Sam Drayton had told me that I was stronger than I realized. At the moment I thought he was crazy.

I didn't regret anything I'd said. But I hated it. I hated being the kind of man and having the kind of life that made so much anger necessary.

Eleven.

Eventually I started to register my surroundings again. That was a plus. Bernie was still dead. Life didn't stop just because I'd chased Ginny away, amputated the only part of myself I really understood.

Presumably Moy would finish asking his questions and leave. He didn't need me for that. But someone ought to help Slade reorganize Security's duty rotation, at least until the night-shift chief arrived to take over. The chops still needed protection. And Sammy Posten would be in a sweat, whether or not Bernie's death caused any insurance problems.

First things first, I told myself. Posten could dither without me.

However, Slade might appreciate a show of support.

I scanned the lobby, but didn't find him. No doubt he'd accompanied Moy to question Max. Sternway and Deborah Messenger were gone. I still hadn't spotted Song Duk Soon. Of the people I knew, only Gage remained.

He might've been waiting for me. When I finally noticed him, he ambled in my direction.

"Well, that was exciting." He adjusted his mustache with a grin.

"I've been to a lot of tournaments. A few of them were ripped off while I was there. But I've never helped catch a thief before. In fact," he admitted cheerfully, "I didn't know they ever got caught."

Behind his good humor, he studied me like I'd taken him by surprise.

"How did you do it, spot them like that?"

I didn't want to hang around the lobby. If I did, Posten was sure to corner me. Then I'd probably have to stand there while he explained that it'd be my fault if some hypothetical dependent or relative of Bernie's sued Watchdog for "wrongful death." Gesturing for Ned to join me, I headed toward the convention facilities.

"When you judge events here," I countered, "how do you decide who wins?

As far as I can tell, all the competitors ever do is yell and wave."

"I can see differences." He chuckled.

"I've watched these events a lot. And of course," he added nonchalantly, "I've had a certain amount of training."

I nodded.

"One way or another, I've caught a lot of people." That was the best answer I could offer him.

Ned accepted it.

"Fair enough."

The corridor outside the tournament hall was no more crowded than usual. I felt a small touch of relief when I saw guards still covering the doors. Security hadn't come unglued without Bernie. His men knew their jobs.

I was about to go inside, but Ned stopped me.

"I fly home Monday morning," he said in a confidential tone.

"It's likely I won't be out here again until next year. But if you're ever in LA, look me up. Especially if you want work. I've always got room for a man who knows how to catch people."

I might've assumed that he was making fun of me from my perspective, LA wasn't much closer than Mars but the business card he pushed into my hand was serious enough to short-circuit my defensiveness. Once I decided to believe him, I said thanks like a good boy.

As I pulled the door open and reentered the tournament, I took an obscure comfort from the fact that Security still functioned. In my bereft state, it gave me an odd sense of kinship.

Once inside, however, I froze for a minute, stunned by the egregious unreality of everything around me. Bernie's murder hadn't changed a thing. Hell, I hadn't changed anything myself. Ranks of spectators still watched or applauded whenever they felt like it. From the rings, karate-ka bayed and thrashed at the air while their teammates, teachers, relatives, and antagonists milled around the walls. The dignitaries of this hermetic world sat or talked, taught or passed judgment or negotiated, according to their perceived duties, focused on violence and oblivious to it. I wanted to scream.

First things first, I reminded myself. Keep doing the job. If Security could go on with no one in charge, so could I. When I got my legs moving again, I shouldered through the crowd toward Nakahatchi's artifacts, forcing myself to ignore everything else until I'd confirmed that the chops hadn't been disturbed.

Which naturally they hadn't. Posten's paranoia notwithstanding, no one really cared about them.

So why was Bernie dead?

The guard on the display wanted to know more about what had happened. I told him as much as I could without yelling. Then I asked him to pass along a message for me, let Slade know I wanted to talk to him. When he nodded, I faced the tournament again.

Parker Neill and another IAMA blazer awarded trophies in a nearby ring.

Kata events occupied most of the others. From the head table, Sue Rasmussen blared the names of the winners as Parker presented their trophies. Obviously she didn't care what effect she might have on the concentration of other competitors. Sternway and Alex Lacone stood near her, pretending to bestow benisons on all and sundry. Sternway rubbed absently at his left forearm while he talked.

A glance around the hall didn't locate Deborah for me. Instead I caught sight of Posten. He was heading in my direction with a look of determined hysteria on his unfortunate face.

Hoping to avoid him, I climbed the steps to the dais.

I wasn't much interested in Lacone at the moment, but he spotted me right away and bustled over to shake my hand.

"Congratulations, Mr. Axbrewder." While he pumped my arm, he broadcast 50,000 watts of bonhomie in my face enough radiant energy to slag sheet metal.

"By all reports, you were pretty impressive. Mr. Gage painted a glowing picture. Theft has been a problem at these events for years.

Maybe now crooks will steer clear of us."

Trying not to sound bitter, I retorted, "I guess Bernie made the right choice when he hired me." Or it would've been, if he'd wanted to end up dead.

"Too bad I can't ask him for a reference."

Lacone ignored my tone. His grin left no room on his face for anything else.

"Don't worry about that," he advised me in an avuncular way.

"We're all aware of your contribution. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if Detective Moy put in a good word for you himself."

"That's gratifying." If I'd felt any more gratified, I would've puked on Lacone's shoes.

Sternway decided to add his congratulations.

"Mr. Lacone is right, Brew. You've done well."

"Just my job," I told him through my teeth.

Lacone responded with a few more fulsome remarks, but I decided not to encourage him by paying attention. As soon as he paused, I asked Sternway, "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

His expression didn't shift.

"Certainly." He turned to Lacone.