Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon

around his throat.

“Isn't that cool!“ he exclaimed, sounding slightly choked. Apparently I'd overcompensated for the hand. I loosened the belt and sighed. That was one of Rob's better and more guilt-inducing characteristics: he enjoyed showing off his friends' and relatives' skills and accomplishments as much as his own.

And I had to admit, if he were just a little bit more predictable, he'd make the perfect uki. If you translate it literally from the Japanese, uki means “receiver.“ If you ask me, it ought to mean either “punching bag“ or “fall guy.“ In the martial arts world, the uki was the person whose job it was to pretend to attack the teacher so the teacher could demonstrate how easily you could foil your attacker and do unto him something at least as nasty and painful as he was planning to do unto you. Ukis spent a great deal of time horizontal, contemplating their bruises.

I made a fairly rotten uki – I had a tough time not losing my temper and playing too hard. But no matter how many times you flipped, tripped, kicked, punched, or knocked the wind out of Rob, he'd get right back up, smiling. He might get up a little more slowly by the twentieth or thirtieth time, but he never seemed to resent being thrown, or to lose his optimistic belief that next time he'd get the drop on you instead of the other way around.

He also knew how to fall down – largely through being an utter klutz. A vastly underrated stall, falling down. Most people tense up and try to resist a fall, which is the worst possible thing to do. You break and sprain things much more easily that way. Which is why some martial arts teachers spend a lot of time teaching their students how to fall properly – something life had already done for Rob. Tripping and falling was such a normal part of his everyday experience that he almost always landed with the boneless relaxation the rest of us had to work years to cultivate.

From his seat on the grass, he was prattling happily about the wonderful advantage the belt gave me, despite the differences in our weight and size.

“Not bad,“ Jack said as I handed him back his belt.

“Rob*s not hard to impress,“ I said with a shrug.

“I am,“ he said with a slow smile that set off all kinds of alarm bells in my head. Yes, definitely time to bring in the New Year's photo.

Jack looked down at my hand and frowned. “You're bleeding,“ he exclaimed.

“Oh, sorry,“ I said. “I hope I didn't get too much of it on your belt.“

“Never mind the belt,“ he said. “You need a bandage.“

“That's one thing I have plenty of already,“ I said. I loosened the butterfly clip that held the end of the gauze down, unwound a couple of loops, and wrapped them around my knuckles. Time to get Dad to redo my bandage, I noted. I could live with toner, ink, and coffee stains, not to mention Spike's teeth marks, but these days visible bloodstains tend to make people nervous.

“Ms. Langslow,“ the chief said.

“Yes?“

He glanced down, at my hand and frowned. “Should you be doing this with an injured hand?“ he asked.

“Probably not,“ I said.

“What did you do to it, anyway?“ he asked.

“Smashed it with a hammer. By accident,“ I added, rather unnecessarily.

“You did have it looked at by a doctor, I hope,“ he said.

“Yes, by several of them at Caerphilly Community Hospital the day I did it, and my dad every weekday since,“ I said, not trying to hide my impatience at having yet another person fretting about whether I was taking proper care of myself. And then I had to stifle a chuckle when I realized that the chief wasn't worrying about me – he was sizing me up as a suspect.

“So tell me about this strangling lesson you were giving your coworkers last week,“ he said.

“It was just a demonstration,“ I said. “Pretty much what I did just now, only with a computer security cable, instead of a belt. And I managed not to hurt myself that time; last week I had a bigger bandage that cushioned the knuckles.“

“Chief,“ an officer said. “Danny wants to talk to you.“

“I'll be right up,“ the chief said, and headed for the door, motioning me to come with him. “Who was there when you did this?“

“I don't really remember,“ I said.

“Try, then,“ he said. “It could be important.“

“You mean you think whoever strangled Ted learned it from my demonstration,“ I said as we walked in and began climbing the stairs. “Which could be true, but there's no need for me to remember who was at my demonstration. Half the idiots in the office were running around showing each other for the next three days.“

“So pretty much everyone in the office knew about this belt fu thing?“

“Even the therapists probably know about it by now,“ I said. “So I feel bad that I may have showed the murderer how to commit the crime, but that isn't going to narrow your suspect field down any.“

“Damn,“ the chief said with a sigh. “Not getting any easier,“ he told the ceiling.

He strolled into the reception room, and I tagged along. The mail cart was still there, I noticed, though Ted's body was gone. I wondered if the police would be taking the mail cart as evidence.

An officer – Danny, I presumed – hurried over when he saw the chief.

“Found this,“ the officer said. He handed the chief a piece of paper in a plastic baggie.

Whatever he'd found, the chief seemed to consider it very interesting. He read it – probably several times, from the length of time he stared at the paper – and then nodded with a grim look on his face.

“You got someone named George working here?“ he asked, still looking at the paper.

“No,“ I said.

He looked over his glasses at me. “You're positive?“

“If you don't believe me, check the phone list,“ I said. “Or the personnel files.“

“No George? At all?“

“He's the only George around,“ I said, indicating the dozing bird.

“He's George?“

“Can't be,“ the officer said. “Got to be someone with an office.“

“What do you mean?“ I asked.

The chief frowned and then held out the baggie. Inside was a note that said, “Put $5000 in small, unmarked bills in George's office, under the papers, or I'll tell everyone about the naked pictures.“

“That's easy,“ I said. “You're in George's office.“

The chief looked at George the buzzard. And then at the nest of newspapers surrounding him.

“You've got to be kidding.“

“No, but I suspect Ted was.“

“You think the deceased wrote this?“ the chief asked. “Why?“

“I think it's obvious,“ I said. “It fits his sense of humor. He'd leave this around where someone would find it, and then watch to see if they'd go scrabbling around under George's papers.“

“You don't think this could be a real blackmail note, then?“

I considered it.

“It's possible, I suppose,“ I said. “I didn't know Ted that well, of course. But from what I did know of him… yeah, it's possible. But I still think it's more likely it was his idea of a practical joke. The man was an incurable practical joker.“

“Looks to me like someone figured out a cure,“ the chief said, nodding toward the vacant mail cart. “You picked this up in an office?“ he continued, turning to the officer.

“Yes, sir!“ the officer said.

“Why don't you go down and see if you can find whoever belongs to that office and bring him on up here.“

“Or her,“ the officer added.

“Or her,“ the chief said genially. “You run along down to the parking lot and find him or her. Of course,“ he said, turning to me, “statistically speaking, around this place, the odds are the owner of the office is going to be a