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The Dobie security guard was right about the Flaming Grill Buffet. It was surprising that the place could afford the space for seven islands of food, much less the kitchens and the spacious dining area, located as it was in the heart of downtown. Perhaps it was because they took the below-street-level space underneath one of the huge car parks. It was a chicken-and-egg story, since some half-dozen city blocks of underground space had developed into a warren of corridors and mall areas where shops and restaurants vied for the traffic of offices far above them. They must have been doing well, as they had been there for some time and, judging by the modest crowd in the place, were reasonably popular. I have no idea how these things work; I just doubled down on the potstickers and let my Primary Care Physician panic about my weight on his own time.

"May I join you?"

I was surprised to see a certain ringtail, a plate balanced in one foreapaw, iced tea in the other, her dark eyes holding mine directly. Glancing quickly around the tables, I said, "Sit down."

As she slid into the high-backed booth, I noticed her body language -- nervous, determined, perhaps angry (at whom or what?). My own habits had positioned me to be able to see the entrance, and the office manager of Langston, Kilgallen, and Mondekirke folded herself into the corner of the booth, well out of sight. I didn't imagine that such stealth was necessary, but I let her set the tone.

"Nat told me you might be here," she offered by way of explanation.

"Office staff have to check out at the guard's desk?"

"Card swipe. I took the chance of asking him if you'd talked to him."

"Checking his loyalties?"

"Checking mine." She drew a breath, let it out slowly as she bit the end off of an eggroll, then proceeded to use the soy sauce bottle properly, sealing one opening of the cap with a digital pad, then making a tapping motion to allow small amounts of sauce to begin filtering down through the layers of vegetables and wrapping. I decided that the female was a regular.

"Whatever you want to tell me, Ms. Watson," I offered, letting her take her time.

"Chelsea."

I took the chance that it was her first name and not referring to the fancy west side of London. "Max."

She made her way through the eggroll in a time period somewhere between gourmet and glutton. I filled in the time with bacon-wrapped shrimp, adding cardiology to the list of Physicians To Panic list. I did my best to keep my ears and tail still; I had no idea what might spook her. I wasn't at all sure what to expect from her, and whatever it was that she would tell me, I wanted it.

"We weren't close," she said first, rearranging pork fried rice on her plate. "It's nothing sordid."

"I didn't presume, Chelsea."

The dark lips in her pointed muzzle curved up in a smirk. "You'd be the first."

"If you weren't close, what were you?"

She did her best not to sigh. "Do you like your job?" Looking up at me, she didn't wait for a response. "I like my job in the same way that one likes critical open heart surgery: It's necessary to sustain life. I take the paycheck, and I earn it in more ways than one. Law firms like LK&M are a major part of the reason that it takes twice as much money to survive as it probably should. They absorb real estate and inflate its paper value beyond any ordinary furson's ability to buy a home, then work with banks to double the costs again with interest. A lawyer doesn't ask what's right; he asks what's legal."

I thought waiting was best, and I gave myself over to a spring roll, dipped in some duck sauce.

"Thomas," she paused very slightly, tasting the name as much as saying it, "was good at his work without being a complete bastard about it. It's why I said that he couldn't have anything to do with it. Langston wouldn't involve Thomas in anything that wasn't simple black-letter law, nothing that had any wiggle room in it, nothing that could involve a conscience."

"You're saying he had a conscience?"

"What did Langston say?"

"It was learned counsel's opinion that Mr. Glover had chosen to become a lawyer for reasons other than the law."

The ringtail's appetite seemed to be a product of necessity rather than pleasure. She had chosen, by my eye, small portions of three dishes, with a single eggroll (now dispatched) and the pork-fried rice, which was soaking up sauces from the three dishes. She would spear a bite's worth and convey it to her maw with efficiency rather than gusto. Having finished one of those bites, she nodded slowly at my description.

"Accurate," she assessed. "Langston and his partners are word-twisters and evaders of the law. Thomas wanted something closer to fairness."

"Seems to me that would make him unpopular."

"Unusual, maybe. He was a public defender, long before he came here. I had the feeling that the old job seasoned him somehow. He seemed more likely to defend a poor sap caught up in some legal trouble rather than work in conveyancy."

"Pretend I don't know what that means."

"Preparing documents for transferring ownership of property." The words tumbled from her maw as if by rote, which is what a lot of legal work seemed to be concerned with. "It can be simple, straightforward, which is the type of work Thomas did. It can also be fraught with complicated clauses, loopholes, and traps that can negate or convolute the intention of the conveyance. Do you have any land holdings, Detec... Max?"

"They say I'll own my house in another twenty years or so."

"Did you ever want a house in the country?"

