He nodded like he hadn't expected anything else.

"That's good." Then he added, "While you were inside, I talked to Master Soon and Soke Gravel, so you're covered there. You can introduce yourself whenever you have time, but they know why you're here now. I'm sure they'll cooperate with you."

I had the vague impression that I'd left my mouth open. For a moment I couldn't think of a thing to say.

"As far as I'm concerned," Sternway said evenly, "we're done for today.

Unless you have more questions?"

In self-defense I put on my own sunglasses and tried to kick my brain back into motion. With an effort, I admitted, "There's still a lot I don't understand about martial artists. And martial arts schools."

Grabbing the first detail that occurred to me, I asked, "Do T'ang and Komatori really handle all the business for their schools?"

Sternway nodded.

"I believe so, yes. It's a traditional arrangement. The highest ranking student takes care of the practical side of running a school, freeing the master to concentrate on higher matters. I may have mentioned that Sue Rasmussen fills the same role for me."

"That's it?" I insisted.

"Tradition?"

He smiled coldly.

"As I say, it's a traditional arrangement. But naturally common sense prevails. If the senior student isn't capable " He shrugged.

"As it happens, both Mr. T'ang and Mr. Komatori are more fully acclimated to this country than their masters. Wen's family moved here from Hong Kong when he was quite young. And Hideo was born in the US, although I think his parents are still Japanese citizens."

I considered that briefly.

"Then I guess I need to talk to either Komatori or Rasmussen."

"Why?" Sternway may've been genuinely curious.

"Apparently," I explained, "Hong feels insulted by the fact that Nakahatchi moved into Martial America ahead of him. I'd like to know why Nakahatchi did that."

Just how deep did the friction between Essential Shotokan and Traditional Wing Chun run?

"I can't help you." Sternway's interest seemed to dissipate.

"Sue handles the leases. That's one of the services the IAMA offers its members. I wasn't involved."

Which was another detail that didn't seem to fit. He wasn't mad at me for going back into Traditional Wing Chun without him. And he didn't know about Hong's history with Nakahatchi. Considering all the things he did know For a heartbeat or two I tried to look like I accepted his answer. Then I changed the subject.

"You mentioned T'ang's family. He told me that Sifu Hong has been inviting his relatives to join him here for years. Do you happen to know how many of them he has in Garner?"

All at once Sternway resumed his majesty. A muscle in his cheek gave his mouth a condescending twist.

"Sifu Hong isn't a gossip, Brew," he replied, unnecessarily patient.

"He doesn't chat with me about such things. But the last rumor I heard put the number around fifty."

I gaped behind my sunglasses. Fifty That would make one hell of a support system for a man who wanted to steal and hide a set of antique Wing Chun chops. Stories about triads flared through my head, Hong Kong gangs as bloody-minded as the Russian Mafia, with just as much reach.

If Hong didn't actually have all the honor I'd given him credit for Ah, shit. This damn job was getting messier by the hour.

Sternway gazed at me, blank as a sphinx.

"Are we done here?"

I jerked back into focus on him.

"Just one more question." My voice was harsher than I intended.

"You expected trouble from Hong. Earlier you said you wanted to introduce me so that you 'could defuse his distrust." But why would he distrust any of us? It can't have anything to do with me personally.

He doesn't know me. He must have a problem of some kind with you. Or Mr. Lacone.

"If you actually want me to do my job, you'd better tell me what's really going on here."

For a moment HRH seemed to study me behind his sunglasses. Then he barked a humorless laugh.

"No, Brew. This isn't another anthill. This time you're scuffing your shoes on bare dirt.

"Haven't you learned anything about the tensions that inevitably exist between martial arts styles? Are you completely ignorant of Japanese and Chinese history? In one form or another, they've been at war with each other for centuries. Despite vastly superior numbers, China has usually lost. What do you think it means to Sifu Hong that a traditional enemy, a traditionally victorious enemy, holds a precious piece of his own heritage?

"You disappoint me, do you know that? You should be able to understand that Sifu Hong doesn't distrust me or Mr. Lacone or the IAMA. He distrusts and resents Nakahatchi sensei."

That, apparently, was his final word on the subject. He turned away without saying goodbye and headed for the parking lot. The way he moved, fluid and fatal, made me think of nitroglycerin flowing downhill.

I probably should've believed him. Hell, I was just as ignorant as he accused me of being.

But I didn't. Instead I felt like he'd granted me a small epiphany, an intuitive glimpse into the heart of a city I didn't understand.

Suddenly I saw how Garner's night dwellers flourished in a place so full of light. Sunglasses. They carried pieces of darkness with them everywhere.

I didn't believe Anson Sternway for a variety of reasons. He wasn't pissed off after I'd kept him waiting so long. He was sure that Hong resented Nakahatchi, but he claimed he didn't know anything about their personal history.

And he kept so much of himself hidden.

Sixteen.

For a while I stood where I was, asking myself, What would Ginny do?

What would any smart person do? But nothing dramatic occurred to me, so I just did what came naturally.

Leaving Malaysian Fighting Arts and Tae Kwon Do Academy for tomorrow despite Master Soon's curious absence during Bernie's murder I went back to my rented Plymouth, fired it up, and cranked the AC as high as it would go. While the air cooled, I used my cell phone to call information and get Bernie's home number and address.

The address turned out to be an apartment building of some kind. When I tried the number, no one answered. Which wasn't a surprise he'd given me the distinct impression that he lived alone. And the cops had had plenty of time to finish with the place. After five rings a phone machine delivered an announcement in Bernie's querulous voice, but I didn't leave a message.

Instead I dug out my map.

I found his address maybe five miles diagonally across Garner from Martial America, in a small neighborhood where all the streets had kitsch-cowboy names like Quirt, Rowel, Stirrup, and Lariat. It sounded like the kind of blue-collar neighborhood people chose when they couldn't afford anything better. I planned a route, then kicked the Plymouth into gear.

Once I was out of the parking lot, I dialed the number I'd been given for Alex Lacone.