Wearily I added, "I've already spent enough time at Martial America to know that Lacone's security stinks. Sternway gave me the tour this afternoon."

My sense of fatigue grew. And the more I said, the worse it became.

For some reason, answering Ginny's question was harder than it had any right to be. Instead of continuing, I wanted to concentrate on my pains and confusion until they seemed big enough to excuse my failure to match her.

Probably I would've felt safer that way. Hadn't I spent most of our years together convincing myself that I couldn't hold up my end? I'd liked calling her my partner, but actually she'd been my boss. The one who made the decisions, took the responsibility. Kept me on my feet.

If I wanted a partner, I'd have to earn one.

Deliberately I opened my eyes and took a good look at the ceiling. When I'd located or imagined a small collection of spider webs that I'd missed in my various cleaning frenzies, I leaned my bulk off the couch, braced myself, and stood up.

"Brew ?" Uncertainty and concern complicated Ginny's gaze. The tension in her arms and shoulders made her look like she wanted to come help me stand. The effort of restraining herself sent slivers of reflection off the curve of her claw.

"I'll be right back." I intended my expression to be reassuring, but it didn't feel that way.

Stiffly I lumbered past her to the kitchen, where I moistened a couple of paper towels and picked up a broom. Then, rather like a sailboat navigating against too much wind, I tacked and hauled my way back into the living room.

"But security isn't the real issue," I resumed.

"Lacone will install obvious things like better locks and alarms as soon as the insurance company insists on them." I hardly sounded audible to myself, but Ginny looked like she could hear me.

"And whether or not the chops are genuine is secondary right now. The actual problem is that the chops are hot."

With a bit more effort than the job should've entailed, I draped the paper towels over the end of the broom. While Ginny stared, I angled toward the corner where I'd seen the spider webs.

"Hot as in stolen," I explained.

"And emotionally hot. One of the schools is Chinese. Their sifu considers the chops a national treasure, ripped off in a kind of cultural rape. He's practically quivering with outrage because right now the chops belong to a Japanese sensei in the same building.

"Both schools seem to think those chops are about honor personal, stylistic, national. And Sternway tells me that martial arts schools have a tradition of solving problems by beating the shit out of each other. Reclaiming their honor by main force."

In spite of my ribs, I stabbed damp towels at the offending webs. Sir Axbrewder in his armor, jousting with the Black Knight of Imperfect Cleanliness.

"On top of which" in retribution, my bruises made me groan "he talks like another school in the same building can't tell the difference between honor and ego. They're outraged because the chops give more 'face' than they've got. Sternway has spent hours trying to warn me about the likelihood of a three-way explosion although he can't say it in so many words because Lacone pays him to promote Martial America."

Panting weakly, I lowered the broom. Maybe I'd imagined the spider webs. Smudges on the towels, however, indicated that I'd cleaned something.

Patiently Ginny waited for me to go on. Her face wore the kind of expression you'd expect from a psychiatrist while a patient with multiple personalities argued with him selves

I needed to get to the point before I fell down.

"But it's more complicated than that," I told the end of the broom. At least to me.

"I spotted a team of thieves working the tournament. We rounded up the picks. The security guard who got killed" I could go that far without tarnishing my pledge to the Appelwaits "was trying to catch the drop."

Abruptly I shambled back to the kitchen. When I'd disposed of the towels and stashed the broom, I returned to the couch. Sitting down because I didn't want to collapse headlong, I said thinly, "That just doesn't make sense to me." I told her why. Then I added, "Since it doesn't make sense anyway, I can't shake the idea that there was something else going on. Something I missed.

"The only things worth killing for at that tournament and I mean the only things were those chops."

And whoever did it wouldn't stop until he had them, no matter how many people he had to kill.

Ginny waited until she was sure I was done. Then she suggested in a quiet voice, "Another one of your leaps."

"Maybe," I admitted.

She paused briefly before asking, "Does this have anything to do with getting beat up?"

I sighed as my sense of defeat renewed its grip.

"Turf Hard-shorn was the drop."

She whistled through her teeth.

"And now he's dead. Cute." I could almost hear her brain shuttle like a sewing machine on full throttle, stitching together pieces of the story that I hadn't bothered to mention. After another pause, she announced flatly, "You'll never know what he thought he was doing."

I almost countered, Not unless you trace that ID blocker. But I stopped myself in time. The idea had jumped into my head with the unmotivated inevitability of a post-hypnotic suggestion, and I didn't trust it. Sometimes intuition betrayed me. On occasion I'd pushed it so hard that it just went crazy.

What the fuck are you doing?

I wasn't ready to trust myself that far yet.

She went on stitching.

"So you have to make some assumptions. It's hard to believe he could be stupid enough to call attention to himself at that club if he killed the security guard. That seems to confirm your theory about another man in the restroom.

"You can also assume" she hesitated momentarily "this other man still wants the chops. If you don't get your hands on him, he might kill someone else."

Then she shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Brew." Her jaw tightened as if she were worried about my reaction.

"I don't get it. I can see why you think Hardshorn wasn't alone in the restroom. But the rest of it I don't see how you can assume the chops were involved."

When she said it that way, it sounded pretty implausible. I hadn't mentioned my conviction that Bernie had recognized his killer. That the killer had a hell of lot more to lose than a bag full of petty theft.

I also hadn't mentioned the flik.

Stubbornly I kept Bernie to myself.

She gave me another minute, just in case I wanted to come clean.

Deliberately she aimed her broken nose and her hawk's gaze off to one side so that I wouldn't have to face anything I preferred to avoid. In a vague way, I found myself wondering what had changed for her since I'd first contacted Marshal. Her attitude toward me had shifted in the past few days, and I didn't know why. But we still weren't on terms that would've allowed me to ask.

Finally she flicked a glance at me, then looked away again.

"You didn't ask for my advice." She'd resumed her neutral tone. Most of the tension had eased from her shoulders, but her claw still caught the light unsteadily.

"But I say, take it a step at a time. Maybe there's something you can do to defuse the problems in Martial America."

True, I hadn't asked. But that didn't stop me.