Words With Fiends (7 page)

And then the chaos before them was punctuated by one word that sent a frisson of hope through Darla.

“Pulse!”

On a quick count, several of the men lifted Tomlinson's bulky frame onto the gurney. She glimpsed an oxygen bottle and an IV drip, and what she guessed was some sort of heart monitor all attached to, or piled atop, the motionless form. And then, radios squawking, the paramedics rushed the gurney back in the direction from which they'd come, followed more slowly by the firefighters. One of the police officers, a stocky young Asian with a large shaved head, remained behind with Robert and Darla in the training area.

He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Darla.

“I know this has been a shock to you, ma'am, but you guys have done a great job so far,” he said and then jerked a thumb in Robert's direction. “You two related, or you just both happened to be here at the same time?”

“Robert works for me. I own Pettistone's Fine Books a few blocks from here. We take classes together, and we came in special for our belt test this morning.”

The cop—Officer Tommy Wing, Darla saw from the name on his business card—nodded, jotting down a few words in the small notebook he'd pulled from his belt. “If you're up for it, I need to ask you both a few questions. Let me get the victim's name, first, and then yours, and then you can show me where you found the gentleman.”

Darla spelled out the names for him, shakily recounted how they'd found Roma outside the dojo, and then how Robert had found Master Tomlinson slumped unconscious in the dressing room. “I-I thought it could have been a heart attack,” she told him, “but then I saw that—” She paused and pointed to the fallen hook. “And now I'm not so sure.”

“That black belt lying out there on the mat—was that the one you saw around his neck?” the officer wanted to know.

Darla nodded, and he wandered back out of the dressing room again. He stopped to kneel beside the black length of heavy fabric which the paramedics had removed as they'd attempted their resuscitation. “You're sure it belongs to him?”

“I-I guess so. But the one he always wears is fancier—it has five red stripes and an embroidered red dragon. That one doesn't.”

The cop studied the rank belt for a moment and then unsnapped a pouch on his own belt, pulling out an evidence bag.

“He probably put the other belt away for safekeeping,” Wing guessed as he carefully slid the length of heavy black fabric into the evidence bag. The officer rose again and moved over to Robert. The teen had composed himself now, though he still clung to Roma like a child with a stuffed toy. They went over the same questions, and when he was finished, Robert demanded, “Where did the ambulance take him? Will Master Tomlinson be okay?”

Wing gave them the name of the hospital before adding, “I know this is going to sound harsh, but don't get your hopes up. The docs will do everything they can for him, but the guy is in pretty bad shape.”

“But he had a pulse,” Robert protested, his tone angry now.

“Yeah, I saw you doing chest compressions. If your sensei has any sort of chance of pulling through, it's because of you.” Then, glancing around the mat, the young cop shook his shaved head. “A real shame, too. He was a pretty big name back in the old days.”

“Yeah,” Robert glumly agreed. “There's, you know, pictures on the wall.”

The cop, meanwhile, was warming to the topic.

“When I was a kid, I trained at Tiger Lee's dojo across town. We had a pretty big rivalry going with the TAMA guys in those days, and I don't think my sensei liked Master Tomlinson much. I never figured out why, because from what I saw of him at some of the tournaments, he was an okay guy. Maybe it was because he was an American kicking Asian butt,” Wing added with a hint of a smile.

Then, recalling his duty, the cop spared another look at his notes. “I know you two are just students here, but you know anyone connected with the dojo . . . partner, spouse, kids . . . that we should notify?”

“Actually, Master Tomlinson's stepsons work here at the dojo,” Darla ventured. “And he's got a wife . . . Maybe she's an ex, I don't know. But there's a phone list hanging in his office with their names on it.”

“Great, lead the way.”

Darla escorted the cop to the sensei's office. Wing scribbled down the names from the list into his notebook, and then frowned. “Hank and Hal Tomlinson,” he mused. “Those are his stepsons, right? I still remember those guys from the tournaments. Both of them were real—” He broke off and looked faintly embarrassed.

