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Thursday morning saw me getting a bagel and schmear from a local shop, just in case the cap'n actually meant it. I chose cinnamon raisin, on the off-chance that he might have a sweet tooth. If he didn't want it, I'd eat it. Until he mentioned it, I hadn't thought of having a bagel for a long time. It's something Michael would have in his shop. Maybe that had helped push me into calling him. Whatever the case, the bagel was good insurance.

I did not, however, bring coffee.

Thinking it best to provide food quickly (bulldogs are so insistent on proper mealtimes), I paused at my desk only to take off my overcoat before approaching the canine's den, paper bag carefully kept in view. The cap'n afforded what he called a smile. It passed, if you knew what you were looking for. He then raised his own paper bag. "Snap."

"Hostage exchange. Cinnamon raisin."

"Everything. An extra tub of cream cheese, in case you feel slighted."

"Deal."

"Break room. Everything bagels are messy."

As we proceeded to Checkpoint Charlie, I managed a glance at my desk phone. I noticed the message light on the official line blinking. It was an old-fashioned sort of thing that I appreciated. I'd have to get to it later, although my curiosity was itching like a bad cliché. I suppose it's a sign of optimism that I still hoped for some sort of break, whatever it would look like.

Retrieving the aforementioned tub from the refrigerator, Crandall indicated a table. I set my bag down there before getting a couple of cups of alleged coffee from the pot. I had often wondered about the department springing for one of those "pod" machines, but the idea never got past the "wouldn't that be different" phase. I doctored the sludge as best I could, returning to the table with cups of caramel color without the accompanying flavor. The pods got another passing thought.

"Warrant's on my desk," he told me, swapping bags. "Bagel, then bank."

"Alphabetical order today."

"Don't make me stab you with the same knife we use for cream cheese."

"Seems unsanitary." I took up the knife in question and added a little more cream cheese for the sake of decadence and safety. I passed the utensil back to the cap'n, properly. He kindly refrained from using it on me.

"Daimler passed along his report. Probably in your email. Want the highlights?"

"Surprise me."

He took a healthy bite of bagel first, just to build up the suspense. I lit into my own. Pays to be sociable. "Confirmed that it's Glover, through DNA; also confirmed GSR on the left forepaw. Angle of entry suggests gun shifted as he tried to pull the trigger with a non-dominant paw. A little more angle, he might have lived."

"I wonder if that's good or bad."

"We're not responsible for delivering bad news, as long as it's true." He caught my glance. "Forensically true."

"Caveat noted." I chewed on the information along with another bite of bagel. It wasn't actually news; more like confirmation. "No surprises, then?"

"Bloodwork clean, COD obvious, no health issues. Pathology's conclusion is pretty much negative for everything."

"So nothing there as motive, but it's still suicide."

"You've been sure it was suicide all along."

"Yup."

"Even though Glover was right-pawed?"

"Yup."

"Why would he shoot himself with his left paw while holding onto that sword in his right paw?"

"Because the sword was more important."

The bulldog put on the face that made me imagine him chewing a cigar, moving it from one side of his mouth to the other through some long-practiced mandibular magic. I was just as glad that he stuck to using his mandibles to grind the bagel into submission. "One last thing about the tigress. Insurance?"

"I checked. The policy was old enough that the usual suicide clause wasn't an issue. She'll get her $250K soon enough, along with whatever else might be in Glover's will. I think her disbelief was genuine; she really can't believe he had any reason to kill himself."

"Which means that the Powers That Be are going to be upset, too." The cap'n wasn't given to sighing, but his entire demeanor made me think about his heaving a huge one. "They want it wrapped up quick, and they also want it wrapped up with their conclusions intact."

"Rock, meet Hard Place."

"And I'm stuck in the middle."

With you, my mind filled in, substituting clowns and jokers to their respective approximations. We sat quietly for a while, chewing, swallowing, all that mealtime stuff. I'd like to imagine that I was actually thinking things through, but I've been trying to stop lying to myself so much. After a while, I tidied up the remains of my repast. "Thank you for breakfast."

"Same."

We padded back to his office, where he gave me the holy writ. "Anyone expecting me at the bank?"

"Probably not. Start with the branch manager, see where that gets you."

"Glad you thought of that, cap'n; I mighta missed it."

"And that's why you're not sitting at my desk," he garrumphed, and I probably deserved it. "Try not to stir up too much; remember, we're still catching heat for this one."

"Even with Daimler's report?"

"Especially with Daimler's report. The privileged simply don't off themselves."

I bit off _More's the pity_before I put my tail in danger. "I'll check in."

Crandall looked like he was going to say something that he, too, decided not to say. Given the feelings that this case was stirring up, that was probably a mercy.

