and I’ll give you a little coaching? “

  At her doubtful look, he added, “Hey, I got a closet full of trophies from when I took karate lessons as a kid. I know my stuff.”

  “All right, but I really want to win this thing, so I’ll be trusting that you do.”

  She pulled down a platter from the cabinet and handed it off to Reese. Then she stacked bowls, plates, and cutlery on the table before heading back for the soup pot, leaving Reese to arrange the wings and celery sticks and blue cheese dip. She winced a little when she returned to find that his version of “arrange” was simply dumping the bag’s contents onto the platter she’d provided.

  Men, she thought with a roll of her eyes, fighting the urge to separate celery from chicken into two neat piles. Instead, she ladled out the soup. That accomplished, she set the pot down on one of Great-Aunt Dee’s antique trivets and reached for a wing.

  “Uh, uh,” Reese interjected, stopping her with a wag of his forefinger as he took his chair. “You’re in training. Katas first. You do a good job, you get to eat.”

  Who died and made you sensei?

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask that aloud. But given the fact that someone had died and left a sensei opening, she bit back the retort and contented herself with another eye roll.

  “Fine,” she told him, setting down the wing and licking the buffalo sauce from her fingers. “But constructive criticism only. No jokes.”

  At his nod, she took up position in the living area, feeling a bit self-conscious as she made her bow and began the form. When she’d finished, she made her bow again and gave him a questioning look. “Well?”

  “Not bad,” was his assessment through a mouthful of chicken. “You’ve learned not to bob up and down when you move, which is what gets most beginners. But watch your arm and hand position. You don’t want to break your wrists.”

  Setting down his wing, he demonstrated by holding out one muscular arm as if he’d just thrown a punch. Then, keeping his arm still, he momentarily raised his clenched fist so that his knuckles pointed upward rather than forward before returning his hand to its original position. He repeated that a couple of times before grabbing up the wing again.

  “See, that’s breaking your wrist. You want to keep everything in a straight line down your arm through your hand when you’re punching. You do one of these in competition”—he demonstrated again, wing flapping—“the judges will knock off points. Plus you do that in an actual fight, you really will break a wrist. Worst of all, it makes you look like a sissy girl.”

  “Well, I am a girl,” she grumbled, but she carefully adjusted her position anyway. “Okay, got it. Anything else?”

  “Don’t run through the kata too slow, or the judges will think you can’t remember the next move. And don’t go crazy fast, or the judges will think you’re trying to look too cool for the mat and penalize you, too. Swift and steady, clean and crisp.”

  She nodded and ran through the same kata again. When he gestured her to keep on, she did the next two katas in succession, and then repeated the entire set. When she had finished, she was sweating again but feeling pretty good about her progress.

  For his part, Reese gave her a grin and an approving nod. “Do that on Saturday, and you’ve got yourself a trophy, Red. Now, grab some of these wings before they’re all gone.”

  She didn’t wait for a second invitation, particularly since the pile of wings had diminished appreciably while she’d been practicing. At least there was plenty of soup. She made a pretty good veggie medley version, if she said so herself.

  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 he
r, 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.