“Real jerks?” Darla helpfully supplied, drawing a wry smile from the man.

“Yeah, that about covers it.” He paused and scanned the desk top, and then caught Darla's questioning gaze.

“I didn't want to say anything in front of the kid out there, but from what I've seen so far, it doesn't look like the old guy had a heart attack.”

“He tried to commit suicide, didn't he?” Darla asked, feeling her chest clench a little as she finally gave voice to her suspicions.

The cop nodded. “That's my opinion, yeah. And it's pretty cliché, but in cases like that we always like to look around for a note. There's usually not one, but you never know. I don't suppose you and Mr. Gilmore found anything you forgot to tell me about?”

“You mean, like some kind of good-bye to his family? No, we didn't find anything like that,” Darla assured him in a shaky voice.

The cop nodded. “Well, let's wait and see if he pulls through. If the worst happens”—he shot a sidelong look at Robert outside the office door, and lowered his voice—“we'll dig a little deeper.”

Flipping closed his notebook, he gestured Darla back to the vestibule and added, “Now, why don't you grab your stuff, and let's get out of here. I'll check in with the hospital and let you know how Master Tomlinson is doing.”

Leaving Robert with the officer, Darla hurried back to the training area and retrieved her bag. Then, steeling herself, she went back to the dressing room to retrieve Robert's gear. Already the dojo had taken on an air of angry tragedy that seemed almost palpable, while the dressing room itself—usually such an innocuous spot—felt heavy with inescapable oppression.

“Stop it,” she whispered to herself. “He may still be alive.”

A bag over either shoulder, she made her swift way to the vestibule again, in time to hear Robert passionately protesting, “But I can't leave her. Hank and Hal hate her. They'll send her to the pound, and she'll die there! She'll be safe with me. I swear it!”

Teen and cop were facing off, Wing looking weary and Robert clutching Roma protectively to his chest, his expression stubborn. The small hound did her part by giving Robert's chin a quick lick with her long pink tongue.

The cop sighed. “Officially, I should have animal control pick her up and hold her until a family member claims her. But if the dog vanishes before I can do that”—he paused and deliberately turned his back on Robert—“I guess it is what it is.”

The teen needed no further encouragement to dash for the door, Roma barking excitedly all the way. Wing, meanwhile, was succumbing to what sounded like a suspiciously fake bout of coughing. When he turned around again, Robert and Roma both were long gone.

“Coulda sworn there was a dog here,” he said with a shake of his head. “Guess not.”

“Guess not,” Darla echoed, managing a smile. “But if Robert happens to find her, I can guarantee he'll keep her safe until we know what happens with her owner.”

While the officer locked the dojo with the keys that Master Tomlinson had left on his desk, Darla blinked against the midday sun, barely noticing the chill in the air. A glance at her watch showed that it was just after twelve, though the nightmare in the dojo had seemingly gone on for hours. She didn't know if the sensei had survived his trip to the ER . . . didn't want to know yet, until she'd thought of a way to break the news to Robert should the worst happen.

“Ms. Pettistone, can I give you a ride?” Officer Wing asked as he headed toward his squad car.

Darla followed his glance to the gear bags at her feet and then shook her head. “They're light, and I need the walk to clear my head. But thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” he said with a professional nod. “And I'll ring you as soon as I hear anything about Mr. Tomlinson's condition.”

Darla watched him pull out into traffic; then, shifting the bags onto her shoulders again, she started down the sidewalk in the direction of the bookstore. Little more than an hour ago, her biggest worry had been succumbing to stage fright and forgetting the moves to her katas. But now . . .

She swiped away a sudden tear and concentrated her thoughts on Robert, instead. Hopefully the teen was almost back to the store now, Roma in tow. What Mary Ann would say about her young tenant bringing home a dog, Darla wasn't certain, but surely the kind old woman would make a temporary exception to the “no pets” rule, given the circumstances. And if not, then Hamlet would find himself with a canine roommate . . . at least until they learned Master Tomlinson's fate.

