Deborah frowned like a wince.

"No. He didn't ask. I mean, his questions weren't that specific. And I didn't think of it. I was so shocked by what had happened "Is it important?" she demanded.

"Do you actually ?"

I gave her a thin smile.

"Relax. It's my job to be suspicious." Gripping my towel, I shrugged awkwardly. I hadn't pursued all this with her because I distrusted Anson Sternway.

"I've known too many people with blood on their hands."

I was one of them.

"The fact is," I continued more easily, "I like Sternway as a suspect.

He pisses me off every time I see him. But murder isn't just means and opportunity. It's also motive. And for the life of me I can't imagine why he'd want Bernie dead."

Even the bizarre fact that Ginny had found Hardshorn's bag in Mai Sternway's house didn't shed any light. Ginny believed Mai wanted to frame her husband so that she could extort a fat divorce settlement. If Sternway went into that men's room to protect Hardshorn, he was cooperating in his own financial castration.

"I'll tell Moy what you've said the next time I talk to him," I added.

"He'll follow up on it if he thinks it matters. Until then " I gestured hopefully with my coffee cup.

"You've answered my question. I'm done."

All at once she raised her glass to her mouth and drained it. The Scotch brought tears to her eyes, made her breathe open-mouthed as if she'd swallowed a lump of fire.

The rain sounded like scrubbing outside her windows, a storm to scourge away every doubt I had.

Dropping her glass on the carpet, she wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. When she could take a normal breath again, she lifted a tentative smile toward my face.

"Well, if you're really done " I did my best to grin for her.

"With questions, yes. Absolutely."

For the second time, she jumped at me. I caught her in both arms, forgetting all about the towel.

We kissed like we were trying to drink each other down. And after that I forgot about any number of things.

Twenty-Four.

I didn't go to sleep. I was determined not to. Stretched out and deeply comfortable on Deborah's bed with my arms around her, I didn't want the night to end. I'd arrived at a place of peace that simultaneously soothed me and left me hungry for more. The ceaseless rain outside and the thunder bombarding the city like an exchange of Howitzer shells seemed to make staying where I was the most desirable thing in the world.

But I must've drifted off without knowing it. And my dreams must've disturbed me, gnawing like beasts at the marrow of my bones. Otherwise I wouldn't have gasped and fallen out of bed when the phone rang.

For a moment I couldn't get my bearings. Where was I exactly? And whose phone was that? It didn't sound right at once too distant and too piercing to mean anything except disaster.

Deborah didn't stir. Her nerves weren't attuned to intimations of ruin Lightning drove back the dark. I sprawled on the carpet in an unfamiliar bedroom, craning my neck toward an open doorway.

The phone rang again. The sound didn't come from anywhere around me.

The phone wasn't in the bedroom.

The living room? The kitchen?

When it rang for the third time, I recognized it.

My cell phone. Which I'd left in Deborah's small foyer.

How long would it ring before it switched to voice mail? I didn't know, so I jumped to my feet and ran, waving my arms blindly to fend off obstacles, collisions. Remnants of dreams confused my steps, hounding me like nightmares.

Somehow I located a light switch on the fourth ring. Snatching up the phone, I thumbed the button to accept the call and panted, "Yes.

Hello?"

"Axbrewder?" a man's voice demanded.

"It's about damn time."

I didn't recognize the voice, but it dug into me, gouging too deep for such a small sound.

"What ?" I stammered, floundering.

"Who ?"

"You're in serious trouble, boy. You better get your ass on down here, and I mean right now."

The voice "Moy?" I asked.

"Detective Moy?"

"You were expecting maybe your parish priest?" he retorted.

"Where the hell are you? You're supposed to be working."

Finally his tone worked its way through the scraps of my dreams. Edgar Moy, no question about it. I'd left my phone number on his voice mail.

He didn't ordinarily sound this exasperated.

Back in the bedroom, a light snapped on.

"I was asleep," I explained uselessly.

"Where are you? What's going on?"

"Martial America." He paused, then added harshly, "There's been a murder."

Abruptly the storm no longer raged outside. It crashed in my head, lashing through my skull like the wrath of the Almighty. Confined thunder knelled at my ears. But I could still hear him.

"The guy who runs Traditional Wing Chun. Hong Fei-Tung. Looks like somebody broke his neck in his sleep.

"Isn't security here supposed to be your job?" Moy finished sweetly.