"Glad'?" The word came out like a croak.

"Are you sure?"

Slowly she raised her head to show me another slight smile that resembled recognition.

"Well " Then her mouth twisted.

"Glad enough for government work, anyway."

That was more consideration than I'd ever given her.

A moment later she asked like a sigh, "And you're all right now?"

Ruefully she admitted, "Tonight I can't tell."

I shrugged against the back of the couch, trying to adjust my heart so it would fit in my chest.

"I've got a new job, if that's what you mean." Obviously it wasn't.

But I didn't know how else to tell her what she needed to hear.

"I should be able to pay my share of the bills."

I meant to stay, if she did.

She nodded. Apparently she could accept whatever I had the strength to offer.

She sat where she was for a minute or two, her eyes shrouded. Then she pushed herself to her feet.

"I'm going to bed," she informed me quietly.

"I need to get an early start tomorrow."

As did I. But I let her go without saying so.

Someday, I promised myself, someday I was going to ask about her job with Marshal. I was going to let her see that I wanted to know. But not now. For the time being it was enough that we'd survived.

Maybe tomorrow I didn't get the chance then, however. When she said early, she meant early. By the time I'd lugged my carcass out of bed, she was already gone. Which may've been just as well, under the circumstances. I had plenty of other things to think about.

So I thought about them without making much progress while I showered, shaved, put on clean clothes, ate breakfast, started a load of laundry, tidied the apartment, and finally wedged myself back into the Subaru.

By nine o'clock I was back at The Luxury, heading for the Security office. Despite Garner's unrelieved heat, I wore my rather limp suit jacket to conceal the .45 under my arm.

Slade was on duty, holding down Bernie's desk until The Luxury named a successor. His manner didn't inspire confidence, but eventually he managed to steer me through some final paperwork and hand me a check.

It was the biggest check I'd seen with my name on it in years.

Nevertheless I didn't pause to congratulate myself. First things first. From The Luxury I went to a bank and exchanged the check for cash. Then I used my map to locate a cellular phone store.

With a phone I could get to work.

Sitting in the Subaru with the engine running and the AC on high, I called Professional Investigations and asked for Marshal.

Beatrix Amity greeted me like I'd never been rude to her in my life.

"Just a moment, Mr. Axbrewder. Mr. Viviter asked me to put you through. I'll just make sure he's available."

Which reminded me that I still didn't know what the hell he got out of being so nice to me. My rather bitter theory that he was just doing Ginny a favor had started to look pretty tattered.

He kept me waiting for five minutes or so. Then he came on the line.

"Brew?" The connection made him sound less sincere than usual.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. I thought I'd hear from you, but I was in the middle of something when you called."

I also didn't know why he bothered to apologize. I was just riding his coattails I didn't actually work for him. He owed me nothing.

"I've got time," I told him brusquely. That was as close as I could come to courtesy on short notice at least with him.

"Did you get anything?"

"Tut tut." Despite my phone's inadequacies, I heard a grin in his tone.

"I've already talked to you about your manners." Then he went on more seriously, "And if you don't have any legal standing in this case, I certainly don't. Why do you assume I can get anything?"

"Because you like Bernie," I retorted.

"And because you know there's something wrong about his death."

Deliberately I didn't add, And because I asked you. That means something to you. For the same reason you got me a job.

"Like why he's dead," Marshal observed.

"But there's more," I continued.

"Whoever did it took the weapon." Briefly I told him about Bernie's flik and my decision not to inform Moy.

He considered that for a long moment.

"You're saying," he pronounced softly, "he didn't accidentally end up dead. You're saying he was murdered."

"I'm not sure about premeditation," I added.

"Unless Bernie had skeletons in his closet " I let the idea hang.

"But the goon who did it isn't even trying to pretend self-defense. As far as I'm concerned, that spells 'intention."

" And a desire to make the intention known.

Marshal got the point. His manner turned businesslike.