"About as much as I want a luxury cruise. Neither one is in my foreseeable future."

She managed a smile at the comment. "If you purchase land, be careful to find out if you're also buying the oil, mineral, and gas rights to the property. If not, it's at least possible that the owner of those rights could plant an oil derrick in your living room without needing your permission."

A bit of bacon-wrapped shrimp didn't quite make it to my maw which, under ordinary circumstances, would be nigh-on impossible. "You can't be serious."

"It's extremely unlikely, for any number of reasons, but it's theoretically possible, under a strict interpretation of the land conveyance contract. That's the kind of thing that LK&M specialize in."

"But not Glover."

The ringtail's tail shifted a little behind her as a shiver briefly overtook her. Shaking her head, she said, "I can't believe that he could keep his paws clean in every way, but I know that he tried. He couldn't be a crusader, at least not under the corporate banner. I have reason to think that he did some pro bono work, legal consulting, reading over a conveyance contract for instance." She looked down at her plate. "It wasn't secret, but it wasn't broadcast, either."

"You'd think it would be good PR, proving how the Big Bad Law Firm does good works."

"You assume that they want that sort of image. LM&K are more in a position to be feared, and they like the 'iron fist inside a Gucci glove' thing. It gives our high-dollar clients the impression that no one will be able to touch them, no matter what the other side might try."

"Is that true?"

"More often than I'd like." She stirred her food around a little more. "With Thomas gone, I have even greater incentive to leave."

I considered various implications of that statement. "These pro bono cases. Anything that might have to do with the law firm's business?"

"No. Conflict of interest, even if it's free advice. Thomas would not allow himself to be put into that situation."

"Would any of those pro bono clients be upset enough to kill him over it?"

Another headshake. "If anything, they were grateful to him for clarifying their contracts."

I let the silence stretch as I considered making another pilgrimage to the serving islands. "Chelsea, are you all right?"

She brought her dark eyes up to meet mine, seeming to wrestle with the answer to my question. "You probably know the saying about dancing with the devil. I wasn't coerced. To manage a law firm's office takes strong skills. I have those skills, and I'm good at what I do." She toyed briefly with the food on her plate. "Maybe it's time to find somewhere else to be good at it."

"I'm sorry for your losses."

The plural caught her ear. "There might yet be a gain."

Sometimes, I'm able to read signs. I excused myself for another round of food. The ringtail merely nodded. My first plate was made of appetizers, so I helped myself to a modest sampler of a few main course items, skipping the rice -- too filling. I returned to the table to find myself alone once more. She had tucked a few bills under the lip of her plate. The money covered her meal and a modest tip. She was considerate of a cop's salary, which was another point in her favor. There was a time when I'd have made a point to pay for a female's meal. There was a time when I'd have had a female to buy a meal for. I took my time over the pepper steak and tried not to think about it.

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

I stayed downtown long enough to get a copy of the court documents for the case that Glover was supposed to have faced down that morning. The clerk asked if I knew anything about why neither the complainant nor his attorney had appeared. When I explained the reason for Glover's absence, the clerk became a little more cooperative. I took just the brief that the judge had to consider; there appeared to be a whole tree's worth of paper supporting the complaint, and I hoped that I wouldn't have to wade through it. It should be enough just to find out who "the other side" was.

Returning to the office was always an experience in contrasts. It had the comfort of being familiar, the closest thing I had to "home," these days; it had the annoyance of being perversely regimented. The phrase "law and order" was often a juxtaposition of clashing terms. In theory, these offices where we upholders of the law can order ourselves and our paperwork; drowning in the latter, overcrowded by the former, it was amazing that we could get anything done.

I set the court paperwork on my desk, making sure that I could find it amid the rest of the paper clutter, and padded my way to the open door to the captain's office. I knocked on the frame, and the bulldog looked up at me with softly appraising eyes. His attitude was one of beneficence until the situation proved that another approach was needed. "Glover?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Law firm?"

"Interesting, as far as it went. Lunch was even better."

I gave him an outline of the office visit, along with the highlights of the office manager's input. He considered it for a few moments, looking for all the world as if he should have a fat stogie stuck in the corner of his maw, lit or unlit, something for him to chew on. Remembering Langston, I was just as glad he wasn't one to give in to the stereotype.

"You got the court filing?"

"On my desk."

"Worth following?"

"About the only lead we have, this early."

"Need backup? I imagine the two-six can spare Parsons."

"I can spare him, too."

"That bad?"

"Yappy."

Crandall leaned back in his chair, nodding sagely. "He'll learn, or he'll wash out."

"So hard to find good help, these days."

"Glad you're so eager to see the respondents in the real estate case. I've heard the phrase 'hostile possession' out there somewhere."