“JEEZE, KID, THAT'S AWFUL,” JAKE REPLIED ONCE DARLA
finished giving her an account of how she and Robert had found Master Tomlinson in the dojo dressing room that morning. The PI leaned against the register counter—Darla had gone ahead and opened the store as usual—and absently rearranged the stack of giveaway papers. “So, have you told him yet?”

Darla shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

By the time she'd made it back to the store, Robert was already hunkered down in his apartment, with Roma settled on a stack of pillows on his sofa. His door was double-locked against anyone—that was, any Hal or Hank—who might be inclined to come after the little Italian greyhound. And he'd only let Darla in once she had assured him she was alone.

Darla had told him to take the day off work and given him a few dollars to have the local grocer deliver dog food, promising to speak to Mary Ann as well about this technical breach of his lease. She'd then hurriedly checked on Hamlet, who'd been asleep in the apartment. After putting in a couple of minutes of official chin-scratching time—which Hamlet reluctantly tolerated, but which made Darla feel much better—she rushed downstairs again to open the store a good hour late. Luckily, no angry customers were waiting at the locked door, and only two people so far had wandered in after that.

Which meant that Darla had been alone in the store when the call had come from Officer Wing a few minutes earlier. Sounding regretful, he'd let her know that, despite Robert's valiant efforts, the sensei had been pronounced dead once he reached the hospital. Darla had thanked him in a shaky voice and then dialed Jake, desperate for advice as to how to break the news to Robert. Jake had promptly come up to the store to lend a sympathetic ear.

“I need to go down and do it, but I just don't know how,” Darla said now with a helpless shrug. “Robert will be heartbroken when I tell him, especially under the circumstances. I mean, from the look of things, Tomlinson deliberately ended it all.”

“Suicides are the worst,” Jake agreed with a grim expression that made Darla realize that the ex-cop had likely seen more than her share. “Far be it from me to judge—God knows someone would have to be in horrible pain to do something like that—but my sympathies are always with the people left behind. You don't know how many times I sat on a cold stoop holding someone's hand while they cried their hearts out.”

She paused and gave Darla an apologetic look.

“Sorry, I don't mean to lecture, but that kind of thing sticks with you. You've got the family and friends all wanting to know,
why
 . . . and no one but the dead person can ever answer that. It doesn't matter if the victim leaves behind a note or not. Usually they don't. But either way, there are always questions, and anger, and guilt. The dead guy is neatly out of it, and everyone else gets to spend the rest of their lives picking up the pieces.”

Darla nodded in understanding. And then a surge of anger welled inside her as it occurred to her that she and Robert were part of Master Tomlinson's
everyone else
. He had told them to be at the dojo at that time. Why not call them and cancel the test, or wait until afterward to carry out his plan? How could he have been so cruel as to deliberately have let them find his body like that? And to leave Roma out in the street, where she might have been hit by a car and killed!

Trying to keep her voice steady, she said as much to Jake.

The older woman gave a sympathetic nod. “I know, it sounds pretty damn selfish, but there's always a logic to these things. He probably thought it was better for you and Robert to find him right away, rather than have his family come looking for him a day or two later. Obviously, it hadn't occurred to him that the hook might not hold his weight. He figured he'd be dead already. And if for some reason you two didn't show, maybe the dog pawing at the door would have raised someone's suspicions.”

“I guess that does make sense, but it's still pretty horrible for Robert.” Darla took a deep breath, deliberately tamping down her anger. Then an even worse thought occurred to her. “Do you think”—she hesitated over the next words—“I mean, was he already too far gone when Robert and I found him? I mean, if we'd gotten there a few minutes earlier, could we have saved him?”

Jake shook her curly head and pointed her finger at Darla.

“Don't even go there, kid. The fact that the hook gave way before he quit breathing permanently probably just prolonged things by a few minutes.”

Darla sighed. “I can't put it off any longer, I suppose. I need to go tell him.”

