The results looked and sounded like chaos. The cops inspected Bernie's body, talked to their radios, and questioned Wisman and me, all at once. The hotel manager tried to force his way inside, but one of the uniforms blocked the door until Homicide could arrive. I focused on controlling my shakes while I gave simple answers to basic questions.

Who was I. Why was I there. What happened. In what order.

Back in my drinking days, I could've done this without trembling at all. Then I'd been afflicted with unsteadiness of another kind. Now I couldn't remember what that felt like.

The bleeding from Bernie's mouth slowed as his body settled, but that didn't make me feel better.

I heard more sirens. Presumably now Garner's finest would keep anyone from leaving the lobby. They might even take a stab at sealing the hotel. Too late, of course. Unless the heavyset guy was stone crazy, he was already gone.

Vaguely I wondered if Sternway had seen anything useful. No doubt he was several times more observant than Lacone.

I didn't let myself think about Deborah Messenger.

And I absolutely did not let myself think about Ginny. Somewhere inside me, her former partner believed that he needed her. But I didn't want to hear it.

Eventually Homicide arrived in the form of a plainclothes sergeant and a staff photographer. When the detective finished his inspection, the photog fired his flash at everything in sight. Each burst wiped color and life out of the room. Soon the blare of light off the mirrors and tile made my head feel like I'd been hit with a flik. Bernie already resembled a specimen pinned down on a pathologist's slide.

Apparently it didn't bother the detective. His name was Edgar Moy, and as far as I could tell his nerves no longer reacted to sensation. Even when he moved, he seemed catatonic. He was a short black man in of all things a crumpled trench coat. Untidy stains of grey marked his hair, and his mustache was so thin it might've been drawn on with an eyebrow pencil. He looked at everything sourly, but he didn't give off the kind of compensatory belligerence you usually see in small cops. I guess he'd been short long enough to get used to it.

"Interesting wound," he remarked when he'd finished his inspection.

"Any sign of the weapon?" He was asking all of us, the two cops, Wisman, and me.

We shook our heads dutifully. Thanks to the flash, mine felt like it was full of broken glass. He didn't seem to care.

"Who found the body?"

"I did." I wanted to shut my eyes until the photog finished his assault. But even flash and phosphenes couldn't erase the imprinted image of Bernie's corpse. He died again every time the light cut into him.

"And you are?"

I told him, and we started to dance.

It was all routine. I could've choreographed it in my sleep. But he took me through it carefully anyway, just in case I didn't know the steps. When he was done, he knew everything I did about the situation.

Except what I thought about the missing weapon.

"And you're sure," he asked, "you could pick this drop out of a lineup?"

I grinned coldly.

"With both hands tied behind my back."

Fortunately the photog was done.

Sergeant Moy considered my forehead for a moment.

"You know, Axbrewder," he remarked in a musing tone, "you're swinging without a net here."

I knew what came next, but I didn't help him out.

"How so?"

"You don't have a license. And you aren't working for a licensed investigator. You aren't covered."

He wasn't hassling me. I knew that. License or no license, my dealings with The Luxury, the IAMA, and Watchdog were clean.

No, he was warning me not to go after Bernie's killer myself. Without a license, I had no legal standing. Anything I did might be construed as interference.

In his version of the dance, my response should've indicated acquiescence. But instead I asked, "Don't you get too hot in that coat? This town's a sauna."

He didn't smile or take offense, either. Maybe he didn't know how.

"I like the coat. But I don't like to sweat. So I don't put on underwear."

After ordering me to go downtown and look at mug shots tomorrow at the latest he turned away, leaving me worried that he already knew me better than I wanted him to. At the door, he spoke to a uniform, issued orders about gathering statements and witnesses. After that he did his waltz with Wisman.

By that time I was practically hopping from foot to foot, I had so many things to worry about. I wanted out of the men's room, but Moy hadn't given me permission to leave. Apparently he intended to question his possible witnesses in front of me.

Which may've been a courtesy. He'd warned me off, but he made no effort to shut me out. He hadn't even told me not to call anyone.

As soon as I was sure that no one cared what I did, I withdrew to the back of the men's room. While Moy grilled Wisman, followed by Sternway, Deborah Messenger, and Bernie's second-in-command, I got as much done as I could.

Under the circumstances, Max answered pretty promptly. He told me the chops were safe. The picks had been locked away until the cops were ready for them. Meanwhile the tournament continued as usual.

Apparently nothing as minor as a dead security guard interrupted martial artists in their relentless pursuit of trophies. I thanked him, hung up, and called Marshal Viviter.

About the time Sergeant Moy finished with Wisman and started on Anson Sternway, the Professional Investigations receptionist, Beatrix Amity, put me through to her lord and master.

"Good timing, Brew," Viviter said cheerfully.

"You caught me between appointments. How's the exciting life of a field operative?"

I was too pissed off for pleasantries, so I told him roughly, "Bernie Appelwait's been killed."

Without transition he turned off the good humor.

"At a karate tournament? What the hell's going on there?"

I gave him the concise version. He paused to mutter softly, "Poor old guy. He was an irascible sonofabitch, but I always liked him." Marshal and I had that much in common, anyway. Then he got back to business.

"You're in an awkward position there, Brew. What do you need from me?"

Sternway hardly glanced at me while he answered Moy's questions in an unrelieved monotone. He rubbed his left forearm once, then ignored it.

I kept my voice down.

"First, do you know a Homicide sergeant named Moy, Edgar Moy?"

"The somnambulist in the trench coat? He's straight, for a cop. And smarter than he looks. Some people think he's lazy because he doesn't close cases quickly. But I'd say he takes his time because he doesn't jump to conclusions."