"Like what?"

"Have you considered getting the what did you call him? the sifu of that Chinese school to authenticate the chops?"

I stared at her.

"If he decides they're fakes," she explained, "he might relax. And even if he thinks they're genuine, he might take being consulted as a sign of respect. It might give him 'face." That could tone down his outrage."

Damn. My jaw dropped involuntarily, and I couldn't stop staring. How did she do that?

Now I remembered why I'd always thought she was wonderful.

She met my stare.

"Well?"

Somehow I swallowed my astonishment.

"That," I said hoarsely, "is a horrible idea."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't think of it. And it might work. I don't see how Hong can turn it down. He's too serious to pass it up. The only tricky part " I swallowed again.

"I'll have to convince the Japanese sensei to go along with it."

But I didn't actually think he'd object.

"Virginia H. Fistoulari." A helpless grin twisted my bruises.

"If I'd come up with that one myself, I'd call it brilliant."

Ginny clicked her claw once or twice. Her eyes smoldered humorously.

"You don't have to.

"Brilliant' is my middle name."

"Really?" I knew for a fact that her middle name was Harriet.

"I thought the H stood for 'hacksaw."

" This time she grinned back.

"That's what you're supposed to think."

"Well, damn. I wish you hadn't told me. Now I'll be up half the night, trying to figure out how many His 'brilliant' has."

"No, you won't." Abruptly she stood up, cocked her fist on her hip like an indignant schoolmarm.

"If you don't put yourself to bed immediately, I'll club you unconscious. I said you look terrible in a good way, but you still look terrible."

I did what she told me. I had a lot of work ahead of me if I could get back out of bed in the morning. And taking her orders still felt as natural as sunshine. Muttering complaints I didn't mean, I climbed off the couch and lurched toward my bedroom.

As soon as I got my clothes off and stretched out, I plunged into sleep like a fall off a tall building.

Nineteen.

During the night, patterns took shape inside me. Strands of inference that had nothing to do with my conscious mind wove toward a conclusion, unseen. By the time my alarm went off, I knew beyond all reason or argument that the chops were the key to Bernie's death.

And that the man with Hardshorn in The Luxury restroom wouldn't hesitate to kill again.

How I'd reached that conviction I couldn't guess. I tried to understand it as I stumbled into the bathroom, but both the reasoning and the implications eluded me. A cold shower didn't help. Neither did shaving. And the deep bruises across my ribs only confused the issue. All I knew for sure was that I'd better get to work before more people died for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I hated intuition when it worked this way. It seemed to do more harm than good. I had no idea who to protect. Or who to protect against.

The more I thought about it, the more it eroded my confidence.

Fortunately that effect was counterbalanced by last night's talk with Ginny. Somehow we'd begun to repair the damage we'd inflicted on each other. Maybe I was finally starting to accept her relationship with Marshal. Or to accept that she had a right to it, whether I liked it or not.

Also my torso and arms didn't hurt as badly as I'd expected. Hardshorn had hit me hard enough to flatten a utility shed, but the emotional impact of the blows didn't linger, despite my bruises.

The fact that Ginny and I could talk to each other now meant more to me than almost any number of battered ribs.

She'd left the apartment before I got up, depriving me of a chance to see what her new attitude looked like in the light of day. I didn't fret over it, however. I had plenty of other things to worry about.

Since I didn't own a second suit, I put on contrasting slacks and a clean shirt. While I cooked breakfast, I sorted through some of the clutter in my head, which in turn enabled me to make a decision or two.

By the time I'd eaten, washed the dishes, extracted a few phone numbers from directory assistance, and bolstered the .45 under my jacket, I was approximately ready to face the day.

Outside the sun had already sunk its teeth into Garner's concrete. The Plymouth smelled vaguely of sweat, baked vinyl, and yearning. It didn't want to start, but on the third try it limped to life. When the AC had circulated enough stale heat to begin cooling, I headed for Martial America.

Piously hoping that I wouldn't get lost, I attempted a route that didn't rely on Garner's freeways. I wanted to make some calls along the way, and I figured I'd be safer on surface roads.

First things first. Before anything else, I called Marshal's cell phone. When he answered, I said, "Thanks for the warning," even though I hadn't profited from it much.

"Brew?" he asked.

"I now know the truth," I announced. The street I'd picked seemed to lead in the right direction.

"I can tell you whatever you want to know about "Sternway's nights out."

" Marshal wasn't amused.

"Does this mean," he demanded crisply, "you've decided to dispense with politeness entirely? It's customary to identify yourself when you call. In case you hadn't noticed, cell phones make it tough to recognize voices."

"Oh, don't be so touchy." His reaction surprised me, but I didn't take it seriously.

"I call Lacone 'sir' whenever I talk to him. How much politeness do you think I can stand?"

Apparently my attitude made him madder.