Words With Fiends (25 page)

She spared a quick look at Grace's face. The flesh had gone frighteningly slack, and her eyelids didn't even twitch as Darla moved her about. She was rapidly dying . . . would likely be dead before Mark could carry out whatever plan he had to re-create Tess's unfortunate end.

Fight if you must.

Swiftly, Darla caught Grace by the shoulders and, with an effort, pulled her limp body into a seated position. Then, maneuvering behind her, Darla slid her forearms beneath Grace's armpits and tried to lift her. To her relief, she heard a faint moan in return.
Hang in there,
she silently implored the woman. With luck, Darla had a few more minutes to somehow get her some help before it really was too late.

But first, she needed to disarm Mark.

“She's heavier than she looks,” Darla told him as she continued to struggle with the limp form. “It's a two-person job. I need your help.”

“Nice try, Darla, but you're not fooling me. Get her on her feet, or you're going to get a taste of Mr. Needle,” he said with a nasal sneer and waved the syringe threateningly.

Darla shot him an outraged look, feeling her redhead's temper soar past her fear for herself. “You're not listening. It's not working,” she clipped out. “She's unconscious, so it's like trying to lift a hundred-pound bag of Jell-O. If you want her moved, you have to do it yourself.”

So saying, she let Grace slip down again, so that the woman was once again lying on her back.

Mark's eyes bugged behind his glasses, and his face flushed. “Keep trying!”

“No can do, Mark,” she replied in a preternaturally calm voice from her spot on the floor beside Grace. “She's too heavy. You've got two choices. Either help me, or move her yourself.”

“Yeah, well, I've . . . I've got a third choice,” he sputtered. “I'm going to start counting, and if you don't have her moving by the time I reach ten, this”—he waved the syringe again—“is going to take care of things. One, two . . .”

Three, four . . .

Darla silently counted with him, never taking her eyes from him. Her reaction seemed to unnerve him, for his voice grew steadily more high pitched with each number. What he actually planned to do—leap at her with syringe drawn? flee back into the electrical room?—she wasn't certain, but she planned to be ready for him.

Never give up.

“Five, six, seven . . .” he continued to count.

Darla began edging away from Grace's supine form, giving herself space now as she stealthily reached for the only weapon at hand.

Mark's voice grew higher, more agitated. “Eight, nine . . .”

“Ten!” Darla shouted with all her might as she surged to her feet and charged him, one of Grace's spike-heeled pumps gripped in each hand like leopard-print kamas.

Her sudden attack accompanied by the slash of stiletto heels in the direction of his face made him stumble back, mouth and eyes wide with shock. Darla took speedy advantage of his surprise and managed a quick swipe with one shoe, knocking his glasses askew and drawing a streak of blood down one cheek.

The attack ended just as swiftly as it began. Mark shrieked in pain and flung his arms up to protect himself—and managed in the process to plunge the needle of the syringe directly into his lip.

“Aaargh!”

Mark's scream filled the storage room as he frantically plucked the syringe from his face and flung it away. By then, Darla had whipped around him and was well out of range, leopard-print pumps still tightly clutched in both hands and held at the ready in case he attacked. But the fight had already gone out of the man. He sank to his knees, sobbing and clutching his face.

“Dead!” he shrieked . . . or, rather, tried to. The Botox was already taking effect, paralyzing his mouth. He followed that cry with a mumble of sounds that Darla, with an effort, made out to be, “You killed me, you bitch!”

“Never let injustice go unpunished,” Darla coolly told him, though she was already beginning to shake in delayed reaction to what had just gone down.

Behind her now, she could hear the sound of scraping wood and metal, heard Reese's voice over the sounds of the tournament calling, “Darla, where are you? Answer me!”

“Here, I'm back here!” she managed to shout as, giving the hysterical Mark wide berth, she hurried to check on Grace. Kneeling beside the still form, she dropped the leopard heels and swiftly began rescue breaths on her, praying that it wasn't too late. And then someone—Reese, she realized—was lifting her away from Grace. He was not alone, she saw. Hank and Hal, along with a security guard and another man wearing a workman's uniform, had crowded into the space. Pushing past them all, a smaller figure in a black gi rushed to take the spot that Darla had vacated at Grace's side.

