Words With Fiends (16 page)

Run when you can . . .

Darla clutched her gear bag more tightly, fervently wishing she was more than just a newly minted yellow belt. She could confront the person on her own, but then she would be gambling that the intruder wasn't armed or, worse, better trained than she. Or, she could find Hal and Hank to let them know someone was poking about their late stepfather's office. But by then, the intruder might already have slipped out, perhaps taking away some incriminating evidence that might have pointed to the sensei's killer.

Of course, she might be seeing conspiracy where none existed. For all she knew, the person might have permission from the twins to be there and was using a flashlight simply because the office bulb had unexpectedly burned out. And raising a stink about it would only make her look foolish when her mistake was revealed.

But then the memory of the sensei's lifeless body flashed through her mind, and her resolve stiffened. A crime of some sort was being committed, and she was the only one there to stop it.

Fight if you must . . .

Setting down her gear bag, she duckwalked the few steps to the office's closed door and eased into a standing position as she reached for the knob. At least she'd have the element of surprise on her side . . . that, and a room full of trained martial artists to back her up if she yelled loudly enough for help. Taking a steadying breath, she slowly turned the knob, wincing as she heard the small click that was the bolting mechanism releasing. This was how Jake would do it, she told herself. Burst in, and take the intruder unawares.

Slowly, she released the breath, shoulder against the door ready to shove inward as she mentally counted down,
three, two
—

“Whaddaya think you're doing?” an angry voice behind her demanded.

DARLA GAVE A LITTLE SHRIEK OF SURPRISE. HAND DROPPING
from the knob, she swung about, her heart beating wildly. Hal was staring back at her, black brows knitted and bulging tattooed arms—he'd not followed Hank's example by returning to the sleeved look—crossed over his chest. Before she could answer, however, she glimpsed another flash of light from behind the office window. And then she heard another quick scrape of chair against wooden floor.

Hal saw and heard it, too, for he exclaimed, “Hey, who's in there?”

Shouldering past her, he grabbed the door handle and twisted, only to be stopped short. Someone had locked the office from the inside. Through the window, meanwhile, Darla could see the flashlight beam swing wildly and then flick off, leaving the small room in darkness.

In the next instant, Hal gave a swift, powerful front kick. With a crack of shattering wood, the door popped inward. He shoved his way into the office, his entry momentarily impeded by the chairs that had been backed up against the door as a temporary barricade. Darla prudently remained several feet back while, with an economy of movement, Hal shoved the furniture out of his path.

The overhead light flashed on, and she squinted against the sudden illumination. Hal stood there in the cluttered office, his hand on the light switch and glancing wildly about. Save for him, the room was empty.

Darla gasped, abruptly recalling the photo of the ninjas she'd seen on the vestibule wall. Had Master Tomlinson's office been breached by a martial artist trained in the more esoteric fighting arts?

“The emergency exit,” Hal shouted, slapping himself in the forehead.

He squeezed behind the desk, and Darla saw an exterior door she hadn't noticed previously, partially covered as it was by another TAMA banner of a giant punching fist, painted on canvas. Hal yanked the banner from its hooks and tossed it aside, and then shoved against the door's crash bar. Cold air whipped in through the open door, sending paperwork on the desk swirling as the man rushed out into the night.

The sudden breeze kicked up something else . . . the lingering scent of cigarette smoke which dissipated almost as quickly as it had risen. Darla barely had time to wonder about this when she heard the sound of a car engine revving from somewhere in the alley, and the squeal of tires before the door closed with a thud after Hal.

A few moments later, she heard the loud pounding of fist on metal. Darla rushed over to open the exit door again, letting in another blast of winter air and a very angry man.

“The SOB got away,” he clipped out, throwing himself into the overstuffed leather desk chair and glaring up at Darla. “He had a car waiting in the alley. Now, you wanna tell me what
you
were doing in the hall, skulking about?”

“Me?” she squeaked for a second time that night, all too aware she was alone in a small room with a guy who could beat her to a pulp without breaking a sweat. Better she tell him the truth . . . or, at least, the parts that wouldn't reveal that
she
had her suspicions about
him
.

“I-I was on my way out”—which was pretty much true, she reminded herself—“and I saw someone moving around in here. I wanted to catch them in the act of, well, whatever they were doing. And then I was going to call the police,” she hurriedly added when he gave her a suspicious squint.

