“I’m not dumb, but if I tell you I’m tough, you’ll peg me for a bravo, so I’m going to smile cryptically.” I gave him my best cryptic smile. He did not fall down to his feet, kiss my shoes, and promise me the world. I must be getting rusty.

The protector squinted at the signature. “Mike Tellez. I’ve worked with him before. You do regular work for him?”

“More or less.”

“What was it this time?”

“He had a problem with large pieces of equipment being dragged away. Someone told him he had a baby marakihan.”

“They’re marine,” he said. “They die in fresh water.” An overweight slob who eats powdered jelly doughnuts, wears shirts with fringe, and identifies an obscure magical creature without a momentary pause. Knight-protector. Camouflage expert extraordinaire.

“You got to the bottom of Mike’s problem?” he asked.

“Yes. He had the Impala Worm,” I said.

If he was impressed, he did not show it. “You kill it?”

Very funny. “No, just made it feel unwelcome.”

The memory stabbed me, and for a moment I stumbled again through a dim tunnel flooded with liquid excrement and filth that rose to my hips. My left leg burned with icy pain and I struggled on, half-dragging it, while behind me the enormous pallid body of the Worm spilled its life-blood into the sludge. The slick green blood swirled on the surface, each of its cells a tiny living organism consumed by a single purpose: to reunite. No matter how many times or how many miles apart this creature appeared, it was always the same Impala Worm. There was only one and it regenerated endlessly.

The protector put my papers on his desk. “So, what do you want?”

“I’m investigating the murder of Greg Feldman.”

“On whose authority?”

“My own.”

“I see.” He leaned back. “Why?”

“For personal reasons.”

“Did you know him personally?” He delivered the question in a perfectly neutral tone, but the underlying meaning was all too clear. I felt happy to disappoint him.

“Yes. He was a friend of my father.”

“I see,” he said again. “Your father wouldn’t be available for a statement?”

“He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be,” I said. “You didn’t know him.”

“Do you have anything that might support your relationship with Greg Feldman?”

I could easily provide him with collaboration. If he was to look me up in his files, he would find that Greg had sponsored my application to the Order, but I did not want to go in that direction.