Then the newcomer looked up from where she knelt to meet Darla's gaze, and Darla saw in surprise that it was Dr. Tomlinson.

“Quickly, tell me what happened,” the doctor clipped out before returning her attention to the motionless woman before her.

Darla caught a steadying breath. “She—Grace—said Mark gave her a shot. I think it was Botox, like with Master Tomlinson.”

“Botox?” Dr. Tomlinson had been running her hands with expert speed down the injured woman's body. Now, she whipped her gaze back up to meet Darla's. “You're sure?”

Darla nodded. “That's what Mark”—she gestured in the weeping man's direction—“said he injected her with.”

The woman turned to Hank. “Pick her up, and carry her to the main door, now. We'll meet the ambulance there. We can't wait on them to roll a gurney in.”

“We can go out this way, ma'am,” the facilities worker chimed in. He pointed in the direction of the electrical room and then took off at an awkward lope, a key ring as big as his fist jangling from his belt. Hank, with Grace cradled in his arms, rushed after him.

“I'll go find Chris and bring him to the hospital,” the doctor told Hal. Then, with a cold look in Mark's direction, she added, “You stay and take care of things here.”

Hal nodded, his expression thunderous as he strode over to where Reese already had Mark flipped over on his stomach and was in the process of handcuffing the man.

“You'd probably better take him to the hospital, too,” Darla shakily told Reese. “He was trying to threaten me with another syringe of Botox, and when I went after him, he managed to stick himself in the face with it.”

“This one?” the security guard asked as, using a handkerchief to preserve any prints, he gingerly held up the syringe that Mark had flung away.

Dr. Tomlinson hurried over to where the guard stood and squinted at the syringe. “Half full,” she declared. “Darla, did you happen to see how much was in it to start with?”

“I'm not sure. But I don't think it was all the way. He told me that the vial had been almost empty.”

Her expression thunderous as her son's, the woman stalked over to where Mark lay. “Please roll him over, Detective.”

When Reese obliged, the doctor knelt beside Mark and swiftly examined his face. Then, with a cold little smile, she said, “It wouldn't hurt to have him looked at, but I think this one is going to live. He'll just be drooling out of one side of his mouth for a couple of months.”

“Get up,” Reese growled at the man and dragged him upright by one arm. To the security guard, he said, “Follow us out, but block the way until my guys get here.”

“Wait,” Darla cried, “what about Hamlet? He was the one who found Grace, but I haven't seen him since Mark attacked me.”

“He's right as rain,” Reese answered with a quick nod. “In fact, he's the one who led us to you. He was pacing up and down the bleachers trying to get our attention. Robert's babysitting him and the dog now. C'mon, let's get you out of here, too.”

A few minutes later, all of them had squeezed through the makeshift opening under the bleachers and were back on the main gymnasium floor again. As Darla blinked against the flood of overhead lights, she noticed that the tournament activity had ceased. The only sound now was the echo of footsteps as a dozen uniformed officers came storming into the gym. Dr. Tomlinson had raced ahead to where Chris was standing, and Darla saw the youth's expression change from shocked to frantic as the woman apparently explained the situation to him before hustling him off the floor, presumably for the ride to the hospital.

Hal, meanwhile, strode in front of their small procession, clearing a path by gesturing competitors and spectators aside. Darla saw Robert and hurried to join him. He was clutching Roma in one arm and petting Hamlet with the other. She grabbed up the unprotesting cat and momentarily buried her face in his soft black fur. As she did so, she could hear Reese reading his prisoner his rights.

“Mark Poole,” she heard him address the man in a cold tone, “you are under arrest for the murder of Tom Tomlinson, the kidnapping and attempted murder of Grace Valentine, and the kidnapping of Darla Pettistone.”

As Reese went on to recite the familiar Miranda litany, Darla looked up in time to see Hal turn again and stride back to where a handful of the cops now surrounded the man, the rest having dispersed to presumably begin securing the crime scene.

Reese gave a fleeting nod to the officers, who stepped back so that Hal and Mark were now face to face. The terror on the latter's face was apparent, while the tattooed tiger on Hal's neck quivered as if ready to spring. His beefy hand whipped out, and for an instant Darla thought he was going to flatten the smaller man.

