Nakahatchi's dojo and telling me whether you think those chops are genuine?"

As soon as I said it, I knew what was coming. To forestall an eruption, I turned quickly toward T'ang Wen.

"Before you object, Mr. T'ang," I said while his eyes flamed, "I want to point out that I'm speaking for Mr. Lacone and Watchdog Insurance here. The idea is mine, but I have their enthusiastic support. They're eager for Sifu Hong's opinion."

Then I faced Hong.

"I also speak for Mr. Nakahatchi. I have his support as well.

Watchdog has already hired someone to appraise the chops a local expert, Carliss Swilley. But Mr. Nakahatchi would be pleased to have your evaluation."

I felt anger pour off Hong despite his lack of expression. Every muscle in his body remained relaxed, impervious to threat. Nevertheless his gaze gripped mine like claws, and his iron hair seemed to bristle with outrage.

I kept talking to prevent a response I couldn't handle.

"For one thing, he knows you're better qualified than anyone else to appreciate the real importance of those chops. He's" I wasn't sure how to phrase what Komatori had told me "uncomfortable with the possibility that he has a genuine Chinese treasure in his possession, where it probably doesn't belong. And for another, he regrets the appearance of disrespect in his present situation. He'd welcome a chance to honor you in person."

That may've overstated what Komatori had told me. Under the circumstances, I didn't care.

Nothing in Hong's face shifted. For two heartbeats, three, his charged relaxation seemed to ooze danger, as viscid and fatal as nitroglycerin.

Like a flash of prophecy, I seemed to see every movement of the kata he'd performed at the tournament, all compressed at once into his stillness, and available without warning or transition. He could've broken my neck before I saw him move, despite the distance between us.

How could a man like that be threatened by anything I asked of him? He was more truly capable of taking care of himself than I would've been if I were a solid gold seer, as reliable as sunrise.

Yet my fear for him didn't so much as flicker.

While the moment lasted, I hardly noticed that Hong had made a small gesture to control T'ang Wen. I was barely aware of it as Hong bowed to me smoothly, one hand closed into a fist, the other open to cover it, contradict it.

Then his voice snatched me out of myself.

"Mr. Axbrewder," he pronounced without a hint of tension, "I accept your suggestion. It is fitting.

"Some preparation is surely required. If you will name a suitable time, I will accompany you."

I should've felt that a crisis had been averted, but I didn't. Instead I had the gut-deep sensation that the catch on a guillotine had been released, and that the only thing I'd be able to do for the rest of my life was watch the blade fall.

Twenty.

Careful despite my intuitive shock, I spent a couple of minutes while T'ang Wen led me out of the dojo confirming the arrangements Deborah had made with Carliss Swilley. At the door, T'ang assured me that he and his master would be ready at 11:00.

Then I found myself out in the full force of Garner's sun.

I still had half an hour to recover my balance. Time enough, you would've thought. Unfortunately time wasn't what I needed.

I needed someone to give me the kind of hint I used to get from forlorn drunks and lost souls late at night back in Puerta del Sol a suggestive twist of fact or inference which would resolve to clarify my instinctive groping. For years I'd relied on help like that, and on Ginny's straight-ahead tangible rationality, to anchor me against unfounded assumptions and flighty guesswork.

Here I was far out of my natural element, and I didn't know who to turn to.

Sunlight washed over me from all sides up from the concrete, off the dimmed glass of the windows, out of the sky. For a moment or two I endured its harsh scrutiny. Then I got mad.

Slapping on my sunglasses, I strode back to the van, wrenched open the door, and jumped in. While the engine started and the AC whined to life, I swore at everyone I could think of at Bernie's killer, at James M. "Turf" Hardshorn for getting himself killed, at Marshal's impenetrable superiority and Edgar Moy's disinterest, at the clotted arrogance of all martial artists, especially Hong and Nakahatchi and Sternway. Then I grabbed my cell phone and dialed the number directory assistance had given me for Sue Rasmussen.

Forty seconds later the receptionist at the Weathers, Slewell, Mallet, Rasmussen law firm informed me that Ms. Rasmussen was working at the LAMA offices this morning. I already had the number, but the receptionist offered it so cheerfully that I let him give it to me again.

That phone rang four or five times just long enough to make me think that I was finally out of luck. Then a man's voice answered, "International Association of Martial Artists. May I help you?"

Despite my phone's limitations, I recognized Parker Neill.

"Parker," I said, striving to sound calm.

"It's Brew."

"Brew," he replied pleasantly.

"How are you?" Before I could answer, he added, "Rumor has it you've moved from tournament security to buildings. Is that progress, or should I offer condolences?"

Remembering our last conversation brought a sympathetic ache to the spot he'd poked on my chest. We hadn't exactly parted on good terms.

But apparently he didn't hold it against me.

"It pays better," I told him.

"I suppose that's an improvement." Then I added, "Looking back, I think I owe you an apology. Anson says I like kicking over anthills.

Sometimes I guess I kick at things that should've been left alone."

"Forget it." I didn't hear any tension in his tone.

"Tournaments make me irritable. They've changed since the days when I competed regularly. Or I have." He didn't elaborate.

Ned Gage had described him as a "true believer" who didn't know what to do with himself now that he had too much rank and responsibility to participate fully. But I'd picked up the impression that his unspoken disenchantment ran deeper, that the martial arts hadn't offered him anything with enough substance to replace the competitive intensity of his youth.

Which reminded me obliquely that Sternway was Parker's sen-sei. And Anson Sternway definitely hadn't found any useful substitute for competitive intensity. For him whatever ideals the martial arts espoused had degenerated into money grubbing and brawls.

In my opinion, Parker needed a new sensei. Not that anyone actually cared what I thought.

But this wasn't the right occasion for my anger, so I said, "It's forgotten. Thanks," and then asked quickly, before I talked myself out of it, "Could I call you sometime? Do you mind giving me your phone number? You've already been a big help. I'd like to ask you a few more questions when you aren't on duty over there."

I meant, when he wouldn't be overheard by Sternway's acolytes and sycophants.

"Sure, anytime." Without hesitation, he gave me his cellular number.

Then he asked, "Were you looking for me, or is there something else I can help you with?"

"Thanks," I said again.

"As a matter of fact, I'm trying to track down Sue Rasmussen. Her office told me she might be there."

"Sure. Let me put you on hold, and I'll get her."

The connection clicked onto the vacant sound of empty space. While I waited, my stifled fuming seemed to echo back from the void like the radio debris of some ancient astrophysical cataclysm. At least the IAMA didn't torment callers with Muzak. The homogenized dysfunction of popular love songs would've driven me mad.

A minute later, the handset clicked again, and Sternway's girlfriend said, "Mr. Axbrewder," with the kind of sweetness conspirators use to conceal hemlock.