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I'd like to have lingered over the tea; instant or not, it was warm, as was the kitchen, and the company was good. I learned that other required services to the McMansion were provided by independent contractors. No big snows for the past few weeks or more, so no one to clear the driveway and walks; gardeners and groundskeepers not expected until the next day. In this distressingly electronic age, no newspaper delivery, and the mail carrier didn't get closer than the cluster of boxes at the foot of the lane. No one beyond the cook and the maid would have any information about what went on in the house, what Glover was like. No doubt, I'd find that he treated tradespersons well, perhaps tipped appropriately or even a little extravagantly, but not too much. Not flashy, just genuinely generous. "Nice" would be the adjective used. A flabby, lame word that unintentionally slights the recipient.

With the rest of the merry band of blue-suits and snoops out of the way, it seemed inappropriate for me to linger. Usually, I'd have been Rhett Butler about it, but I took into account that both cook and housemaid might be in for even worse treatment if I kept them from tending to Her Highness' needs. I made my way to my car -- the only one left on the lane, at this point -- and climbed inside before getting out my cell phone. Every time I take it out of my pocket and brush a pawpad across the surface to wake it up, I'm reminded that it's not really a phone; it's a small, powerful computer that, almost as an afterthought, can connect by voice (and video, if desired) to similar compact devices, laptops, computers, and even -- as I sense yowens everywhere shuddering at the thought -- land lines. I had so few contacts that the "Recent Calls" section of the phone (oh, excuse me, the phone app) had all the numbers I needed to dial. I touched one and held the small rectangle with appropriate reverence while it allowed itself to be reduced to the function I used most.

"Crandall," grumped a harsh voice.

"Luton checking in," I allowed.

"Remind me."

"Glover, called in as a suicide."

The pause on the line was expected; it was the duration that would make the difference. Captain Ambrose Crandall, who avoided using his first name at almost all cost, suffered also from a few clichés that made his life difficult when dealing with those who wouldn't see past them. He was a bulldog, known for being tough and for not tolerating impertinence or incompetence well. Tenacious, hard-working, by-the-book, Crandall was as incorruptible as it was possible for someone in today's police force to be. As I mentioned before, money talks, and sometimes, it talks to people way above our pay grade, and we get our instructions filtered through the layers.

A short pause was the time it took the cap'n to remember specifics of the case I'd mentioned. A longer pause might mean that he was figuring out if he had room to go by the Book or the Boss. A significantly long pause would mean that he was trying to figure out which rules to bend and to find a good reason for doing it. Either that, or precisely how much tail he was going to chew off, and by what method.

Short pause. "Routine?"

"Glover was right-pawed, the gun was in his left, and the sword was in his right."

"Say again?"

I did.

This pause was covered by a deep inhalation. I braced for chewing, although I didn't think things had gotten quite that far. "Okay," he began, breathing out slowly. "What have you got?"

"Daimler will have the autopsy later, but he doubts he'll find anything other than the obvious. CSI will have the photos for us; the gun is being traced, and I've requested that the sword be analyzed for composition, any hint of who made it, all of that. Wife denies any hint of suicidal tendencies or any threats made by others. Only household staff is a cook and a housemaid; they didn't have much to add. I'll make a report on them today."

"Background?"

"Clean," I said, hoping Allison's juvie record wouldn't pop.

Brief pause -- the thought-gathering type. "You want something."

"The law firm. Just to make it complete."

"What are you sniffing, Luton?"

"Just trying to make it add up, boss. If it's a murder made to look like a suicide, not only was it bass-ackward, it was also too weird to put the sword in his paw. Even the wife isn't sure where the sword came from; as she put it, 'it's not on display.' It had to have been brought out from somewhere, which brings us back to suicide, seems to me. Even if it's really suicide, same questions apply. I want to see if there's any further motive for murder or suicide. Workplace is next."

"Avoid ruffling fur, feathers, or overstuffed egos. Keep it civil."

"You want me to look stupid?"

"Just innocent should work."

"Too late."

"For both of us." He hung up before either of us could take that further.