Instead, Hal caught hold of Master Tomlinson's black belt still draped around Mark's neck and whipped it away from him. Then, carefully folding the belt, he took a few steps away from the man and deliberately turned his back on him.

Darla felt a faint rumble move through the silent crowd. And then, almost in unison, the spectators and competitors all followed suit, simultaneously shaming and shunning the man in handcuffs. Darla saw Reese release Mark to the uniformed officers before she and Robert also turned away. And as the police led the handcuffed man through the silent crowd, Darla could have sworn she heard the sensei's voice in her ear saying,
Good job.

“YOU KNOW WHAT REALLY TICKS ME OFF?” JAKE DECLARED
as she reached for a second jelly donut. “Not only did I miss seeing you and Robert competing yesterday, but everything was already over by the time I got to the tournament.”

Darla and Jake were doing a modified version of Sunday brunch, courtesy of the latter; Darla had volunteered to cook, but Jake had told her not to bother. This meant coffee, juice, and pastries instead of the usual omelets with all the trimmings. Darla had asked Robert to join them, but he'd politely declined, explaining that he'd already told Sylvie from the rescue group that he'd help clean cages at the no-kill shelter that morning before joining Darla at work at noon.

Wiping a bit of wayward jelly from her chin, Jake added, “I mean, if Alex hadn't told me what happened, I never would have known that I basically missed”—she picked up that morning's sports page and pointed to the lead article—“‘the most dramatic denouement to any martial arts event since Steve Lopez's 2008 Olympic tae kwon do sudden-death upset.' Quote, unquote.”

“Well, I guess I'd have thought it was pretty dramatic if it had happened to someone else,” Darla wryly conceded. Then, registering what her friend had said, she added, “Wait, rewind that. Did you say Alex? As in Alex Putin?”

“Yeah, remember, he's one of the tournament's top sponsors each year. He was there yesterday. He even did a Russian Sambo demonstration that morning.”

“He did? Was he the guy in the dark blue gi?”

“The same.”

“I can't believe I missed another chance to see the man up close and personal,” Darla groaned in good-natured dismay. “So how did he react when you told him about finding his mother on the lam in Atlantic City . . . and as a newlywed, to boot?”

Jake winced.

“Let's just say his reaction could qualify as the
second
most dramatic martial arts denouement since 2008. He had to write a check before he left to cover repairing the window that he broke when he played javelin with somebody's bo . . . you know, those long wooden staffs. But I'm pretty sure by the time the happy couple gets back from their honeymoon, he'll be over the worst of it.”

The PI bit into her donut, adding through a mouthful of jelly, “Oh, and I didn't even tell you who the old geezer is. Remember that article in the paper the other week about the city council guy and his father duking it out in public? Turns out they were fighting over Mrs. Putin.”

“Seriously?”

Jake nodded. “They both knew her through the same online singles organization, believe it or not. Sonny boy apparently thought he was a shoo-in for the role of the next Mister Mrs. Putin, but it turned out that it was Pop who had all the right moves.”

“I don't want to hear anymore,” Darla replied, putting her hands over her ears. “I'm just glad you solved your case.”

“Yeah, well, I'd say the same about you and Hamlet, but it sounds like the whole thing is a pretty sad mess.”

“You can say that again. And don't give me any credit. Hamlet's the only one who solved anything.” Darla paused and gave the feline, who was perched in his usual spot on the couch, a fond look. “I was pretty sure up until Mark locked me in that utility room that Dr. Tomlinson was the one who killed her husband. Hamlet knew better. He even gave me the whole
Tess of the d'Urbervilles
's
theory to work with, and then typed out part of Mark's username.”

When Jake shot her a disbelieving look at that last, Darla gave her a quick explanation of the cat's walking-on-keyboard technique, and then added, “It wasn't Hamlet's fault I went the wrong way with it.”

“So this Mark Poole guy confessed?”

“Well, with his mouth all Botoxed, he hasn't been doing much talking, from what Reese told me last night. But he pretty well confessed to me, plus he had the sensei's missing black belt. Oh, and the cops found another used syringe and an empty vial of Botox in his gear bag. Apparently, he actually stole the vial from Grace in the first place.”

