“Greg Feldman was thirty-nine years old. He was an intensely private man, and he disliked being photographed.” I handed him a small rectangle of the photograph. “This is a picture of me and him on the day of my high school graduation. There is an identical picture in his apartment. It’s located in his library on the third shelf of the central bookcase.”

“I’ve seen it,” the protector said.

How bloody nice. “Can I have that back, please?”

He returned the photo. “Are you aware that you’re named as a beneficiary in Greg Feldman’s will?”

“No.” I would’ve welcomed a moment to deal with my guilt and gratitude, but the knight-protector plowed on.

“He bequeathed his financial assets to the Order and the Academy.” He was watching me for a reaction. Did he think I cared about Greg’s money? “Everything else, the library, the weapons, the objects of power, is yours.”

I said nothing.

“I’ve checked on you with the Guild,” he said. The blue eyes fixed me in place. “I’ve heard you’re able but hurting for money. The Order’s prepared to make you a generous offer for the items in question. You’ll find the sum to be more than adequate.”

It was an insult and we both knew it. I thought of telling him that if it wasn’t for Oklahoman cowboys and Mexican whores having a bit of fun, there would’ve been no Texans, but that would be counterproductive. One didn’t call a knight-protector a whoreson in his own office.

“No, thank you,” I said with a pleasant smile.

“Are you sure?” His eyes took my measure. “You look like you could use some money. The Order will give you more than you’d get auctioning it off. My advice, take the money. Buy yourself a decent pair of shoes.”

I glanced at my beat-up sneakers. I liked my shoes. I could bleach them. It took the blood right out.

“Do you think I should get some like yours?” I asked, looking at his boots. “Who knows, they might throw a cowboy shirt with a fringe in with them. Maybe even a girdle.”

Something stirred in his eyes. “You got a mouth on you.”

“Who, me?”

“Talk’s cheap. What can you really do?”

Thin ice. Proceed with caution.

I leaned back. “What can I really do, Sir? I won’t do anything to threaten or antagonize the knight-protector in his own office no matter how much he insults me. That would be stupid and highly hazardous to my health. I came here in search of information. I just want to know what Greg Feldman was working on when he died.”

For a moment we sat there looking at each other.

The knight-protector sucked the air into his nose with an audible whoosh and said, “You know anything about investigative work?”