“Why didn't you call me or Hank first?” he demanded, apparently not mollified by the explanation. “How do I know you're not teamed up with whoever it was poking around in here? Maybe you were playing lookout so they could get away with stealing something. You and that kid Robert were the ones who found Tom. For all I know, maybe you two had something to do with his death.”

Darla stared at him in disbelief. Could
he
actually suspect
them
? Then her redhead's temper flared.

“Robert and I are the ones who tried to save your stepfather,” she declared in a heated voice. “We got him out of that dressing room, and Robert did chest compressions while I called for an ambulance. We did everything we possibly could . . . just ask Officer Wing. And we're not the ones who could lift up a man that size, or who have access to all the Botox anyone would want.”

“Botox?”

Hal's irate expression swiftly smoothed into one of cool curiosity, and he got up from the chair. “Who told you about that?”

“I-I read it in the paper,” she hedged, worried all at once that she had repeated something that Reese meant to be kept confidential. But surely the detective wouldn't have told her about evidence that the police were holding back.

Hal, meanwhile, was shaking his bald head as he neatly circled around her, so that now he was blocking the battered doorway.

“We just found out about the whole Botox thing today,” he said, his tone still casual. “Ma had to turn over all her records on the vials she had to that detective. There wasn't anything in the papers yet about it. Pretty much the only ones who know about it are us and the doctors and the cops . . . oh, and whoever murdered Tom.”

Abruptly, the conversation had shifted into a whole different gear. Darla felt a chill far worse than the winter evening's wind rush over her. She'd dismissed Hank as his stepfather's killer, but that didn't mean that his twin brother Hal was innocent. And what better way to cover his tracks than to accuse her of the crime? Maybe he even had staged the whole office break-in to throw off suspicion from him and his family.

Darla nervously swallowed, hands behind her clutching the desk edge for support. She glanced at the Zen clock with its kanji face that sat on the sensei's desk. The sparring class wouldn't be over for at least another quarter hour . . . far too long a time for her to try to keep Hal talking until someone wandered by and noticed them. Still, she had to give it a try. If not, the black belt might decide to deal with her as efficiently as he might have done his stepfather.

“Look, even the police understand that accidents happen,” she spoke up, striving for a reasonable tone while trying to keep her voice from trembling. “I'm sure things just got out of hand and everyone panicked. If you explain what happened to Detective Reese, he's sure to—”

“What are you talking about?” Hal interrupted her, the brightly inked Asian tiger on his neck bulging alarmingly. “You're the one who needs to start explaining, and I mean now. Who was in this office, and what do you know about Tom's death?”

At his accusing tone, she promptly forgot reasonable.

“I have no clue who was in here,” she shot back, “Maybe if you'd been a bit faster, he wouldn't have escaped. And all I know about Sensei's murder is what the police told me.”

Then, when he continued to scowl at her, realization dawned.

“You really didn't kill him, did you?” she asked in surprise.

The tiger bulged again as Hal favored her with a few of Jake's favorite expressions, ones that Master Tomlinson undoubtedly would have disapproved of. When he'd gotten that out of his system, he growled, “Are you crazy? He was my dad. If I find the lowlife who did this before the cops do, let's just say there won't be much of a body left to stand trial.”

Darla let out a slow breath. Despite the seeming lack of concern she'd seen from him the day before, this reaction to his stepfather's death had been identical to Hank's. Reese and Jake had cautioned her in the past that murder victims often knew their killers; still, instinct told her that neither twin was involved. But the fact that someone had been searching for something in the sensei's office couldn't be overlooked.

“Hal, believe me, I had absolutely nothing to do with Master Tomlinson's death,” she told him, raising her hands in a conciliatory gesture. “In fact, Detective Reese is a good friend of mine, which is why I knew about the Botox.”

“So, you spyin' around here for him or something?”

“No. In fact, he'd be pretty ticked if he knew I was even here discussing the case with you. But since I'm one of the people who found him, I feel responsible. I'm just keeping my eyes and ears open, in case I run across a clue the police might have missed. That's why I was trying to stop the person we saw in your stepfather's office.”

Then, when the black belt still looked unconvinced, she added, “I know I only knew him for a few months, but Master Tomlinson made a real impression on me. I believe in that creed he always made us recite. And I can't think of any injustice worse than murder.”

Hal considered this a few moments and then gave her a small smile, the tattooed tiger subsiding a bit. “Me, neither. Well, guess I need to get back to the sparring class. You want I should call the cops about this break-in, or you want to?”