This was another bit of interesting information that Reese had shared. Darla hadn't known that Grace was an aesthetician, but she'd not been surprised to learn that the woman was the sort who did carp pedicures and gave cheap if illegal Botox injections in hotel rooms. But she guessed that the woman might give up those events in the future, assuming she recovered from her own Botox experience.

Then Darla shook her head. “I hate to say it, but it almost seems like reading that novel was what set Mark off. I wonder if the reading group had chosen something else—maybe
Pride and Prejudice
—if none of this would have ever happened.”

“Don't even go there, kid.” Jake set down her donut and gave Darla a stern look. “That's like blaming the victim. It wasn't the book's fault—your buddy Mark had issues. Unless he took himself off to a shrink and got help for his obsession, he was a ticking time bomb. And there's more of them walking around with us than anyone wants to admit. The best we can do is hope someone hears them ticking in time to get them into treatment before they hurt themselves or someone else.”

“I guess you're right.”

Darla was ready, however, to change the subject to something far less heart wrenching—say, something like gossiping about the burgeoning romance between James and Martha. But before she could steer the conversation that way, Jake's cell phone went off.

“Guess who?” Jake asked with a lift of one brow.

Darla didn't have to guess. She knew the only person on Jake's phone whose ring tone was the Bee Gee's “Stayin' Alive” was Reese.

“Uh, huh. Yeah. Uh, huh,” was Jake's end of the conversation before she handed the phone to Darla. “He actually wanted to talk to you,” she explained, “but your phone kept going straight to voice mail.”

Darla took the phone, not sure what to expect. She'd already given Reese her statement yesterday and preferred not to rehash it all again. Though, on the bright side, she had glowed more than a little when he'd praised her counter-assault on Mark.

Good job, Red,
he had told her.
Not many people would have the presence of mind to go all kung fu with a pair of ladies' shoes. Looks like you've got your mojo back.

And so she had, she realized. Despite the events of the previous day, she had slept a contentedly dreamless sleep that night and awakened more refreshed than she had been in weeks.

And Hamlet seemingly had
his
mojo back, too. In fact, the feline had spent much of the morning grumping about before complaining vocally about the amount of water in his bowl (not enough) and the extra blanket (too scratchy) that Darla accidentally had left on the sofa back. Apparently, solving Master Tomlinson's murder and finding Grace before she met a similar fate—not to mention leading Reese to where Darla had been trapped behind the bleachers—had proved the official atonement that Brody had said was Hamlet's goal. She'd have to give the cat whisperer, er, feline behavioral empath, a call later that day and let him know Hamlet was officially back to his ornery self again.

“Hi,” she said into the cell. “Sorry, after my phone died yesterday I forgot to charge it back up again.”

“That's okay, Red. And, actually, I'm not calling for me,” he admitted. “I'm bringing Dr. Tomlinson down to the precinct to give a formal statement, and she wanted to know if I could bring her by to talk to you for a minute.”

“Uh, sure. How long until you get here?”

“Depending on how long it takes for you to buzz us in, I'd say about thirty seconds.”

Darla hung up the phone and handed it back to Jake. “Reese and Dr. Tomlinson are here,” she explained as she hit the buzzer. “Feel free to stick around. I'm not sure why she's here, and I think I might need the moral support.”

“Consider yourself supported, kid,” Jake cheerfully replied, helping herself to donut number three.

Darla, meanwhile, opened the door and waited while Reese and the doctor made their way up the two flights. But as the pair walked in, Darla saw that she actually had three visitors. Roma the Italian greyhound, wearing her familiar mauve sweater, had come along for the ride. The little dog let out an excited yap, and Darla was immediately grateful that Robert had gone off with Sylvie that morning instead of having breakfast with her and Jake.

“Ms. Pettistone, very nice to see you again,” Dr. Tomlinson said, coolly offering her hand. No matter that the woman had seen her husband's killer apprehended in dramatic fashion only a day before, and attended to a critically injured patient for however many hours after that. The woman was dressed, as usual, as if she had stepped from the pages of a high-end magazine: black skirted suit, blown-out hair, and makeup with that airbrushed look that Darla could never duplicate on her own.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice,” she added, her words jogging Darla to her hostessing obligations.

“Not at all, and please have a seat. Oh, and this is my friend, Jake Martelli,” she added. “Jake, Dr. Jan Tomlinson.”