I set the superbeast on the dash, picked up the folder from the passenger seat, and thumbed through it. The background sheet on Glover included his work address. Finding it would be easy. I've been told that I could rig the All-Knowing Slab to respond to anything I cared to call it, but I haven't gotten around to making it answer to a proper name like HAL, Colossus, or Joshua. I'd rather go classical and holler out, "Omniscient Oracle of Delphi, I beg a boon." Instead, I got the right app, spoke the address, and let some presumably female voice give me directions. I'm told I could get other voices as well, and I might look into that, just so I could have someone I could call a friend.

Making myself stop dwelling on such happy matters, I started the car, put it in gear, and followed the electronic breadcrumbs to wherever I was supposed to go next.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The law firm of Langston, Kilgallen, and Mondekirke took up an entire floor of a downtown high-rise, which was fine with them since they owned the building. They owned a lot of buildings, according to various sources (including their own PR department), and the firm was known for what used to be called "sharp practice" until the distinction was blurred by phrases like "a healthy bottom line" and "strong economy." I'm sure that "caveat emptor" should have been in there somewhere, but it's not politically correct.

A badge can get you past security well enough; it's not always so good with secretaries. I arrived on the 11thfloor and was met by a well-dressed Shiba Inu who welcomed me with that flavor of artificial bonhomie reserved for those who really don't want to have to deal with you. She escorted me through the lobby area, which was decorated in classic Conservative Ostentation style, past some rooms that appeared to be for general consults, and finally into another waiting area, where she passed me over to another secretary who had just padded out of a nearby office. I reintroduced myself, offered credentials (which the ringtail regarded with a wholly professional level of disdain), asked to speak to someone about Glover.

"Mr. Glover hasn't arrived this morning," she informed me. "Perhaps you'd like to make an appointment?"

"I'm here on official business, not personal. I'd like to speak to Mr. Glover's superior, perhaps one of the partners."

"Do you have some complaint against Mr. Glover?"

I stole a glimpse at the sign next to the door that she had come out of. "Ms. Watson, do you work with Mr. Glover?"

"I'm the firm's general manager."

"Then I must report to you that you'll have one less person to manage. Thomas Glover is dead."

Perhaps because she worked for a law firm, perhaps for more personal reasons, the ringtail didn't flinch at the news. "When?"

"This morning."

"Was he in an accident?"

"What happened to him was quite intentional. Perhaps I could speak to someone in charge now?"

She showed no sign of fluster, instead moving to a desk that was bare save for a phone. Sitting in the chair behind it, she made a call to someone else, saying only that "Detective Luton needs a few moments of Mr. Langston's time." After a moment, the word "Official" came out. Something more was said on the other end, and the kinkajou disconnected. "Ms. Stokes will be with you in one moment."

I did my best to keep my stoic as much as she, wondering why it was necessary for either of us. The office manager of a large law firm probably had a lot to do on any given day, yet Ms. Watson sat with her forepaws folded on the empty desk before her, her dark eyes looking at some point past my right hip. Torn between what used to be called "common decency" and professional duties, I hesitated asking any questions for just long enough to be addressed by a well-dressed female cougar bearing down on me from somewhere further down the corridors.

"Detective Luton? Jeanine Stokes, confidential secretary to Mr. Langston. May I ask what this is concerning?"

"I believe you just did."

"Then perhaps you'd care to answer me."

"Thomas Glover is dead."

A response at last, although I mentally banged my wrists together above my head: personal foul, unnecessary roughness. The cougar paused, long enough to tell me that there was a connection of some kind. What kind, or how deep, I couldn't say.

Her brows came together briefly. "Detective..." Swiftly, her demeanor became professional again. "This way, please."

She led me down a hallway, bringing me through her own large office before knocking on the door to the inner sanctum. The "come in" was chiseled, all business, but not necessarily unkind. The cougar opened the door and waved me through, following to introduce me to the big boss.