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

The General Manager of the New Guardian Bank was an older squirrel who probably had heard far too many cliché comments about his choice of career, so I resolutely refused to add to the pile. We both behaved courteously, just doing our jobs, no cause to believe a crime had been committed, just dotting and crossing. Accounts of the sort that I had asked to see were handled by one of two Special Services Managers, a term that probably also saw its share of abuse. I had no wish to appear grim, but it was difficult to maintain decorum when faced with so much straight-line fodder.

Special Services Manager Lavenia Keel took me into her office, which was larger and better appointed than Chelsea Watson's. It was possible that the bank respected her more than the law firm respected Chelsea; likewise, perhaps the bank wanted to flatter its customers, and Chelsea didn't have visitors all that often. I let cynicism place that bet.

The black panther epitomized the word "sleek," her demeanor telling me that she had both experience and the self-discipline to keep herself in fine fettle even as her half-century loomed not far in her future. A bank like the New Guardian was created to keep furs like myself at arms-length, but she disguised the institution's repugnance for the poorly dressed quite well. She seemed in no way inconvenienced by my visit, a tactic to put most coppers off guard. I stayed focused.

"Ms. Keel, can you tell me the purpose of HLR Limited?"

"Any LLC is formed to gain the benefits and protections of a corporation without the difficulties of maintaining one, or even dissolving it, should the need arise. Beyond that, I can't say."

"You can show me records of transactions?"

"That's all, yes. Let me pull up their records for you."

She tapped away at her computer keyboard for a time, while I let my eyes graze on the trimmings and trappings of her office. On the wall, a few certificates of educational accomplishment, although I couldn't read what in, from this distance. A few prints of calmingly banal location scenes, the sort sold by the yard at starving artist and estate sales. There appeared to be a small framed photo on her desk, turned away from the front of the room so that customers would not be frightened by anything personal. It occurred to me only then that I'd not looked through Glover's office at LK&M, since it had seemed irrelevant. I realized, sitting here, that it would still be irrelevant. "Professional" offices weren't meant to be personal, which is why his study at home was so important to him. It was neat, not sterile. I cursed myself an idiot for not pressing further about one clue.

"Here we are," the panther said, turning the screen toward me. I saw dates and figures, unsure what else to read into them.

"I see deposits and check numbers, and that looks like invoice or reference numbers... but not payees."

"The accountant for the LLC would have that information."

Nice sidestep, I thought. "It might save some time if I could see the check images."

"Of course." Her smile was absolutely professional; the sense that her predatory instincts were frustrated by my having caught her omission came entirely from my own instincts. I hate being prey.

She clattered on the keyboard again, shuffled through some screens, finally dealing up some images. I noticed that the checks were not hand-written. All, with rare exception, were made out to hospitals and clinics. All, with no exception, were signed by Helena L. Glover.

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

My phone call caught Bessie just after she'd made a grocery store run, and she was glad to help. I asked her to enlist Allison's assistance, getting the two of them to go into Glover's study. It was time that I got a look at the comb-bound book that the maid had seen on Monday.

"Won't that make the missus upset?"

"If you catch any flack, tell Her Majesty that I asked you to do it, and I'll be there in thirty minutes, with more questions."

I was as good as my word. My arrival time was nearer to twenty-three minutes, at the moment that I rang the bell. Allison answered the door, looking nervous.

"We haven't found anything yet," the young mouse told me. "We've been looking everywhere that we can see."

Setting a forepaw very gently on the young mouse's shoulder, I said, "Try places you can't see. Desk drawers, behind things, anyplace that looks like it could hold that comb-bound book that you saw."

"If I find it, should I leave it alone?"

"It's okay; I'm not worried about fingerprints. I just need to see what it was that he was looking at." I smiled at her. "Good thinking."

After a moment, she smiled back and led me into the formal living room, where Her Majesty was expecting me. As before, the tigress was seated in her throne, her own pride of place in the room. I was not invited to sit down. She was none too pleased with my being there, and she let me know it with every word and movement.

"Have you found my spouse's murderer yet, Detective?"

"Mrs. Glover." I kept my voice soft. "The forensics is conclusive. Your husband killed himself."

"No." She shook her head firmly, twisting her neck against the high collar of her shirt. "That's not possible."

"Mrs. Glover..."

"He was right-pawed! Someone shot him and put the gun into his left paw. He did not kill himself, he did not..."

I waited until she had composed herself again. "Mrs. Glover, what was your maiden name?"

Her body froze momentarily, a startling action for an apex predator species. It took several seconds for her features to fall into a posture that made me think of surrender. "Ridley."

"Helena L. Glover, nee Ridley. CEO of HLR Limited. You sign all of the checks, so you must know what they're for."

"Don't be an ass, Detective."

"Would you explain the secrecy, Mrs. Glover?"

