"Brew?" Deborah pleaded.

"Don't ask me any questions," I told Komatori.

"I don't have time to explain.

"Sifu Hong has been murdered. Detective Moy is already there. I'm on my way, but I won't be able to stop him. It's only a matter of time, minutes, before he comes for Nakahatchi sen-sei." Naturally. Who else would T'ang Wen accuse?

"When Moy hears the chops are gone, he's going to arrest your master."

Because of course Moy would assume that Nakahatchi had found the chops gone, believed Hong stole them, and killed Hong to get even. The fact that the case was in Komatori's apartment wouldn't mean anything to Moy. Hideo had already demonstrated that he could sleep through the theft. He could've slept through a visit from his sensei as well.

"You must explain," Komatori put in.

"Can this Detective Moy believe that my master killed Sifu Hong? That is insane."

"I don't have time!" I shouted back.

"Just wake up Nakahatchi. When Moy gets there, tell him about the chops. Don't hide anything. And don't resist. I know your master didn't do it. I'll clear him as soon as I can. Right now I have to go!"

Before he could object, I hung up.

Deborah stared at me wide-eyed. As I lowered the phone, she breathed, "The chops are gone." She looked smaller, diminished by the sheer scale of the disaster.

"Oh, God."

"Listen to me," I demanded. As if I thought maybe she wouldn't.

"I have to get to Martial America. I don't have time to talk, and I do not have time to explain.

"I need directions. And I need you to make some calls for me. I can't stay to make them myself, and once I'm outside I won't be able to hear myself think."

"I have to call Sammy," she offered in a small voice.

"Do that last," I ordered. Knowing Posten, he'd reach Martial America before I did. He'd teleport if he had to. If he weren't already there.

"First call Marshal Viviter. Professional Investigations. Tell him what's happened. I have his cell phone number."

I recited it like I expected her to memorize it on the fly.

She nodded gravely. Either she didn't have any trouble remembering phone numbers, or she wasn't listening at all.

"Then call Ginny Fistoulari. My former partner." I repeated her cellular number.

"Tell her not to answer the apartment phone tonight. Not. Tell her to let the machine get it."

Our answering machine was one of the old-fashioned tape models. Once it started to record, it would keep going until the caller hung up. Or until it ran out of tape.

Deborah nodded again. I had the sensation that I'd lost her, but I couldn't afford to stop.

"Then call Parker Neill." I gave her a third number to remember.

"Tell him what's happened. Tell him I need him at Martial America. As fast as he can get there."

I needed him to keep me alive.

Once more she nodded.

I had to trust her. Shoving myself into motion, I headed for the dryer and my clothes.

"Do all that," I told her, "after you give me directions."

"What are you going to do?" she called after me.

"Brew, I need to know."

She deserved an answer.

"My job," I snapped as I hauled open the laundry closet.

"My fucking job! Hong is dead because I didn't figure this out. The chops are gone because I didn't figure it out.

"It ends tonight."

She caught up with me, pulled the rest of my clothes out of the dryer while I shoved my legs into my pants. Without looking at me, she asked, "Have you figured it out?"

"Yes." I buttoned my shirt partway. I didn't even think about tucking the tails in.

"Or else I dreamed it. But I can't explain it yet. I don't understand all of it."

I meant that I didn't have even one scrap of evidence to make it credible.

I definitely needed Parker to keep me alive.

Carrying my jacket, I hurried back to the foyer. My shoes were still damp, and I couldn't untie the laces. Deborah tackled them for me while I shoved my arms into the shoulder holster, spun the cylinder of the .45. While she helped me into my shoes, I pulled the jacket on.

I already had the door open when she started to give me directions.

Right out of the parking garage, right again, count three blocks, turn left, keep going to the freeway. Head east. She named an exit. If I didn't miss it, or turn in the wrong direction, I'd be on a road that led straight to Martial America.

I'd almost reached the elevator before I heard her say, "Keep yourself safe, Brew. I want you back."

God, I hoped she could remember phone numbers.

While the elevator sank interminably toward the parking level, I keyed my apartment phone number into one of the cell phone's speed-dial locations. Then I searched the phone's menus until I found the command to silence the keypad.

Rainwater leaked into the car as soon as it reached bottom. The water was colder than ever, and without socks I lacked even the illusion of protection. But the sodden chill only tightened my nerves, sharpened my concentration.

Through the deepening lake of the garage, I splashed my way to the Plymouth.