What the fuck are you doing?

For some reason, Hardshorn's last words ran on and on in my head, repeating themselves like a mantra. They could've meant anything.

I shook my head.

"Don't you have enough on me already?"

By then the second uniform had returned from the cruiser. He and his partner had finished an inspection of the alley, and were waiting for Moy at the door to the club.

"Warner," he told them, "Hanson, I'm officially furious at this low-rent private fuckup. I've just nailed his ears to the side of that Dumpster. You both heard me. We wouldn't want the lieutenant to think I'm getting soft."

They chuckled dutifully, but their hearts weren't in it.

The detective turned back to me.

"Did you understand me, Axbrewder? You've just been napalmed. If you don't keep your nose clean, I'll come back and scatter the ashes."

If his black skin hadn't hidden his face in the dark, I might've seen humor glint from his eyes.

There was nothing I could say, but he clearly didn't expect a response.

Pointing at the door, he asked Sternway, "Is that the only way in?"

Apparently Sternway had reconciled himself to the possibility that he might lose his hobby. Maybe his victory over Hardshorn consoled him.

"That's the back," he answered expressionlessly.

"I'll show you around to the front."

Moy paused him with one hand.

"Backup?" he asked Warner or Hanson.

One of them replied, "They're sending a couple of units. Should be here any time."

"Good.

"You've got this door," Moy instructed them.

"No one leaves until we're done. I'll wait at the front."

Then he beckoned for Sternway to lead the way.

As the IAMA director started past the Dumpster, Moy took hold of my arm, tugged me into a slow walk. I didn't have the heart to shrug him off.

"Are you all right?" he inquired privately.

That wasn't a question I could answer simply, so I avoided it.

"I've had worse beatings," I told him.

"I'll heal."

I could tell by his grip on my arm that he wanted to pry. Just what I needed right then, a cop with good instincts. Marshal had warned me that Moy's boredom, his air of indifference, was just camouflage. After a moment, however, he seemed to let his curiosity about me go. His hand slid off my arm.

Still keeping his voice low, he shifted his ground.

"What am I going to find in there?"

Beyond the Dumpster, the light improved. Now I could see the street at the end of the alley. Sternway strode on ahead, leading us out of darkness like a prophet.

I opened my hands instead of trying another shrug.

"It's a fight club. Sternway seems to like no-rules sparring.

"Those chops," I explained, "the antiques at the tournament. They've been moved to Martial America. The developer, Alex La-cone, hired me to keep them safe. Sternway is a consultant to Martial America. He gave me the tour this afternoon. While we were talking, he invited me here. He wanted me to see for myself why martial artists treat him like the Second Coming of Bruce Lee."

As far as I was concerned, my encounter with Turf Hardshorn was coincidental entirely.

Moy considered this while we rounded the front of the building and headed for the alley where Sternway and I had parked. Or maybe he just wondered how much sleep he'd get tonight. In the distance ahead, I saw a couple of cruisers come briskly down the street, no lights or sirens.

They may've thought they were incognito. As Moy and I followed our guide toward the cul-de-sac parking lot, he changed the subject again.

"You're done here, Axbrewder. Go to an emergency room. Get Sternway to drive you. I owe your buddy Viviter more than a couple of favors.

If you collapse from internal bleeding, I'll feel like I've let him down." A moment later he added sardonically, "I love your theory about Appelwait's killer. But it's just a theory. You're supposed to be an investigator. Show me some evidence."

For a mercy, the parts of my chest that felt slain had stopped spreading. Unfortunately this seemed to aggravate my bruises. Or were they torn muscles? Cracked ribs? They sent out small licking tendrils of pain like flame on splashed gasoline.

On the plus side, I could hear almost normally.

If the lab ever tested those fibers from Bernie's throat, Moy would get all the evidence he needed.

Despite my chest, I would've preferred crawling home to a ride with

HRH.

"You might need Sternway," I said speciously. He'd saved my life, hadn't he?

"When I get to my car, I can sit down. That'll help. And I have a phone. I can call someone."

Moy grunted noncommittally. As if the question related to needing Sternway, he asked, "What should we look for in there?"

Navy blazers? Not likely.

"You figure it out," I sighed between tongues of fire. He knew the drill as well as I did.

"I'm too tired."

By then we'd reached the hidden parking lot. I leaned against the Plymouth for a minute, mustering my strength. Sternway waited for us a few yards closer to the club's front door.