"Going into real estate, Cap'n?"

"Soon as I hit the lottery."

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

The property was further out in the country than I felt easy about driving to, so late in the day; I put it off until morning. I used the evening to go over the essence of the complaint, using the Internet to explain a few concepts to me. Squatters have some rights, depending on many circumstances, and they could also take ownership of a property, although it wasn't exactly easy. Squatters in an abandoned building, or in an apartment that a landlord had told them to vacate, walked a fine line between squatting (a civil matter) and trespassing (a criminal matter). I'd like to have seen Glover's notes about his visit, but those would fall under Langston's "privilege" umbrella.

The drive was decent, for another semi-predictable April day of cloud and early-morning drizzle. At least the state road was reasonably well-kept. The All-Knowing Micro-Monolith had some trouble locating the chunk of land I'd asked it to take me to; the location didn't have a physical address, not even a rural route number for a mailbox. I didn't imagine squatters would want one, and the landowner (from what I could tell) had no immediate plans to develop it. No driveway had been made to get into the acreage itself. There was what was called a "fire road," although the term "mudslide" might have been more accurate that morning. I only hoped that my old sedan wouldn't get stuck. I figured I'd be all right, but I wouldn't want to have made book on it.

A logging road would have been a straight cut, I'd been told, since those big trucks hauling a load of 15m pine trees wouldn't want to make tight turns. The fire road was meant to get 8-10m trucks of equipment to battle possible forest fires in this heavily-wooded area. Not every tract out here had a fire road running through it, and they generally aimed for an easement between two properties, which made for the possibility of curves in the road to follow the property lines. Yeah, I'd been getting an education last night.

There was something of a curve in this fire road, and just past it is where I found the encampment of squatters. A half-dozen tents, from small two-person tents to the larger, almost palatial-seeming family tents, for starters. Some measure of construction to one side had yielded a larger tent from which smells of cooking emanated. The overall décor was Army Surplus, and not nearly so well-kept as it ought to be, with the overall sensation of a lazy fur's oath of "good enough" plastered on top of it. I saw the quick-and-dirty construction of a pair of potty sheds to one side, each likely to have a chemical toilet at best. It was hardly paradise.

The drizzle had let up by now, leaving only residual drops falling from breeze-jostled pine needles. A few specimens of the group were outside of their tents when I arrived: An overweight bull (which is saying something); a lanky, underfed fox with a very nervous look about him; and a ewe, clearly pregnant. All were clothed, if barely, in cast-off clothing that had seen better days long before they were cast off. The term "living rough" seemed an understatement.

I pulled up a short distance from a few other vehicles on what seemed a reasonably compact verge, while the trio marked my every move. The sound of my engine had roused a few others from their other occupations and brought them out, making a total of seven so far. I saw no weapons but, having a perverse wish to keep living despite various reasons not to, I moved slowly, making my way out of the car, closing the door softly, standing next to it, trying to look like a harmless, friendly collie, ears neutral, tail still, waiting for them to make a move.

"And whadda you want?" the bull grumped at me.

"Name's Max Luton. Yes, I'm a cop; no, I'm not armed, and I don't have any warrants or papers. Just here to talk."

"What about?"

"A homicide."

"We're not killers," the ewe spoke up even as a large ram -- her mate, I assumed -- came up to put his arms protectively around her.

"I have to talk to anyone connected with the deceased."

"Who died?" the bull wanted to know.

"Thomas Glover."

"Never heard of 'im."

"The lawyer?"

I turned to answer the fox, who still appeared nervous. "Yes."

Explaining himself to his cohorts, he said, "He came here last week. To remind us about the court date yesterday. He didn't show..." He blinked, making the connection.

The bull charged on. "And the judge ruled in our favor, 'cuz he didn't show. We get to stay here."

I didn't challenge him. "You can see why I need to ask you questions."

"That's not how we do things."

The voice came from what I took to be the cooking tent. A matronly coyote padded out of it, moving a little closer to me than the others, but still a good five meters away. She was dressed a touch better than the others, or at least the clothes looked to be better cared for. A large cook's apron, bearing a logo from a fast-food chain, covered her ample front. "I'm called Pearl, or Mama, but not to you."

"I haven't earned that right."

She nodded slowly. "Respectful, for a cop. Keep it that way, and we'll get along."

"Fair," I acknowledged. "I'm guessing you didn't all go to court yesterday."

"Nope. Just five of us. The rest stayed here."

I paused, looking at the coyote squarely. I could see that she knew the drill; who wouldn't, after all the cop shows on television?

"No, we can't prove it," she said. "Can't prove a negative either."

