"Some days," I admitted. In a more confidential tone, I added, "I sure noticed that look Sue gave me."

A chink in his armor at last. He actually frowned, and a suggestion of darkness gathered in his eyes.

"What look?"

Mentally I thanked Ned Gage for the hint. Grinning all over my face, I shrugged.

"I think she likes me."

For a second I thought HRH might go so far as to insult me. Put the commoner in his place. He stopped himself, however, before he revealed anything as human as indignation.

"I didn't see it," he told me coldly. Then he turned back toward Lacone.

Still grinning, I headed in the opposite direction and nearly collided with Sammy Posten. So much for being paid to notice things. He must've been hovering there for several minutes, waiting to pounce, but I hadn't registered his presence.

"Mr. Posten." Instead of groaning, I gave him a look of malicious good humor.

"It's your turn to congratulate me. Looks like I just saved you a few bucks."

I didn't expect him to care about that, and for once I was right.

"Chump change," he snorted.

"I have bigger concerns."

"Such as?"

"Such as Nakahatchi sensei's chops. They're vulnerable. Even you have to admit that now."

I frowned.

"Excuse me? I must've missed something." Actually I agreed with him, but I didn't want to show it.

"I just caught a small team of petty thieves. And I've seen dozens of clowns just like them. You can take it to the bank that none of them gives a shit about that display."

Watchdog's Senior Security Adviser bristled like a porcupine.

"You aren't paying attention, Axbrewder." His problem was, he didn't have a quill to his name.

"You're doing your job, I'll give you that. But you don't see the implications.

"Everyone I talk to seems to think no one is stupid enough to try to steal from 'martial artists." The chops are safe because they're surrounded by fighters who can cut down trees with their bare hands."

He was surrounded by them himself, but he didn't seem aware of the fact.

"That's bullshit," he informed me hotly.

"You've just demonstrated it. These 'martial artists' couldn't spot a thief with a telescope. What's wrong with them? If you can do it, why can't they?"

Before I could attempt a reply, he finished, "How safe do you think those chops will be when Nakahatchi sensei takes them home?"

The poor deluded man looked positively triumphant, like he'd just scored in my face. Apparently he didn't remember that I'd made the same point myself earlier.

This was getting out of hand. Even I couldn't imagine what he gained by insulting every karate-ka within earshot. No wonder Bernie had liked him so much.

"Mr. Posten" I meant Postal "let me explain something. How shall I put this?" I wrapped one hand around his biceps and dug in a bit to emphasize my advantages.

"I don't care. It's not my job.

"I was hired by The Luxury and the LAMA for this tournament. If those chops are endangered while they're here," I said sententiously, "I'll die defending them." Like that was going to happen.

"But if you're worried about after the tournament, tell someone else."

I had Lacone in mind, but I wasn't about to say so.

"It's not my problem."

Just for a second, I tightened my grip giving him something to remember me by. Then I turned away. I didn't particularly want to watch his reaction.

But he surprised me. Instead of swearing abuse at me, he demanded, "What would it take to make it your problem?"

I took another step or two while I fought down an impulse to wheel on him and shout, Tell me why Bernie was killed! Tell me what it has to do with those damn chops! Don't let that poor old man be dead just because he made the mistake of cornering a moron.

When I had myself under control, I looked at Posten over my shoulder and grinned again.

"A paycheck," I answered succinctly.

Three more strides took me to the edge of the dais. From there I went down the steps and back into the crowd.

My hands were trembling again.

Why was Bernie dead? I couldn't get my mind around the idea of an experienced drop so brain-dead that he killed a security guard to escape a petty larceny rap and then took the flik so that no sane cop would suspect him of killing in self-defense.

I knew the answer. I just didn't know it. On some intuitive level, I already had a picture of what must've happened. Unfortunately that level didn't deign to communicate with the rest of my brain.

Bernie must've been killed by a man with something more to hide than a gear-bag full of evidence.

He'd been killed because I couldn't get it. It remained out of sight, teasing me like the first phosphene hints of a migraine.

Well, damn. I wanted to club my forehead with my fists, but I knew from long experience that you can't make intuition work by pounding on it. I had to leave it alone, relax if I could, and just wait for it.

The tremors in my hands made the bare idea laughable.

Since I wasn't likely to relax, I did the next thing. I went looking for Deborah Messenger.

I didn't find her, of course. She must've left after the cops questioned her. I had to make do without her.

And Ginny.

It wasn't easy, but eventually I found a little calm. My hands still shook, but I stopped sweating despite the steadily rising heat. The yelling and effort in the rings seemed to pass over my head. Karate-ka celebrated victory or trudged away in defeat without requiring my attention. My sense of impending disaster had already come to fruition, and I didn't expect more. Not immediately. Meanwhile I was just marking time, waiting for intuition or events to give me what I needed.