The jerk of her head suggested that she had almost let herself spit. She regained herself once more, righted her face, and replied, "Discretion. Thomas set it up; something to do with healthcare advantages, as well as to keep the payees out of our community accounts. Information leaks from too many sources."

"Why was it an issue?"

"Do you really want the lesson, Detective? Would you learn it?" Her glare could have been considered third-degree menacing in its own right. Her rough, rasping voice continued. "The meaning and value of privacy changes as you ascend the social ladder. The saying that 'knowledge is power' is even more important when image supersedes truth. Gossip is a deadly game, when fortunes are involved."

"The payments into the LLC looked like blackmail, from the outside. Is that what you were afraid of?"

"Only secondarily. The richer you are, the more the vultures hover, and the more that people guard being seen with you, being involved with you, in business or in other financial matters, like charities and fundraising events. Appearance supersedes reality, always."

"And you were afraid that people would begin to shun you if they knew you had cancer."

She glared at me, daring to say anything further. I held my tongue to see if she would admit it for herself. After several long moments, she spoke.

"Thyroid."

"I would have thought that was operable, treatable."

"If caught properly, yes." Her eyes grew cold, more with resignation than with anger. "The goiter was diagnosed incorrectly; the treatment sped up the cancer. It was a pernicious little fiend. By the time it was properly assessed and treated, the cancer had metastasized into the lymphatic system. Surgery would have been useless.. Radiation therapy, bone marrow stimulation... the last chance is chemotherapy, at which point there would be no keeping it quiet."

"I would have thought your condition would generate more sympathy than shunning."

"My death would rally monies for research; my suffering and survival would be considered self-serving and burdensome." Her lips twisted in a mocking smile. "I don't plan to die for them, but I will live as best I can for as long as I can before giving them the satisfaction."

Pausing, respectfully, I asked, "Do the cubs know?"

"Shelton does. He's the oldest." She spoke dispassionately. "Head of the family, now."

"May I ask..."

"Sixty percent survival rate, ordinarily; chances are that I may have another six months that'll be worth living, then the last tango which may or may not end well. You may take that in whatever way you wish."

An appropriate response took a little time to form in my mind. Of course Glover knew all of this; he had to have set up the LLC himself, and he funded it entirely. He was planning for the long haul, to be here with her through whatever might happen. It was why the tigress had been so certain that it couldn't have been suicide. He would have fought for her, till the end. And yet...

I took a long moment before saying, "Thank you for telling me, Mrs. Glover."

She demurred silently.

Excusing myself with a nod of my head, I padded back into the hall and paused there, getting my breath back. There was more than enough drama in this story to fuel a limited series, and all I wanted was an explanation that, ignoring the irony, I could live with. With all that surrounded this act of finality, it felt more necessary than ever for me to know the "why" of it.

The door to Glover's study was open, and I took a moment to glance in before disturbing Bessie and Allison at their work. The large desk had been discreetly covered by a thick white tarpaulin, as had a certain section of the carpet just beyond the desk. I felt sure that the females had been told why the tarps were in place, yet they continued to search diligently. I knocked very gently on the open door; they jumped a little at the sound, whipped around to see me. "Sorry," I offered softly.

The mouse climbed down from a small step-stool that she was using to look behind books on a high shelf, and the panther padded around the large desk to address me directly.

"Pretty sure I know what you're lookin' for, Detective, but it's hiding pretty good."

"I thought maybe it had fallen behind some books," Allison added, "so I got out the step to look back there."

"More good thinking, Allison. You've both done a lot, and thank you." I managed a smile. "That's actually a lot of what a police detective does. Believe it or not, it helps."

"Should we keep looking?"

"Maybe we could take a break from it to look for something else. I'd forgotten something that I'd heard a few days ago. Mr. Glover took home a box from his office, a wooden box about so big." I pantomimed the shape in the same way that the Dobie security guard had. "Have either of you--"

"Yeah, yeah," Bessie said, remembering. "It's over here..."

The feline led us back to the desk. In another life, the freestanding cabinet behind Glover's desk might have been a credenza, with its sliding panel and shelves built into the sides. On top, some framed photographs of his cubs, a trophy for some sports battle at a charity event, and the telltale lack of miscellany that had made me suspicious of the neatness. The panther slid aside one of the panels below and withdrew the box in question. Deep brown, probably walnut, well-polished to the point of being almost slippery, it was precisely the size and shape to have held the sword. Bessie passed it over to me, and I set it down on the desk with a vague sense of reverence.

"What did he keep in there?" the cook asked quietly.

"It's a storage box for a ceremonial sword," I replied.

"Is it still in there?"

"No, he had it in his paw when he..." I cut myself off. This was the room where it happened; no benefit to painting a picture they'd been spared from seeing.

"Are you gonna bring the sword back, or...?"