Jake nodded and gave a friendly wave. “We're having donuts,” she explained unnecessarily, considering the open box before her. “Care to join us?'

The doctor gave Darla a hesitant look and then smiled just a little. “Actually, that sounds rather nice. I haven't eaten donuts in years.”

A few moments later, seated at the dining table with Roma on her lap, the doctor nibbled on a plain glazed donut. Reese settled for coffee only, which he tactfully took with him to the sofa. Hamlet apparently decided to wash his paws of all of them, for he slipped off the sofa back and stalked toward the kitchen.

Darla stirred her own coffee and awkwardly waited for the woman to say something. When she did not, Darla ventured, “I hope Grace is doing better.”

“We are guardedly optimistic for her full recovery,” Dr. Tomlinson assured her. “It appears that her dose was only a fraction of what my husband was given, so the toxin didn't kill her outright. But if you hadn't found her when you did, there's a good chance that she wouldn't have survived.”

And at that, the woman abruptly broke down into a flurry of sobs that startled Darla, and sent her rushing for a box of tissues, while Jake reached for donut number four. Reese did his part by holding on to Roma while the doctor attempted to compose herself. Finally, the woman sat back against her chair and took a calming sip of coffee.

“I am so sorry,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with another tissue and looking a bit surprised at what had just happened. Her makeup, however, had remained flawless, much to Darla's unwilling admiration. “As you might guess, this has been a trying week, and tomorrow we'll be holding the memorial service for Tom. It's for family and close friends only. I thought perhaps that you and that young man, Robert, would like to attend.”

“We'd be honored,” Darla assured the woman.

Dr. Tomlinson smiled. “It's at two p.m. at the dojo. He wanted to be cremated and then put into his trophy case with all the other awards, so that is what we will do.”

“Unusual,” Darla said, “but I think that's very appropriate.”

“Well, I'm still not quite sure I approve, but it's what Tom wanted.” And then she shook her head. “Poor Grace. She'll be heartbroken to miss the service, but Chris has promised to make a little video for her so she can see it later.”

“That's, uh, nice,” Darla managed, confused. While it was commendable that Dr. Tomlinson could be charitable to the woman who'd borne her husband's illegitimate child, this seemed taking tolerance to extremes.

“That reminds me, Dr. Tomlinson,” Reese spoke up from his post in the living room. Leaving Roma curled up on Darla's sofa, snoozing away, he set down his coffee and reached into his jacket. “You'll remember we had a warrant to search your husband's office. We found a photo in his file cabinet that we thought might be evidence, but we've already made a copy to use in our case against Mr. Poole. I'm sure you'll want it back.”

As he handed the photo to the woman, Darla caught a glimpse of the image and bit back a gasp. It was the incriminating photo of the sensei and Grace together! How could Reese be so insensitive? Not only was he giving a recent widow a picture of her dead husband and his mistress, but said mistress in that photo was obviously within weeks of giving birth.

Darla exchanged quick looks with Jake. She, too, had apparently recognized the photo, if only from Darla's description, for her black brows rose sky high in disbelief. But all Darla could do short of snatching the picture from Reese's hand was to shoot him a warning look.

Unfortunately, it was too late. Dr. Tomlinson had already accepted the snapshot from him and was curiously studying it.

“I can't believe it,” she exclaimed. “You found this in his file cabinet?”

Reese nodded, and now Darla's warning look became an all out red alert.
Lie! Make up something!
But to Darla's shock, the doctor burst into a merry little laugh.

“I wondered what had happened to this picture. I thought it was lost years ago!”

“Actually, Ms. Valentine had the photo in her possession. From her statement, she suspected that someone had broken into her house a few weeks ago while she was at work, and she was pretty sure it was Mr. Poole. That's what they were arguing about at the dojo the other day. Anyhow, our guess at this point is that Mr. Poole got hold of the picture at the same time he stole the Botox from her. He put it in Mr. Tomlinson's file cabinet, thinking it would throw suspicion on her for the sensei's murder.”

“What an odd thing for him to do. Why would anyone think this snapshot would be a reason for Grace to kill Tom?” Dr. Tomlinson said.

“I'm sure whatever shrink the court appoints to him will come up with an answer,” Reese said, not bothering to hide his disgust.