“Go tell him what?”

The bleak words made Darla jump. So intent had she been on her conversation with Jake that she hadn't heard the bells jingle at the front door. Now, the teen was standing beside the register, a subdued Roma cradled in his arms.

“Robert, I told you that you could take the day off,” she scolded him. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to find out how Master Tomlinson is doing. I called the hospital, but they wouldn't tell me anything, even when I lied and said I was Hank.” Then, blue eyes dark with grief, he added, “He didn't make it, did he?”

“No, I'm so sorry, he didn't,” Darla replied, her tone gentle now. “I got the call from Officer Wing a few minutes ago. He died on the way to the hospital. I was trying to figure out how to tell you.”

“So, who needs him, anyhow?”

The teen's tone had taken on a sudden angry edge, his expression belligerent. At Darla's startled look, he added, “I'm not dumb. I know what happened. That hook on the wall, and the belt around his neck. He didn't have a heart attack. He killed himself.”

Robert's grip on Roma tightened, so that she gave a little yelp. “All that stuff he said about never giving up, that was just bull. He didn't believe it. I don't care if he's dead!”

“Robert, I know you don't mean that,” Darla countered. “He didn't do this to hurt you, or anyone else. You have to understand that something must have been terribly wrong for him to take his own life.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“Maybe he was sick, or maybe he had money problems and didn't know how to get out from under them.” Then, recalling the brief but contentious words between the sensei and his stepson, she added, “Or maybe he had family issues that drove him over the edge.”

“Whatever. All I know is—”

“Hey, Robert,” Jake broke in. She had listened to the exchange in silence, her expression sympathetic. Now, briskly, she said, “I have a file cabinet downstairs I need to move, but I can't do it myself. Since Darla gave you a little time off, maybe you can come down for a couple of minutes and help me with that. And your little dog, too.”

She gave him a friendly wink at that last, but either the Oz reference went over the teen's head, or else he simply wasn't prepared to be cheered up yet. Instead, with a sullen nod, he said, “Sure.”

Turning, he headed with Roma toward the door, Jake following after. The older woman glanced back at Darla and gave her a nod that said,
I've got this
.

Darla gave a grateful nod back and mouthed,
Thanks
. Young as Robert was, he still saw the world in black and white, and in his eyes the sensei's death was nothing less than a betrayal. Jake would know far better how to handle the teen who obviously was succumbing to the anger the ex-cop had just described.

It was slow for a Sunday afternoon. Between waiting on the handful of customers—browsers, every one—that wandered in, Darla spent the next hour puttering about the store straightening merchandise and trying to forget the ghastly image of Master Tomlinson sagging half-dead against the dressing room wall. She briefly contemplated giving herself the day off, just as she'd done for Robert, but then decided against it. She knew from past experience that the only way to get past a trauma like this was to talk it out, until the narrative became rote. Even better would be talking it out with someone who would understand what she was going through.

And so, on impulse, she did something she'd been putting off for almost two weeks. She picked up her phone and dialed Reese.

Her reluctance to call stemmed from the uncomfortable memory of the so-called date with him that she'd impulsively gone on a couple of weeks earlier. She had been of two minds about accepting his invitation in the first place. On the one hand, there had been a feeling of anticipation at possibly taking their relationship to the next level. On the other, she'd had a vague sense of dread over basically forcing a friendship into a romance. And, unfortunately, her forebodings had proved correct.

While the food had been outstanding, the evening's conversation had been stilted, and mostly regarding the virtues of said superb meal . . . but there was a definite spark. The problem was, how best to fan it, assuming she wanted to create an actual blaze.

Personality-wise, Reese was what Darla had begun to categorize as the typical Brooklyn “guy”. . .  blunt, sarcastic, and definitely appreciative of the ladies. Like most of the “guys” she'd met thus far in her new city, beneath the tough image he had the stereotypical big heart. Not her usual type, to be sure, but she was open to variety at this point in her life.