It was impossible for me not to have opened the case, but it was from sheer curiosity rather than from any brainstorm that had allowed me to make some impressively brilliant deduction. The lid swung open noiselessly, and the thing inside the box stretched itself as if waking from a nap. The comb-bound sheaf of papers had been folded along its long dimension and had lain curled inside the interior until released from a position that it had found uncomfortable at best. In large and only slightly decorative font, the title read THE TRIBAL MANIFESTO. Below it, in a respectable faux script was the word Timewind.

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

I traded a receipt for both the box and the manuscript, then drove back to the cop shop. Something in my gut told me to leave them both in the trunk of my car. It bent the rules into shapes it wasn't meant to form; according to my last inventory of shits, I had none left to give. I told myself instead that I had some reading to do tonight and would wait for a chance to reunite the sword and its proper container. It was sheer technicality that allowed me to say that the items were not part of the crime scene, just as it was technicality to label suicide a crime. Self-murder, when successful, leaves no criminal to prosecute; in this country, it's no longer on the books. It's worth noting that attempted suicide is still a crime, a fact that actually encourages those who are considering it to do the job right.

Girding my stomach as best I could, I chose a cheap meal at the precinct mess. It fell within the definition of "food," and the meal itself could be awarded "fair attempt." It wasn't bad; it just wasn't good. It tasted like, somewhere in the process, someone had given up. Uninspired and uninspiring, on par with the can of soup I had last night, but enough to get me through the rest of the day. I made up my mind to look for sandwich-makings at the grocery, wondering what the modern, adult equivalent of a "lunch box" was.

By the time I got to my desk, I felt less than enthusiastic about cleaning up the paperwork. A good time to check the phone messages. I pressed keypads for passcodes and retrieved only one somewhat terse message from a very officious, official-sounding officer of the FBI, requesting that I return his call, etc., etc. I wrote down the information, followed instructions, and found myself connected.

"Agent Parks."

I resisted saying and Rec, in case he didn't have a funny bone. "Detective Max Luton, returning your call."

A short pause, some clicking of keys. "Why are you investigating Thomas Glover?"

"Fine, thanks; how are you?"

This pause had sharp edges. "Do you like playing games, Detective?"

"Depends on the game. This isn't one. I dislike being disrespected."

"And I don't like people stepping onto my turf without being invited."

"What's your turf?"

"I'm watching listed groups for suspicious activities."

"Glover was part of such a group?"

"Yes, and he could be dangerous."

"Not anymore; he's dead."

That seemed to have struck home. The voice, when it returned, was strangely concerned. "Who killed him?"

"He did. It was suicide." After a moment of quiet, I asked, "You didn't know?"

"I was only told that someone was looking into his finances, particularly in connection with a shell company called HLR Limited. We've had it under watch for some time now."

"You don't know what it's for?"

"It doesn't seem to be for anything at all. There are no business transactions that we could trace, no real trail to follow. There was no cause for a warrant so, contrary to popular belief, there was only so far we could go. I assume that his death allowed you some sort of look into his records."

I outlined for him how I persuaded the bank officer to let me see check images, then the conversation that I'd had with the tigress that morning. "We had thought it had been blackmail, as a motive for Glover's suicide."

"We thought it was to hide money for subversive activities."

"Agent Parks," I said softly, offering the diplomatic bone of using his name, "what sort of subversion are we talking about here?"

He sighed softly, and I had the feeling that he was mentally questioning his choice of career. It was something that I could relate to. "He was once part of a group called Timewind. It appears on our records under the category of potentially seditious and/or socialist organizations which may or may not pose a threat to our way of life." Parks paused to let me know that he had finished quoting the party line. "His participation appears to have been minimal for a number of years, but there is a watch on his financials all the same."

"How long has he been associated with this group?"

"The notes say, over 25 years." Behind his voice, I heard keyboard clicks. "First listed when he applied to law school. Standard background check. The school apparently didn't care about his affiliation, but it got him flagged as part of our Timewind file. The public defender's office in Syracuse probably got more details, but they took him on anyway."

"He did well enough there to go into private practice."

"Real estate, yeah." A short, faintly surprised pause; something must have appeared on his screen. "How the hell did LK&M take him in?"

"You didn't know about that?"

"Not me, personally. I got tapped when you pinged Glover's accounts."

"Next fur in the barrel, huh?"

A snort told me that he still some sense of humor left. "I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of the barrel." A short pause before he added, "Would you send me your report, Detective Luton? It seems that our information supply line is not as efficient as we like to think it is."

"Be careful that your bosses don't hear that."

"We have a reputation to uphold; if we don't know everything, we can't keep the country safe."

"Electronic or traditional?"

"Electronic is the new traditional," he quipped, then gave me his contact info at the Bureau. "Thank you for your cooperation, Detective."

"We're all on the same side."

"Make sure your own bosses don't hear you."

We rang off. My evening's reading just got more interesting.