It was a corner office, of course, with the huge windows to emphasize the point. On one wall, a solid mass of law books, notably from Corpus Juris Secundum, all kept in pristine condition. They were a form of collectable, by this time; everything was computerized, from cases to the cross-referencing database, with no real need to go back to "dead tree" editions. Like everything else in the office, including a desk of a size that could be used as a runway for small planes and chairs that had to have cost a packet at Ethan Allen, it was a carefully-designed set piece to reassure clients that every possible contingency for success had been covered. The more subtle variation of this truth is that the success would be guaranteed for the firm and only tangentially for the client. Again, the phrase "caveat emptor" came to mind.

Rising slowly behind his desk, the great gray rhinoceros, clad in finely-tailored clothing likely to be worth a month or two of a working fur's salary, provided his best imitation smile while his black eyes maintained their calculating assessment of the situation. Gregory Victor Langston dealt in real estate at levels to rival the worst land barons of earlier centuries. His was a household name in the same way that other infamous names become well-known: He did things that made the rich puff out their chests and the rest of us wonder just how badly we'd be affected. He did not offer a forepaw to me; that, I suspected, went to those who closed deals with him.

"What is this about, Detective..." He flicked a glance to the secretary, who provided my name for him. Secretaries do that.

"I regret to inform you," I said, breaking out the diplomacy as per my orders, "that Thomas Glover is dead. I've been assigned to the case."

"What 'case?' What happened to him?"

"It appears to have been suicide, although there are some unusual aspects that I'm looking into."

The cougar made some small sound that I couldn't decipher. Langston's beady black eyes flicked disapprovingly in her direction, then back to me. "What is it that you want of me, Detective?"

I got my notepad out, as the lawyer's mental script would have demanded I do. "Just being thorough. What can you tell me about Glover's current work?"

Resuming his chair, the rhino followed the script that I expected. "You know that I can't discuss cases with you."

"Of course not, sir. I just need background, if possible."

"Why?"

"As I say, I'm being thorough. The body was found this morning and, given the circumstances, I can't be sure if it was actually a suicide or a murder made to look like suicide."

"What circumstances?"

"I'm sure you know that I can't discuss specifics of the case, sir."

Rhino hides aren't supposed to "bristle," but his attitude made it clear that I had scored the point. "A lawyer, by nature of his profession, has enemies, including the law itself."

"Then you suspect murder?"

His laugh was probably meant to be good-natured. "Not at all. I thought you might want a quote for your prehistoric notepad. Honestly, Detective... papyrus and quills?"

"I wouldn't think that you'd prefer I used electronic equipment. These days, they seem capable of recording so very much."

My technique wasn't going to win me points with my boss. My hope was that I hadn't riled the attorney enough for him to complain, merely to comply. I got lucky.

"No," the pachyderm said in low tones. "I doubt that Glover was murdered. He didn't have the right temperament, if you follow me."

"I'm not sure that I do."

"Detective, I'm not a criminal defense lawyer, although I certainly am aware of the law and of the rudiments of your own profession. To be murdered, one must be deserving of it, in someone's eyes. Your concern is murder disguised as suicide, so you assume either the cover-up of a crime of passion or premeditation."

"I can say that circumstances preclude a cover-up."

He flipped over a forepaw. "Premeditated murder implies that the victim is something, or has done something, heinous enough to merit being killed. Glover doesn't fit that profile."

"He didn't do anything?"

"Not sufficient to warrant this, no." From an ornate box at the side of his desk, Langston produced a narrow cigar that might even have been paw-rolled. He did not offer one to me, not that I'd have taken it. "He was a quiet, competent, hard-working... legal hack, for lack of a more gracious term. A good worker, precise, thorough, but not enthusiastic. I had the idea that he had become a lawyer for reasons other than the law. That's a mistake."

"How long had he worked for you?"

The rhino considered briefly as he fired up his high-class stogie with an electronic lighter that looked far too small for his large forepaw. "Twelve years, thereabouts." He proceeded to build a fog bank around himself, either unaware or uncaring of the rules about smoking indoors anymore. "Came from a smaller firm in Massachusetts, wanted a bigger field for his particular knack for real estate law."

"Before that?"

"Public defender, upstate New York somewhere. Rochester, maybe Syracuse, somewhere. Got there fresh from law school."

