Let's just be safe and say I own nothing in the following pages. Not even the words, I think. Webster does, or whoever writes the Dictionary.

5

Eames and Goren were lucky enough the next day to arrive at Sam St. Claire's apartment when he was out. Their luck ended, of course, with the door being locked and the landlord being at the grocery store.

"Great," said Goren. "Now we wait."

Eames sent him a look. "Gee, if only there was a big, strong man around to knock the door down for us. How much easier life would be."

He returned her glare. "I'm not going to knock the door down, Eames. Have you seen the size of that guy?"

She sighed and leaned her back against the wall, bouncing to the rhythm of her thoughts. "Chicken." A lengthy wait later the landlord finally returned with an armload of fresh produce and the keys to all his tenants' rooms.

"May I ask what you're looking for?" he said, pushing the door open for them.

"We don't know," said Eames as Goren headed straight for the living room area. Eames pulled open the drawer underneath the TV in his bedroom and frowned. "I found his porn stash," she hollered. She rifled through for any sign of aphelia or abnormality. "Ew," she mumbled. "Men are gross."

"I'm sorry," said Goren, coming up behind her.

She grunted and closed the drawer with a disgusted shove. "Find anything?"

"Just your standard issue ninja knives," he answered, indicating a set of dull daggers and swords behind the recliner. "Not a match to the ones in the victim."

Eames shuddered. "Does everyone in New York have a set of those but me?"

"Most people don't sharpen them."

"But most people could. A typical piece of pumice for keeping kitchen blades sharp could turn those babies into the death-machines they were meant to be."

"I also found this," said Goren, producing St. Claire's day planner as much to change the subject as to show Eames new evidence. "It looks here like he had 'Special Lessons' with a kid named Nathan every Wednesday and Saturday." He looked into Eames's face for a sign of a reaction and found that she'd gone stiff.

"Oh, surely not--" she began, but again her cell phone cut her off. One of her contact cards had finally paid off.

"Detective Eames?" said a nervous voice from the other end of the line. "It's Stacy from Patriot's Pawn. I remember who I sold the knife to."

Eames shut her eyelids slowly, retreating into the darkness and quiet of her inner-most mind. "What did he look like?"

There was a pause. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have—it didn't seem like there'd be any harm…"

"What did he look like, Stacy, please?"

She hesitated. "It was a kid. A little boy with light brown hair and freckles."

"How old would you say he was?" asked Eames, sending Goren her patented I-hate-it-when-you're-right look.

"Eleven or twelve, maybe."

"Thank you," said Eames. "You've been a big help. Don't beat yourself up over this, it wasn't your fault. If you like you can talk to my boss and he'll tell you what to do next." When the exchange was done, Eames turned to Goren and they wordlessly started for the car.

Back inside the karate school, Eames found St. Claire in his office as Goren searched the faces for a kid who fit the description of the buyer. He found one in the form of an aggressive kid standing off to the side with a Gameboy, happily blowing off people's heads and setting helpless animals on fire.

"Nathan?" he asked, folding his hands together behind his back.

"Yeah," said the kid, not taking his eyes off the screen.

"I'm Bobby."

"Hi."

"Hi." There was a pause. "Whatcha playing?"

"Death Assault Wolf-Attack 3. It just came out the day before yesterday."

"I like wolves," said Bobby, watching one on the game steal a truck and drive over a herd of peasants and sheep. "They don't usually act like that."

Nathan shrugged. "I'm just in it for the explosions. Watch." He drove the truck into an oil well with glee and smiled as flames overtook the vehicle and everything inside it.

Bobby frowned as the surprisingly detailed wolf's fur singed, followed by scorched flesh falling off blackened bones and yowls of pain all the while. "That's quite an advanced system you've got there," he commented. Man, he thought, where are this kid's parents?

"Ah, Detective Goren," said St. Claire, stepping out of his office behind Eames. "Rose and Blessing told me you paid them a visit. They liked you very much." He chuckled. "Believe me."

