The sound of my phone almost surprised me.

I put my back to the wall to block out at least some of the background noise.

"Yes?"

Slade's voice asked, "Axbrewder? You wanted to talk to me?"

The connection's lousy acoustics made him sound wrung out, squeezed dry by self-pity.

I snapped back into focus. First things first.

"What's been going on?" I countered.

"Did Max tell Moy anything? Is there anything on the tapes?"

"Shit," Slade muttered.

"I told him it wouldn't do any good, but of course he didn't listen to me. We had to go over those tapes frame by frame. That damn detective thinks he's being careful, but I say he just didn't want to go do any real work."

Apparently Slade didn't care why I wanted to know.

"But you didn't find anything?"

He snorted, "No. The camera sweeps only cover that part of the lobby every forty-five seconds. And when they do, they don't show anybody who looks like your description."

"I understand," I said, mostly because I thought it might give him a sense of accomplishment. Then I asked, "Did Moy take the tapes?" He could get Garner Police Department's lab to bring up better resolution than Max's monitors. If he wanted to go to that much trouble.

"Yeah." Slade didn't try to hide his scorn.

"For all the good it's going to do him."

I didn't pursue it. Instead I put on my best Uncle Axbrewder tone.

"Thanks, Slade. You have a lot to deal with. Is there any way I can help?"

He swore.

"I wish you could keep fucking Postal from chewing on my ass. But I don't think you can." Then he sighed.

"Just watch those chops. We're shorthanded. On top of everything else, they expect me to do Bernie's paperwork."

"Count on it." I gave him a sour grin he couldn't see.

"If some asshole tries to get at the display, I'll make him eat it."

"You do that."

Before he hung up, I explained that I had to go look at mug shots tomorrow. Sourly he gave his consent.

I put the phone away.

The tournament sounded louder than I remembered. Sue Ras-muss en must've made an exciting announcement.

I couldn't call Marshall again. I hadn't given him enough time. And I didn't want him to think I was hysterical.

Grimly I went back to marking time.

By degrees the ranks of trophies dwindled. I still hadn't seen any of the hard and soft stylists go head-to-head. Presumably that would happen on Sunday, when the "grand championships" would be decided in each category of age and rank regardless of style. In the vaguest possible way, I looked forward to it. After what T'ang Wen had told me, I wanted to see whether the soft styles were really as useless as they appeared.

Ginny was gone. I had no leverage with Moy. I'd already refused Deborah Messenger. And I was stuck here. I needed this job.

Fortunately by midafternoon the ebb and flow of the tournament gave me another shot at Parker Neill. I found him near the display, apparently watching events while he waited for something that might require his attention. By way of greeting, he took a turn bronzing my laurels, so I decided to risk a question that might interest Marshal.

"Got a minute?" All this courtesy made me sound positively unctuous.

Against the weight of his habitual sag, he lifted his vague nose to smile at me.

"Sure. For all I know, I've got twenty."

I smiled back to disguise what I had in mind.

"Maybe you can satisfy my curiosity. There's a rumor going around" I flapped a hand at the hall to indicate no particular source "that Anson Sternway and Sue Rasmussen are in bed together."

Suddenly I couldn't remember where I'd gotten the impression that Parker was plump. His flesh seemed to lift and tighten until it fit him like Spandex. Unexpected lightness almost raised him off the ground.

"Listen to me, Axbrewder." A curdling glare filled his face with threats.

With the index finger of his right hand, he reached out and touched me lightly over my heart.

Or it should've been lightly. He didn't put any force into it that I could see. But when he tapped me I felt a jab of pain as if he'd hammered an awl between my ribs. For an instant I couldn't breathe.

No one touches me. Not like that.

Reacting on instinct, I flung a punch at his head.

I'd always thought I was fast, but my fist didn't get anywhere near him. He slapped it aside effortlessly.

And he didn't give me a second chance. All at once he stood right in front of me, too close for blows. If I wanted a fight, I'd have to grapple with him.

What was left of my lucidity yelled at me to stop. Somehow I did.

Spectators and contestants sifted past us, but they seemed insubstantial, beyond notice. No one looked at the chops.

While I hunted for breath, Neill said coldly, "Anson Sternway is my sensei. Do you have any idea what that means? I respect him.

Absolutely. Unconditionally. He taught me he made me who I am. I don't listen to rumors about him."

I sneaked a little air into my lungs.