"True," I nodded. "Let's skip that for a minute. Tell me about Glover's visit here last week. How did he seem? What was he like?"

"Typical tiger," the bull grumbled, "and rich besides, and a lawyer even worse. Come into our home to tell us we hadda get out."

"You'd already been served papers. Why did he come here?"

"He came to verify our claims," Pearl said, her forepaws to her hips. "Squatters have rights. We've made improvements to the property. We found this space, unoccupied, unposted; moved our tents here late last fall. Got through a cold winter, started readying for a garden." She jutted her chin to an area beyond the cooking tent; I was too far away to see what she was talking about. "We're not hiding here, and we have no issues with the law. We're squatters, not criminals."

"I'm not a judge. I just want to know about Glover. I only met his corpse."

"He was here to get us thrown off!" The big bull advanced two paces toward me. I held my ground. "We're workin' hard here, just to have a place to live!"

"He was here," the coyote admonished, "to do his job. We talked about this, Isaac. We knew from the start what we'd be up against."

"Then you were okay with his visit?"

"No," Pearl acknowledged before Isaac could start up again, "but he came here with a job to do. He was reasonable respectful, didn't pry. Asked to look around. We showed him what we're doing to establish our claim as squatters."

"What did he say to that?"

"Wasn't his place. He was working for the land owners."

"Conflict of interest."

"He wanted to."

I turned toward the ewe, who looked at me gently. "He wanted to help you?"

She nodded. "I could see him holding back. Conflict of interest. He used those words twice."

"You spoke with him?"

Another nod.

"How did he seem? Besides conflicted."

"He was..." Her hesitation reminded me of the Dobie back in town -- considering, trying to be accurate. "I don't know how to read faces, like some can. He just seemed... sad, maybe. Lost."

The hackles at the back of my neck enacted a cliché, and I was glad that my overcoat collar covered it, or the bull might have thought I was going to mount an attack. I regained myself enough to ask, "How long was he here?"

"Maybe twenty minutes," Pearl told me. "After that, he packed himself into his fancy four-wheeler and left."

"You said that was Wednesday, right?"

"Yes."

I nodded. "Thank you for your time."

"You clearing us?" the fox wanted to know.

Weighing my options, I decided to take the chance. Addressing myself to Pearl, I said, "I was at Glover's law firm yesterday morning. Gregory Langston, senior partner, told me that he's the attorney of record, and that Glover was more or less just his proxy in the courtroom. The papers you were served with would have that information. Once the judge hears the reason for Glover's absence, he will issue a continuance, I imagine. One way or another, the case isn't over. You have no motive for killing him."

The bull issued a snort so strong that it could be taken as an assault in some states, and it was a threat clearly enough. "We're not violent!" he insisted.

"I think it's time for you to leave," Pearl said gently. "We're about to have an early lunch. Isaac, Wally, Beatrice... how 'bout you help set places?"

The ram and ewe moved toward the cooking tent, while the bull held his ground, staring at me with black eyes that I did my best not to flinch from. None of the other watchers flicked an ear or tail, not sure how this would turn out.

"Isaac." The coyote's voice was firm, but not raised.

Again taking a chance, I padded slowly backward, preparing to open my car door. This broke the standoff without making the bull look like he was capitulating. He moved toward the cooking tent, eventually taking his eyes from me.

"Drive safely, officer," Pearl told me.

Nodding, I got into the car and, with no sudden moves, aimed myself back down the fire road. The distance to the state highway seemed longer than it should have been, and was inordinately grateful for the lack of traffic. Barely slowing down for the turn, I took off from the fire road and forced myself not to break the sound barrier to put that bull far behind me. The reaction was visceral, irrational, based on memories of bullies long past. He was clearly capable of the violence that he violently protested against, but I didn't credit him with the idea of breaking into a house, being lucky enough to find and use the owner's gun, then staging a suicide, especially with the sword.

Come to that, none of the squatters seemed to fill that bill. From what I saw, they were too lazy for it. If they made camp just before winter, they'd had a minimum of four months to get their campgrounds together. Considering the numbers that I saw, they could have erected the tents in a day, the wooden structures in a week. Even factoring in the cold of a relatively mild winter, they just hadn't been doing that much for themselves.

My wits returned from their brief vacation, and I found myself wondering what Glover saw. The players, sets, and props were the same for him as for me, but what plays did we see? The lines were different, the outcome different, even the actions of the players were different. My play was about seeing no reasonable motive or means to commit the crime; what was his about, and what did he think and feel after his visit to this backwoods theater? I wanted to see his notes more than ever, and I had no idea if I could get them. Langston played too close to the chest; as a certain ringtail had told me, he gave nothing for nothing.

Perhaps I could arrange another lunch date.