"Let me check my schedule." The clicking of a keyboard carried to my phone. She must've used a computer to keep track of her duties.

"Damn. Not tonight. I'll be at a seminar all evening." More clicking.

"How about dinner tomorrow?"

"Just tell me where and when."

She did. Not having a hand free, I didn't write any of it down. I didn't need to I was in no dancer of foreettine.

"Good," I said when she'd given me directions.

"That's a long wait, but I can probably keep my legs crossed until then."

She chuckled again.

"See that you do."

If this kept up, I'd drive into the side of a building. Somehow I forced myself to change the subject.

"In the meantime" I cleared my throat "how do you plan to get Nakahatchi's chops appraised? If you don't mind my asking."

After yesterday, I was sure that Posten would insist on speeding up the process.

Deborah took my abruptness in stride.

"No, I don't mind. You're on our side.

"We're in touch with an appraiser from New York. Rather well-known.

He's agreed to fly out next week for a substantial fee, of course."

I veered for a freeway ramp with my usual liquid grace.

"You mean there's no one local?" In sports-rich Garner?

"Well, there is," she admitted.

"A man named Carliss Swilley. He sells Oriental antiques. And he offers an appraisal service. He's an odious little pedant, but he has good credentials.

"However" she sighed mock-seriously "Watchdog's home offices are in New York. Naturally they don't think an authority from mere Garner has enough credibility to suit them."

Naturally. Even in Puerta del Sol, New Yorkers were famous for their cosmopolitan outlook on the rest of the country. But around here people probably resented it more.

"I get the picture. But I think it's a bad idea to wait that long. Bad for you, bad for Lacone." Not to mention bad for Nakahatchi.

"You need some kind of appraisal on paper right away. Even if the home offices insist on redoing it next week."

Deborah was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, I could barely hear her through the freeway noise.

"You think something might happen to the chops."

She didn't point out the obvious fact that I hadn't even seen Martial America yet. Or that she and Posten together probably had ten times my experience with this kind of security. For some reason she seemed to trust me.

"I do," I answered.

"But I can't explain it. I mean, there's nothing to explain. It's just a hunch. All I'm sure of is that Bernie wasn't killed by a petty thief. So why is he dead?

"As far as I know, he wasn't protecting anything valuable enough to kill for except those chops."

"I don't see the connection." I heard a frown in her voice.

"I don't either," I conceded.

She thought a bit longer, then said, "All right. I'm sure Sammy will back me on this. He's had the twitches ever since Saturday. I'll get back to you when I have something concrete."

"Thanks," I said sincerely. She hadn't lost her power to make me twang.

"You can reach me on my cell phone." I recited the number. When she said she had it, I shifted back to Bernie.

"But of course it might not have anything to do with the chops. Bernie may've been killed for something he knew, or was involved in. Can you tell me if he ever had any dealings with La-cone, or Martial America, or Nakahatchi? Watchdog? Anson Sternway? The IAMA? Outside his job, I mean."

I wasn't asking her to violate professional confidentiality. As she'd said, we were on the same side. Basically.

"Funny you should ask," she replied like it wasn't funny at all.

"I was thinking about that earlier. I guess," she explained, "Bernie's death upset me more than I realized."

I started to say that I knew what she meant, but she went on, "There's nothing in our computer about him other than the reports he filed for The Luxury on security issues and claims. Our records go back fifteen years, which is as long as we've been in business. In that time, he never had a policy with us, he wasn't used as a reference, his name doesn't show up on any other reports. And that includes our work with Martial America and the IAMA.

"So the short answer is no, he didn't have any dealings with Watchdog."

For some reason I wasn't surprised. Those chops had begun to haunt me.

"How about Lacone?" I asked without much hope.

"Sternway? Nakahatchi?"

Deborah sighed.

"I wouldn't know. I could always ask Alex, of course." She didn't try to hide her distaste.

"He'd like it if I wanted something from him. But we don't usually talk to Mr. Sternway. Sue Rasmussen handles insurance for the LAMA.

And we're in roughly the same position with Mr. Nakahatchi. We provide his liability coverage, but Mr. Komatori takes care of it for him."

Damn. I missed Puerta del Sol. At home I would've known exactly who to approach for information. Spend a couple of hours trolling dark bars and wasted shelters, buy cautious drinks for grizzled and weary Chicanos, Mestizos, Indians, ruined former Anglos dealers in seamy knowledge and I would've learned everything I needed about Bernie's private life. If he'd had one.

But not here. Here I'd have to do it the hard way.

Which wasn't Deborah's problem.