Not that Reese lacked anything in the looks department. He had what Darla always thought of as corn-fed Midwestern good looks, despite an Italian mother who contributed little to his physical gene pool but saddled him with the Christian name of Fiorello, an appellation his fellow cops used at their peril. Tall and blond, he had a bodybuilder's physique and a broken nose that had never been reset, which kept him from being dismissed as another pretty boy. And he'd proved himself to be both loyal and resourceful, two major traits she required in any potential love interest. His main flaw, to her mind, was that while street-smart and blessed with a cop's intuition, he wasn't a book kind of person. Which was something of an issue, given that she owned a bookstore!

As to what Reese saw in her, Darla wasn't certain. She was a year, maybe two, older than he, and her Southern outlook on life was a definite one-eighty from his. She'd been unable to figure out what to do during the meal, and the walk back to her apartment had proved equally uncomfortable. Obviously sensing her ambivalence, Reese had stopped short of any overly familiar gesture such as taking her arm, settling instead on the chummier alternate of hand on shoulder that was less an embrace than a steering gesture. But the truly awkward part had come at her front door, when she'd been faced with the ultimate question.

Handshake? Kiss?
Run for the door and avoid either?

In the end, he'd given her a peck on the cheek and a “let's do this again sometime” farewell that had left her relieved and vaguely insulted all at the same time.

And the truth was that Reese and Hamlet shared a love-hate relationship that was decidedly skewed toward hate. Which didn't bode well.

But she was willing to move past all that awkwardness in the wake of the day's events.

The detective answered on the first ring.

“Hey, Red,” he greeted her with the nickname she detested, but which she'd finally allowed from him. At least it was better than Cherry Top. “I, uh, was wondering if I'd hear from you . . .”

“Sorry, I really did mean to call,” she temporized, “but I've been kind of busy at the store. And then I've been worried about Hamlet. He's still not the same after everything that happened.”

Hearing his name, Hamlet lifted his chin from his oversized black paws and stared at her from his lounging spot at the end of the counter. Half an hour earlier, he had wandered his way down to the store to grace her with his company. Fortunately, that had been well after Robert had left with Roma, but the way Hamlet had sniffed about the store told her that he suspected some other animal had set foot in his territory.

To Reese, she said, “But Hamlet's not the problem . . . at least, not at the moment. I just need someone to talk to besides Jake. Since today is Sunday, I'll be closing the store in a couple of hours. Maybe I can meet you somewhere for an early supper?”

“Hang on.”

She heard another voice—female?—in the background, and then heard Reese mutter something about residue before he came back on. “Sorry, work's getting in the way of my afternoon, too. Anyhow, I can do seven. How about the Italian place we went to last time?”

“Sure. I-I really do need to talk to you.”

She was dismayed to hear the catch in her voice. Reese must have heard it, as well, for his own tone sharpened.

“What's wrong? If it's an emergency, I'll see if I can break free in a few.”

Darn right, it's an emergency,
she wanted to say.
Our sensei practically committed suicide in front of me and Robert a couple of hours ago.

But she didn't want Reese to feel obligated to come play nursemaid to her during working hours. After all, they technically were just friends. And so, she replied, “No, it's not like that. I'll explain when I see you.”

She rang off, feeling somewhat better knowing that by suppertime she'd be able to dump her concerns on him. That part of it, she didn't feel guilty about. After all, it had been Reese who had pushed her to seek therapy after that same incident that was responsible for Hamlet's funk. He had even offered the name of a counselor, and though she'd not yet dialed that number, given today's events, maybe she'd dig it out. In the meantime, she'd press Hamlet into service as her confidante.

“Hey, Hammy,” she addressed him. “You weren't here when Jake stopped in, so you're not up-to-date on everything that's happened. You got a minute?”

While the cat comfortably slumbered, Darla related again the circumstances surrounding finding Master Tomlinson's all-but-lifeless body. “Robert pretends like he doesn't care, but that's just because he's angry. So we need to help him deal with this. Got any words of advice you want to pass on?”