Damn it, the sonofabitch had no business treating me so gently. But I knew perfectly well why I hated his attitude with such vehemence, and it had nothing to do with him. His only real fault was that he reminded me too much of the man I wished I were.

Still grasping at straws, I changed directions again.

"While you had him on the phone, did Moy happen to mention whether Bernie left a will?"

Marshal chuckled at that.

"He shouldn't have, but he did. Just trying to get me off his back.

"It seems Bernie left a respectable estate. Nothing excessive for a senior security guard who knew how to save, but respectable. He left it all to his sister Maureen. No other bequests."

I thought about Maureen Appelwait in her nursing home, and wondered if she'd forgotten again that her brother was dead.

"Damn it," I groaned.

"I don't like this."

"It doesn't have to be fair," Marshal said in my ear.

"If you wanted fair, you should've gone into accounting."

I took the phone away from my head and stared at it for a while. In a funny way, I thought I had gone into accounting. Wasn't that what private investigators did? Account for things?

Who would account for Bernie, if I didn't? Alyse didn't seem to have any other volunteers handy. But I was too tired to explain myself to Marshal.

When I lifted the phone to my ear again, I heard him saying, "Brew?

Brew?"

"Sorry," I muttered.

"I had to think for a minute."

"You worry me," he retorted a bit stiffly, "you know that? Nobody recovers from a gut wound in only a month, and yet here you are, wearing yourself out over a man you hardly knew. I admit his death doesn't make sense. But most crimes don't. And this one isn't your problem. It's Moy's. He can handle it better than you can. He has the resources to track it down. You don't.

"Take my advice, Brew. Go home. Get some rest. Concentrate on keeping Alex Lacone happy."

Actually I disagreed with him. Most crimes did make sense. Maybe they all did. They might look random or gratuitous from the outside, but on the inside they all had their own logic. People did what they did for reasons. Crazy reasons, sometimes, stupid or malicious reasons, careless reasons, misguided but reasons. The man who'd killed Bernie and taken the flik had reasons. They just didn't involve Bernie personally.

Before I hung up, I said, "I appreciate what you're doing for me, Marshal. I know I don't sound like it. I suppose that's because I don't understand you." Or because I thought I did and I hated it.

"But you've already done more than I had a right to ask for, and I want to say thanks."

He replied with a snorting noise.

"In other words, no, you won't take my advice. OK. You're a big boy now. You can probably make your own decisions. What are you going to do?"

I shrugged at the nearest sailing ship.

"I have a date with Sternway. He wants to show me where he gets his credibility in the martial arts.

"One way or another," I added aimlessly, "all Lacone's plans for Martial America seem to depend on Sternway's credibility."

"Brew " Marshal stopped himself, then started again.

"Have you still got that cannon you showed me the other day?"

"Sure." I carried it like a weight on my heart. I'd killed my brother with it. Without it I felt incomplete.

"Why?"

"Just a precaution." He sounded a bit too casual for my taste.

"I've heard rumors about Sternway's nights out."

Apprehension crawled like a line of ants across my belly.

"Such as?"

"Such as rumors, that's all," Marshal replied tartly.

"I couldn't guess whether they're true or not." His tone lightened for a moment.

"Tomorrow you'll be able to tell me." Then he seemed to bear down.

"Just don't let him talk you into anything that strikes you as odd."

Odd? I muttered to myself. Anson Sternway? No shit.

Aloud I said, "I'm safe then. The way I feel tonight, he couldn't talk me into buying him a drink."

With evident relief, Marshal replied, "Good."

After that he reminded me to call him when I'd talked to Moy. Finally we managed to hang up.

Staring vacantly at the ceiling, I thought, Rumors? Oh, joy.

So far I hadn't liked anything that working for Lacone had gotten me into.

Seventeen.

I might've just sat there for an hour or two, drinking the occasional glass of water and hating Bernie's death, but it was obvious that I couldn't. While I'd been on the phone, Alyse's smile had taken on an expectant tinge. Didn't I have places to go? she appeared to ask kindly. Questions to ask? Ideas to pursue? Or maybe behind her angelic beam she just looked worried.

And I was running out of time.

I felt too tired to eat anything. Just climbing to my feet and leaving Bernie's apartment without cleaning it some more seemed to exhaust my reserves of willpower and tough-mindedness. By the time I reached the Plymouth, I ached to sprawl on the floor behind the seats and take a nap.

So I decided to act like a grown-up for a change. If nothing else, I needed to shore up my nerves for one of Sternway's "nights out."

Ignoring the steady nag of my watch, I pulled out of Bernie's neighborhood and went cruising for another fast-food joint. I didn't start to pick my way across Garner toward Martial America until I'd visited the drive-through of a generic chicken place and taken plenty of napkins to absorb the grease.