"Yes, well," said Goren, straightening and crossing his arms. "We paid a little visit to your apartment, and found that you've been giving Nathan here special lessons twice a week."

St. Claire paled ever-so-slightly for just a moment. "Yes. He was having a little trouble with his kicks and I agreed to help him. He wants his black belt very badly."

"I can see that," said Goren, noticing the boy's hands. "Are you into archery, Nathan?"

"Huh?" said the kid, finally turning the game off after his last wolf burst into flames.

"Your calluses. People usually get them when they've spent a lot of time firing a bow and arrow."

"Oh, yeah," said Nathan, rubbing his fingers together. "I'm into lots of stuff."

"Like what?" asked Eames. St. Claire sent him a look and the kid chose his words carefully.

"Ninja stuff."

"I'll bet you've got pretty good aim, huh?" Goren was getting closer to the point.

"What is this?" demanded St. Claire. The detectives and kid all three ignored him.

"Hell yeah," bragged Nathan. "The best. I never miss."

Goren sent Eames a look and kept a continually stiffening St. Claire closely monitored out of the corner of his eye. "Which school do you go to, Nathan?"

"Faithful Heritage. I'm in the fifth grade."

Goren started to chew on his left thumbnail. "The same school Blessing teaches at. Is Miss Knowles your teacher?"

Nathan was just old enough to become suspicious of a series of personal questions being asked one after another. "Y-Yeah. She teaches choir."

"That's enough!" cried St. Claire, at last deciding to throw his weight around. He put his enormous body between Goren and Nathan, puffing his chest out and trying to look intimidating. "I don't know what you're after, but you're not going to find it. Step away, little man."

Goren raised his eyebrows. "We're just asking some questions."

"Bull. I'm calling my lawyer."

"You do that," said Eames, taking Goren's elbow and pulling him toward the door. "And we'll call ours."

"Let me get this straight," said Carver, running his fingertips wearily over his eyelids. "Rose and Blessing wanted custody of Cynthia, and because they had no claim to her the only option they saw was killing the mother, Monica. They did this by instilling the help of Cynthia's father, Sam, although he had shown hardly any interest in her before this mess. In exchange for—what?"

"Sexual favors," Eames filled.

"Sexual favors," continued Carver, "he trained one of his martial arts students to throw a knife and sent him out on the street one night with the mission of killing Monica. That much I can almost wrap my brain around. What does the kid get out of it?"

"Well, if power, a sense of accomplishment and the tools to live out a dream aren't enough for you, there's this," offered Goren, producing a report card. "Nathan was held back last year because of poor grades. Blessing Knowles is his music teacher. He was failing her class, but suddenly a few days ago his grade shot up to an A. Blessing claims it was because he did such a fine job keeping track of the lights and curtains and whatnot backstage. No one else saw him, though. With all his other classes being mid to low Ds, he can now go on to sixth grade."

"That's nice," said Carver. "And I'll bet extra time with Coach was a bonus treat." He thought a moment. "How did you get the warrant to search Sam St. Claire's house?"

"We talked to my friend, Mercy Phelps," answered Eames. "We couldn't reach you."

"Couldn't or wouldn't, it doesn't matter now." He waved tiredly, remembering a threat he'd made to have their badges if they ever went behind his back. He really sucked at keeping promises like that. "A lot of the evidence here is circumstantial, and sexual favors are always hard to prove. But there just might be enough to go to trial." He sent Goren a look. "A confession would be more convenient."

"I don't see that happening," said Goren. "St. Claire thinks he's indestructible. He's invented an image of himself as this towering, unbeatable figure of masculinity. It's most likely some kind of compensation for… I don't know, a bad first sexual experience, or whatever. But it's highly unlikely he'll say anything if it's just us backing him into a corner."

"Well, let's bring in the gang," said Deakins, finally speaking up from his desk. "See what we can get out of them."

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