"You asked several questions about Bernie," he said more briskly.

"Past dealings with Watchdog or Lacone, and so on. I can't begin to answer them unless I assign someone to dig into it and I still wouldn't have any standing.

"But " He paused for effect, then admitted, "Luckily Moy owes me a couple of favors. I have a copy of the ME's report."

Sweat ran down my ribs despite the AC.

"And ?"

Now Moy knew I wasn't going to leave Bernie's death alone.

"Death consistent with being hacked in the throat with a thin blunt object. Crushed larynx, asphyxiation. No surprise there.

"Flecks of enamel paint in the wound. Again, no surprise."

The marks I'd seen on the walls of the stall must've been made while Bernie fought for his life. While he still had a grip on the flik. Its coils would've picked up a lot of paint.

"Also," Marshal went on, "fibers of dark blue cloth. From a navy blazer, apparently. Which by coincidence," he remarked sourly, "is what Bernie was wearing at the time."

I practically held my breath.

"Did the ME match those fibers to Bernie's blazer?"

I heard pages flip.

"Doesn't say so here."

"Damn it." In frustration I rapped the steering wheel with the knuckles of one fist.

"That's sloppy."

"You're in a charitable mood this morning." Marshal wasn't amused.

"Have you forgotten who didn't tell Moy about the flik?"

I swore again to myself this time. Moy didn't know Bernie had been killed with his own weapon. The detective had no reason to think those fibers might've come from someone else's blazer.

Every guard at The Luxury, as well as everyone who worked the tournament for the IAMA, wore a navy blazer. Not to mention the inevitable dozen or so spectators. For three days those blazers had been as common as gear-bags.

Groping, I asked, "What about bruises? Other marks on the body?

Anything that suggests where the fibers came from?"

I meant, Anything other than my own bad judgment?

"Let me see," Marshal murmured. More pages flipped. Then he reported, "Contusions on the knuckles of the right hand. More flecks of paint."

Bernie must've struck his hand while defending himself.

"Bruises around the right wrist." Made when his assailant grabbed him to take away the flik.

"And a deep one on the left cheek." A blow to stun him.

"The ME says the bruises occurred immediately before death. None match the death wound. They weren't made by the same weapon.

"In other words, still no surprises. At least for us." After a moment, Marshal added with less sarcasm, "If I were Moy, I'd want to know which hand the assailant used. The ME doesn't say."

Oh, perfect. That was genuinely sloppy. It made a difference. Left hand to right wrist, right hand free to strike. A punch to the cheek, snatch the flik, and swing. Bernie could've been killed in one motion.

Continued action possible accident or miscalculation. But right hand to right wrist, left hand out of range. Especially in a restroom stall. In that case, Bernie must've been killed by a separate motion.

His assailant had to switch hands in order to strike. Which implied a greater degree of intention.

Before I could complain, however, Marshal said, "In fact, I think I'll mention that to Moy. Professional curiosity, and so on. I was going to call him anyway" a grin sparkled in his voice "thank him for his generosity. Who knows? A question like that may make him look at the case harder."

Damn Marshal Viviter, anyway. He got harder to dislike every day. If I actually had to stop hating him, I'd probably go crackers. Crushed Saltines all the way.

Ginny'd left me for a better man. Just as I'd always feared.

Chagrin made me crabby chagrin and ego. Instead of thanking him, I demanded abruptly, "Are you going to research Bernie?" I may've sounded just a touch ungracious.

Another man a lesser man would've snapped back, but Marshal didn't give me that satisfaction.

"You still haven't told me why," he countered reasonably.

Of course I hadn't. I wasn't exactly proud of relying on him like this. Nevertheless I owed him. He'd already given me more help than I had any right to. And I had nowhere else to turn.

Swallowing my pride or at least my defensiveness I answered him as well as I could.

"Bernie wasn't killed by the drop. Over a few watches and

wallets? I don't think so. There was someone else in the rest-room.

Someone with a hell of a lot more to lose." Or to gain.

"Don't ask me what. Or why he and the drop were together. All I'm sure of is that Bernie recognized him, and he didn't want Bernie to identify him."

I sighed, thinking of the Security Chief's fragile corpse, the sheer pointlessness of his death.

"The only thing worth killing for at the tournament," I explained, "were those antiques. But maybe there's something in Bernie's past.

Something that connects him to someone at the tournament indirectly."

Marshal didn't say anything for a moment. Then he reached a decision.

"All right," he announced firmly.

"I'll look into it. But there's only so much I can do without legal standing.

"In the meantime, what have you got for me?"

I couldn't help noticing that he agreed to what I wanted before he asked for anything back. No quid pro quo.

Ashamed of myself, I made an effort to tone down my sarcasm.