Langston's ability to pull that from memory so quickly spoke either to a remarkable memory or to Glover being more important to the firm than the rhino was letting on. I made more scribbles in my notepad, if only to make it look good. "A good real estate lawyer. So may I assume that the case he was working on had something to do with real estate?"

The pachyderm smiled very quickly. Lawyers do that when they're uncomfortable or preparing to snap shut the trap. "You aren't easily sidetracked, Detective."

"Actually, I am. I get my attention pulled away by darting squirrels and flying disks. I just have this peculiar quirk that lets me remember when a question hasn't been answered."

"My answer was that I can't discuss specifics of the case."

"Glover specialized in real estate, and I know that it had something to do with evicting squatters." To the concerned look on the rhino's features, I replied, "His wife."

"Figures," he grunted, making more fog.

I flipped a page in the notebook, wondering how long it would take to get the stink of that fancy cheroot out of my fur, not to mention my nose. "Was the case serious enough to warrant getting Glover out of the way?"

"Wouldn't do any good. Glover prepared it all, and he'd present it in court to answer challenges, but I'm the attorney of record; the case itself would go on without him."

"Naturally."

Cold, obsidian eyes marked me where I stood. I remained immune to what he probably thought of as a Medusan stare. "That's all the time that I can spare you, Detective."

"A final question." I gave the statement credence by pocketing the notebook and pen. "Do you know anything about a sword in Glover's possession?"

The merest fraction of hesitation. "No." He turned to the cougar. "Jeanine, I need you to put someone in Glover's place immediately. I'm sure the Detective can find his own way out."

Turning to the feline, I saw a moment of hesitation in her as well, a flash of the real furson behind the professional exterior, before she silently indicated the door. I thanked her and moved through her office and into the hall, momentarily wishing that I'd thought to bring a ball of twine with me. Before I had a chance to feel too lost, I saw a face I recognized. The general manager's anxious black-and-white tail told a complex story that I only caught part of. Ringtails aren't common in my world.

"Do you need something, Detective Luton?"

I returned the courtesy. "Looking for the elevators, Ms. Watson" I said, working to put a smile on my muzzle.

"This way. Would you mind if we stopped by my office on the way? I need to pick up some papers."

"Of course," I demurred. It was an easy code to decipher; I wondered why she felt compelled to use it.

I recognized the small waiting area, once we'd found it again. I followed her into her office, discovering that, for a firm which dealt in real estate, the bosses had no concept of allocating space. Langston's office was unnecessarily huge, while the furson overseeing the essential needs of organizing the whole show was put into a space overcrowded by the materials required to make it all work. The waiting area felt larger.

She didn't close the door; she simply kept her voice low. "The case was supposed to be heard this morning. The judge's chambers should have called by now, with an angry notification of the absence. With no one there to represent the complainants, the respondents may get a judgment in their favor; at the least, they'll have a reprieve. Here." She passed over a paper that looked very official.

"This is...?"

"A copy of the docket information. The court will have the filing. It's public record."

I considered the information. "Why is Langston being so cagey? He would have to know that we'd find all this out eventually."

"He gives nothing for nothing." She glanced at the door, then back to me. "I think he sometimes gives nothing for something."

My nose twitched, and not from the smell of that stinking cigar. What stayed my further questions was twofold: That sort of fraud wasn't my case, and I didn't want to get the ringtail into trouble. I had the feeling that there'd be enough of it without my hiking a leg on the pile.

"Thank you, Ms. Watson," I said softly. "May I contact you if I need you further?"

She reached behind her, taking a business card from a small stack. "My direct line is on there. Please, let me know what you find." She paused before saying, "I don't think he'd have had anything to do with it."

I knew who she meant, nodding as if I understood what "it" might be. I gave her a card of my own, jutting my chin to the door. "Let's not draw attention."

