Within a few more hours, the cops had searched Sternway's apartment.

They found his IAMA blazer. Its left forearm showed subtle signs that it might've been struck with an object like a flik. Moy would know more when the lab boys compared the fibers.

By midafternoon a forensics team in the IAMA offices had appropriated the organization's financial records. The cops weren't ready to make a statement yet, but a quick analysis of the books and Sternway's personal accounts suggested that he'd been skimming for years.

Nevertheless he was practically broke.

Naturally this infuriated Mai Sternway. As his widow, she'd inherit everything he had left which was mostly karate gear and unpaid bills.

Poor woman. She'd have to get a job.

For his part, Parker Neill hadn't heard anything that tied Sternway to Hong or the chops. But he told Moy in no uncertain terms that Sternway and Sue Rasmussen meant to kill me. Which effectively protected me from any kind of "wrongful death" charge.

When Marshal told me his side of the story, he sounded almost envious, like he wished that he could've traded places with me. I spared him the benefit of my usual poor grace. I was just grateful that he'd taken me seriously enough to get involved.

Moy was more businesslike, but that didn't stop him from chewing me out. Where did I get off, he wondered, facing Stern-way alone when I could've had half a dozen uniforms with me if I'd just bothered to tell him what I suspected? Didn't I trust the police? Well-meaning loose cannons like me did more harm in Garner than almost any number of plain criminals. And so on. He enjoyed his Stern Officer of the Law shtick so much that he nearly ruined it by laughing.

I thanked him anyway. Mainly for letting Nakahatchi go.

Alex Lacone also called by proxy. I actually spoke to his personal assistant, the enduring Cassandra Hightower. In a quavering voice, she advised me that Mr. Lacone was pleased with my work. He considered my assignment completed. Naturally he would pay me in full. In addition, he and Watchdog had put together an attractive bonus which would more than cover my medical expenses.

Later Deborah Messenger revealed that most of the bonus money came from Watchdog. In lieu of a "recovery fee."

She saw me several times. The first time she said it was the second, but I didn't remember one earlier I had too many drugs in my system to concentrate. But that afternoon we talked for quite a while. I gave her a bowdlerized version of events, with all the parts where I screamed and felt sorry for myself edited out. Even that upset her more than I expected. Her eyes spilled tears until I thought she might break down. Then she got mad.

"You arrogant, inconsiderate " Her voice rose.

"All you men! You charge off into the night without explanation. You leave me alone to panic, you risk your life stupidly against a man you've seen kill. Everybody who glances at TV knows you need backup. A so-called professional ought to know that better than anybody.

"Did you ever stop to think I might not like it if you got yourself murdered?"

I grinned at her, I couldn't help it. She looked so delectable that I wanted to pull her clothes off on the spot. And her anger touched me She warmed me in ways I hadn't felt for years. Lots of them.

Still fuming, she started to sputter, "If you ever " There she stopped herself. For a moment she looked away. When she faced me again, her tears were gone.

"I'm sorry. I get emotional sometimes. This is what you do. It's right for you. I'll get used to it."

Then she asked anxiously, "Every case isn't like this? Is it?"

"No," I admitted, "every case isn't like this."

Just the important ones.

We held hands until she had to go back to work.

Nakahatchi sensei surprised me with a visit. His wife and Hideo accompanied him. None of them said much. They were too dignified. But they brought gifts which they presented formally, like promises of friendship.

Nakahatchi gave me a scroll which unrolled to reveal a beautifully indecipherable hand-painted inscription. It was, he informed me, a quotation from Gichin Funakoshi.

"The ultimate aim of the art of karate lies not in victory or defeat, but in the perfection of the character of its participants." We would resume my lessons when I was fully recovered.

Mitsuku proffered a self-contained ornamental fountain the size of a mailbox. Add water, plug in the pump, and listen to the soothing trickle of water over polished black stones. Unexpectedly modern of her, I thought. Maybe it would help me relax.

And Komatori presented me with a white canvas gi, including what he called an "honorary" black belt. I wasn't supposed to actually wear it. Nevertheless I'd earned it, he said, by defeating such a renowned fighter.

They left me feeling better than I had in years.

T'ang Wen also put in an appearance. And gave me a present, a pair of polished fire-hardened rattan sticks, maybe twenty inches long, which he called "Kali sticks." They weren't traditional Wing Chun weapons, apparently, but he'd studied them in another dojo on his master's urging. If I granted him the honor of letting him teach me, he'd show me how to use them.

I hardly knew what to say except, "Sure," and, "Thanks." Hong Fei-Tung was dead because I hadn't trusted my instincts. Instead of reproaching me, however, T'ang covered my bewildered guilt by giving me "face" by telling me more about the origins of Wing Chun and the chops.

According to Hong, the Joi Si, the 'first leader," of Wing Chun wasn't either Ng Mui or her disciple, Yim Wing Chun. Rather, he was a Ming military officer who studied in the Southern Shaolin Temple. He called himself Da Jung, although that wasn't his name. After the Manchurian Qings burned the Temple, his style was developed and preserved by Yat Chum Dai Si, twenty-second in a continuous lineage of Shaolin grandmasters, and by his disciple Cheung Ng, who spread Wing Chun under the guise of performances by the Red Boat Opera Company.

The true chops were carved under the direction of Cheung Ng as part of his efforts to expand Wing Chun against the Qings. Those by Leung Len Kwai may've had great value as examples of his art, and as antiques.

But to Wing Chun they were fakes.

Later Watchdog's New York expert said they weren't even that. In some obscure way, he determined that the ivory was too recent for Leung Len Kwai's work. The chops were forgeries of fakes.

Sammy Posten about had a seizure. Deborah Messenger just threw up her hands and laughed at him.

For some reason, being entrusted with a piece of Wing Chun lore which T'ang hadn't known himself until a day ago helped me accept his gift.

In his oblique courteous fashion, he seemed to be offering me forgiveness.

Parker Neill stopped by as well, unhappiness dragging at the flesh of his face, but once he'd asked me how I felt he couldn't think of anything to say. Trapped misery closed his throat.

I couldn't bear to lie still and watch him ache.

"You saved my life," I informed him hoarsely.

"Maybe you don't realize that. When you jumped in, I couldn't have defended myself against an autistic Girl Scout. You gave me time to pick up my gun."

He didn't look at me.

"He taught me everything I know," he murmured, "but it wasn't enough.

If you hadn't stopped him " "Bullshit." I might've been gentle with him, I suppose, but I

didn't think that would work.

"He didn't teach you everything you know. You're the one who told me, Any teacher who doesn't train his students to honor all the martial arts doesn't deserve to have students. You sure as hell didn't learn that from Anson Sternway," the man who'd tried to undermine every school in Martial America.

"And you have scruples " "He was my sensei." Parker kept his head down.

"Do you know what that means? It means 'revered teacher." I " He spread his hands helplessly.

"I did that. I revered him. He was God, and my father, and Gichin Funakoshi, all rolled into one."

"Fine," I snorted.

"Do you know how your 'revered teacher' spent his spare time? He went to a fight club. And he didn't go there to earn any fucking reverence.

Instead he got into the ring and made pulp out of anyone stupid enough to face him. And he picked up some easy money betting on himself.