Leslie Glass - A Killing Gift

A gi-suited practitioner with a black belt tied around his waist and a black tengui wrapped around his forehead quickly separated himself from the others and stepped forward to talk to them. April had both her badge and plastic ID in her hand by the time he reached them.

"Hi, I'm Mel. How can I help you?" Mel was a dark-haired giant with friendly blue eyes, who didn't seem fazed by a visit from the police.

April's head came almost to his shoulder, but maybe closer to his armpit. She had a sixth-degree-black-belt ranking and was used to sparring with normal-sized people-Chinese males with compact musculature and far less bulk. She didn't think she could take him.

The sparring partners bowed, and a new pair moved to the mat. "Randoru Hajime," said the white-haired master. "Begin free sparring."

April stepped back behind the screen. Woody stayed to watch.

"I'm Sergeant Woo, NYPD," she said politely.

He glanced at her picture, then at her. "A pleasure. How can I help?"

"Are all your members posted up here on the rogues' gallery?"

Mel's blue eyes followed her hand indicating the photos. "No, the masters have to be there. Some of the others practice for tournaments, so they're always looking for sparring partners and don't mind being called at home or work. But a number of our members don't participate in the classes. Some train on their own and just come in when they have time, take their chances getting someone they like to spar with." He adjusted his headband.

"Do you know a man called Albert Alberts?" April reached in her purse and pulled out the photo of Al Frayme in a gray suit, looking very somber at Calvary Cemetery in Queens just ten days ago.

"Yeah, I know Al. He used to come a lot, not so much anymore. Is there a problem?"

"What's his ranking?"

Mel twiddled his belt in his fingers. "He's pretty good, not the most graceful practitioner I've ever seen, but he makes up for it with determination. I'm not sure about his rank."

Woody joined them. "He ever hurt anybody?"

Mel laughed. "That's a funny question."

"What's so funny about it?"

He laughed some more. "We live to hurt each other. That's the fun of it. No, no, no." He reacted to April's disapproving expression. "Just kidding. Of course, we don't mean to do harm. But let's face it, we've got serious pros here, and sometimes somebody does get hurt. Mostly pulled muscles, sprains. Occasionally a snapped tendon. Once in a long while a broken bone. We train to fall light, know what I mean?"

April nodded.

"But no trouble. If there's an accident, no one complains." He shrugged. "And people get hurt in every sport, don't they? Was there some report of trouble with him?"

Woody smiled at April and held up a photo of a redheaded guy in street clothes with a black-and-tan dog on a chain lead. "Who is this guy?" he asked.

"Humph," he said musingly. "Where did you get that?"

"It was on the other side of this. Someone stuck it in a corner." Woody tapped the screen.

"Nice picture. That's Rick. Rick Leaky."

"And the dog?"

"That's June, Junie. Nice, isn't she?"

Bingo. April now remembered. The guy was tall, wore a hat. She recognized the dog now. It was a mastiff with powerful jaws. A hunter, a drooler, a fierce protector of its master. "Is Rick here today?" she asked.

"No, he comes in on Sundays. On Saturdays he helps out in a dojo in Queens."

"Is he a friend of Al's?"

"I guess you could say he's Al's trainer. They've been working together for years. Is there a problem?" He looked concerned for them.

"Do you have a name for that dojo in Queens?" April asked.

Mel pressed his lips together as his forehead furrowed with thought. "Of the dojo? Not offhand."

"How about a contact sheet?"

He breathed in through his nose, still thinking. "Yeahhh, we have a contact sheet, mostly phone numbers."

"You want to give me his phone number?" April said, a little annoyed by now.

"Is Rick in trouble?"

She tossed the question back. "Has he been in trouble before? Has he hurt people?"

"I have no idea. We don't talk about our personal lives here," Mel said. He went to the book on the table for the number, then showed the page to April. Rick Leaky's number had been crossed out.

"Oh, yeah, I remember now. He moved," Mel said.

"You want to go in there and ask if anyone has the new one?" April smiled. "I need it right now."

"Sure thing." Mel trotted around the screen to comply.

"Good job, Woody." April was exuberant. She slapped him five. It was the least she could do. She would have missed the photo.

Mel returned a minute later, flipping his huge palms up. "No. We were going to update his info when he comes in tomorrow. Do you want to leave a message?"

April thanked him for his help and gave the task force's number, not her own. Her cell was a private number, but there were times a person couldn't be too careful.

Mike wasn't too happy when she reached him on his cell. "Where the hell are you?" he demanded.

"I have a name on the guy with the dog."

"Querida, whatever happened to communication?"

"How about a thanks?"

"I'm the primary on this, okay? I need to know where everybody is. Get back here right now."

"You're welcome. His name is Rick Leaky. L as in 'love,' E as in 'ever,' A as in 'after,' K as in 'kiss,' Y as in 'you.' "

"Very nice, querida. Leaky as in 'faucet,' " Mike said. "Where are you?"

"I'm outside an all-white, all-guy gym called Professional Prepare. Frayme goes there. Leaky goes there. It's quite a place; the members like to hurt each other. There's been some kind of trouble there, but I don't know what."

"S and M?" Mike asked.

"Only the karate kind."

"How did you find it?"

"Frayme has an a.k.a. It's Alberts. Al Alberts is his father's name."

"Get back here right now." There was some pretty heavy tension in Mike's voice.

"Okay, boss. I'm on my way to Devereaux's. I've got a photo to show him. He has a flight to catch.

Look, I got your a.k.a. I got your witness. What's your beef?"

"What ever happened to teamwork?" Mike was seriously pissed.

"Look, we've got this down really well, mi amor. You're doing the team. I'm doing the work." She heard his intake of breath at the smart remark. To anybody else he would say, "Fuck you."

"Do you have an address on Leaky?" he asked angrily.

"No. How about your team does that?"

"What about the dog?"

"It's a mastiff."

"Okay, get right back here and bring us the photo. And I mean now."

April checked her watch. "I'll be back at twelve-thirty, one," she promised, a little miffed at his lack of enthusiasm for her initiative.

At eleven forty-five Woody pulled up behind the limo waiting in front of Jack Devereaux's building. It was a busy Saturday in Greenwich Village. The car was idling in a no-standing-anytime zone, but no traffic cop was around to give the driver grief. April got out.

"I'll be right back," she told Woody.

This time she was able to identify the plainclothes cop sitting in a Corvette in front of the limo, also in a no-parking place. But she didn't take the time to stop and talk to him. She hurried across to the building's entrance and stabbed the intercom button. She stared at the officer in the Corvette until he raised one finger off the wheel to acknowledge her. The buzzer sounded. She pushed the door open and took the stairs two at a time.

When she reached Jack's floor, he was holding his door open and looking cheerful for a change. He was wearing khakis and a lightweight V-necked sweater. French blue, April's favorite color. His arm was still in its cast, and he hadn't shaved in ten days, but he looked as if he was finally getting a grip on his life. Lisa came to the door, and she was smiling, too.