"I have a master."

"Where did you get it?"

"Lacone." Indirectly that was true.

"And it opens all the doors here?"

I didn't look away.

"It opens all the locks that haven't been changed since these schools moved in. If T'ang's key works on the front door to the dojo, mine unlocks his apartment. But Hong had a new lock installed. My key won't open it."

Moy held my eyes for another moment. Then he smiled thinly.

"Try to relax. At this rate you'll shiver yourself sick."

Relax? He had no idea. Roughly I slapped at my chest, trying to sting in a little warmth.

"Are we done here?" I did not want him to ask me anything else.

"I should get over to Traditional Wing Chun." The people who'd driven all those cars to Martial America had to be somewhere.

"I know you've covered it, but if I don't at least take a look I won't be doing my job."

"Just a couple more things." His eyes told me that he still wondered about my involvement.

"T'ang said " A loud whoosh as the front door burst open interrupted him. We both wheeled in that direction.

Driven by a rush of rain, a short figure wrapped in a raincoat splashed into the dojo. At first I couldn't see who he was. An umbrella concealed his head. Right away, however, he dropped the umbrella so that he could pull the door shut.

I'd never have thought that I'd be grateful to see Sammy Pos-ten. Maybe he'd distract Moy for me.

"Hold it right there," the uniform guarding the stairs ordered.

"You can't come in here. This is a crime scene " Posten ignored the warning. The instant he spotted Moy and me, he stomped toward us. But he wasn't interested in the detective. As soon as he got close enough, he hit me in the chest with both hands. Like he thought he could knock me backward.

"Goddamn it, Axbrewder!" he shouted up at me, "this is unforgivable!"

His face reminded me of a perforated ulcer.

"You call yourself a 'security consultant'? Where were you"? Probably out fucking some whore, you incompetent sonofabitch!"

Moy put a hand on Posten's shoulder to intervene.

"Take it easy. We're investigating every possibility. We'll find "

The little man flung him off.

"Let me tell you something!" he practically screamed at me.

"We won't pay for this! Not a penny. It's your fault, your fault, and I am personally going to take it out of your hide." His raincoat shed water like froth.

"You're going to make restitution if you have to sell your soul for the money!"

"Sarge?" the uniform asked from the doorway.

"You want help?"

Moy smiled again, without enthusiasm.

"No, thanks. I think Axbrewder and I can handle it." Now he sounded bored. Normal.

"If nothing else works, we'll sit on him."

The uniform chuckled harshly and returned to his post.

"Sergeant Moy." If I hadn't been so angry, I might've laughed in Posten's face.

"This is Mr. Sammy Posten. He's a security advisor a senior security advisor for Watchdog Insurance. They hold coverage on the chops.

"Mr. Posten, this is Sergeant Edgar Moy, Homicide."

"I know, I know." Posten gave us his best imitation of a dismissive snarl.

"Hong is dead. I don't care about that.

"Axbrewder, if you don't " Since he'd already hit me, I gave him a jolt of my own. It turned his face the color of apoplexy.

"Tell you what, Mr. Posten." I let shivers carry my rage.

"I'll make a deal with you. You go home. Let the Sergeant do his job.

You can't accomplish anything right now anyway. And I'll take my chances with my soul." I grinned like the blade of an ax.

"I've been in that position before."

Posten started to sputter a retort, but Moy stepped in front of him.

Posten wasn't tall enough to fume at me past him. He was reduced to sputtering like a sodden chicken.

"Mr. Axbrewder is right, Mr. Posten," the detective said flatly.

"You should go home. But there's one question you can answer for me first. How did you know there'd been a crime?"

"My associate called me," Posten huffed.

"Deborah Messenger. She said she heard it from Axbrewder." He tried to aim his indignation at me past Moy's shoulder.

"Ask him how he knew."

"He knew because I told him." Now Moy had a grip on Posten's elbow. It didn't look hard, but his fingers dug in enough to turn Posten toward the front door.

"I assume he called Ms. Messenger because of Watchdog's involvement."