“I think it would be better coming from you. I mean, I was the one who saw the intruder first, but you're the one who did all the heavy lifting,” she said with a meaningful look at the broken door and disarrayed chairs.

Hal shrugged. “Yeah, well, I'll give your detective friend a shout after class. I probably messed up any evidence already, anyhow.” Then, smile brightening uncharacteristically, he added, “I see you and Robert managed to jump from white belt to yellow sometime during the night. I guess my brother did the honors?”

She nodded.

“Yeah, well, you two earned it. Congratulations. See you Saturday.” Then, before Darla could thank him, he slipped out the broken door as silently as he'd come in.

Darla waited until she was sure she was alone before sagging in relief. They might not be the best of friends, but apparently she and Hal were on the same page when it came to his father. And from Hal's last words, she was relieved to know he'd basically absolved her of being complicit in his stepfather's murder . . . at least, in his mind. That settled, she went to gather her gear bag, and then reflexively turned back for a last look at the desk.

From the methodical way that the intruder had been searching, it was apparent the person had not been intent on simple burglary, but instead was looking for something specific. And Darla suspected that he—or she—had been run off by Hal's arrival before they'd found the item in question. Maybe with the lights on, Darla would have an easier time finding whatever the intruder had sought.

With one eye on the splintered door, she surveyed the desktop. Whatever his strong points, Master Tomlinson apparently had not been an effective manager of paperwork. On his desk lay piles of papers that likely had been accumulating for some time. Some were fliers for various martial arts events; others, circulars for sparring gear and uniforms and such. On one corner of the desk was a wooden tray stacked with what appeared to be bills. The top one from the electric company was due in the next couple of days. Hopefully Hal or Hank would take charge and handle the bookkeeping for the dojo now; otherwise, the next class might be held in the dark!

But nothing among the paperwork stood out as worth breaking in to steal. Of course, doubtless Reese or one of the other officers had already given the room a thorough look, maybe even had already seized some documents that could've had a bearing on the case. She remembered Reese mentioning shredded paperwork, though whether that had turned out to be evidence, she had no idea. But perhaps what the police would find interesting to their investigation and what the intruder wanted were two totally different things.

She glanced over at the file cabinet that the intruder had been perusing. One drawer still hung open a couple of inches, and Darla moved over to it.

The papers crammed in this file drawer were more personal than anything on the desk . . . letters, certificates, and a folder of still more photos. Setting down the gear bag again, she pulled that folder from the file and began flipping through the snapshots.

These photos had nothing to do with Master Tomlinson's professional life. Instead, they were pictures of what appeared to be his family. Some were of a pretty, smiling woman who looked like a young version of Dr. Tomlinson, long before the Botox had taken hold. Several others were of two dark-haired, grade-school-aged boys who had to be Hal and Hank from a good twenty years earlier. Even back then, the twins had favored scowls over smiles, she thought with no little amusement. Still more photos had captured other people: an older couple she guessed were his parents, and several younger men and women who might have been siblings or in-laws.

Halfway through the stack, she saw that one photo was turned on edge so that it stuck up from the others. It was flipped over, as well, so that the first thing she noted was the penciled date on the back: June 1998. Assuming the year was correct, it had been taken several years later than the other pictures in the folder, and she wondered at its inclusion. Curious, she turned it over for a look and then frowned.

The man in the picture was Master Tomlinson, no doubt about it. She'd seen enough photos of him in his younger days to be certain. The shot had been taken at a short distance from the subjects, an informal portrait snapped near what appeared to be a mountain rental cabin. The Poconos, perhaps? The sensei was smiling proudly, one arm casually wrapped around the shoulders of a dark-haired, overly made-up female who appeared barely out of her teens.

Definitely
not
Dr. Tomlinson.

Even so, the woman looked strangely familiar, so that Darla ignored her fear of discovery to study the photo for a few moments longer. And then, with a gasp, she recognized the woman.

Grace Valentine.

A closer look left her with no doubt the photo was Chris's mother, the woman whom Darla had dubbed the mob wife. And the young Grace was gazing up at Tomlinson with a look that Darla could only describe as adoring. But what held Darla transfixed was the fact that the unknown photographer had snapped the couple at an angle. She stared a moment longer at the picture, studying the woman's pose, her hands cupped low around her bulging belly. No doubt about it. Grace had been a good six or seven months pregnant when the picture was taken.