Her eyes thanked me as she led me out of her office and back to the lobby. The Shiba Inu was nowhere to be seen, nor was anyone else. The elevator arrived in short order. She shook my forepaw, thanking me for visiting, asking that I let her know if there was anything else that I needed. I thanked her in return, promising to do so. I stepped into the car, carefully avoiding looking that the surveillance camera. I knew there was one here; I didn't know what others were in play, other than one in the lobby (obviously), and it wouldn't make any difference to know. Living in a police state, even the police aren't safe, if they aren't part of the right type of police.

I shook my head as the doors opened on the ground floor. I had too many bits of misinformation whirling in my mind, and I needed a lunch break, perhaps one that would last for a decade or so. Signing out at the security desk, I asked casually if there were a good place nearby to catch some lunch. The Dobie behind the faux-marble counter 'llowed as how the place around the corner had a good buffet spread. I thanked him, and he stopped me.

"Tell me to back off if it's private, but what's this about?"

"What's what about?"

"That shield is for homicide. Who got killed?"

"A guy named Glover."

The Dobie looked stricken. "Aw crap, not Mr. Glover?"

"You knew him?"

"Worked for the big guns upstairs. Wouldn't have thought he was a lawyer, 'specially not for that bunch. He was a nice guy, ya know? Called me by name, said hello when he went by. What happened?"

"Still working on that."

"Ah. Yeah." He shifted on his hindpaws, looked apologetic. "Sorry."

"How was he yesterday?"

"Mr. Glover wasn't in yesterday. I thought he might be feeling bad or something." He had the good grace to look a little ashamed. "I guess maybe..."

"Did he seem worried lately, off his game, any changes in behavior?"

The guard considered a moment, nodded slowly. "Now ya come to say it... He'd been kinda quiet last week. Started off okay, then got quiet about, say, Wednesday, I think."

"Quiet, as in worried, distracted...?"

"Distracted, or maybe..." The dog wasn't stupid, it seemed to me, just hunting for words. It felt like he was trying to be accurate for me. I gave him credit for that when he said, "Lost. That's more like it. Ya know the kind of look I mean?"

"I think I do," I nodded. "Started about Wednesday, you say?"

"Yeah." He also nodded, more definitively. "He hardly said anything to me on Thursday or Friday, not even when he left with that box."

"Box?"

"Yeah, a wooden box. Maybe this long," he held his forepaws about a meter apart, "slim, maybe 50cm by 30cm."

"He took it from his office?"

"I guess so. I mean, he was leaving the building with it. I didn't think to stop him. Did he steal it or somethin'?"

"No, I don't think so. You had no reason to stop him. He wasn't acting furtive or anything?"

"No, just regular, like always, just quiet."

The pup passed his vocabulary test. Someone I'd call smarter than his job description. "Any idea what could be in the box?"

Again, he considered carefully. "My uncle is a Marine." He smiled a little. "Not active in the service anymore, but he always tells me that 'ex-Marine' isn't a real word. Anyway, he's got a sword used for full-dress occasions, and he keeps it in a wooden box, about that size and shape. That's what it reminded me of. Was Mr. Glover ever in the service?"

"Not that I know. Besides, how often does your uncle kit out in full-dress?"

"Once every several years, unless there's funerals involved."

"And he wouldn't take it to work?"

The Dobie smiled. "Not the kind of equipment you need to drive a truck."

"Might be good for directing your way out of a traffic jam." We shared a laugh, and I passed a card to him. "If you think of anything else, let me know, okay?"

"You bet, Detective... Luton." He read the card and nodded, sticking out a forepaw to shake. "Nathaniel Cole." He grinned at me. "Gonna go there?"

"Not on a bet." I pressed his pads properly, wondering if Nat was a singer too.

"Thanks." He sobered a little. "Let me know what you find out."

"No lynching."

"Always tempting, never followed through. I might be a rent-a-cop, but I hope I know enough to follow the law."

"With that attitude, you're not a rent-a-cop. I'd call you a security guard who might benefit from sitting for the exams. Just a suggestion."

"Really?"

Remembering Parsons, I nodded. "It's cliché to say we need better recruits. It's also true. Give it some thought."

"You think I'd make it?"

I smiled at him. "Quizás, quizás, quizás."

His laughter sounded good in my ears as I left the building.