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for a good solid round of musical chairs. Lydecker was hopping, trying to oversee everyone at once, telling ’em where to put things and where not to put things and don’t-touch-this and that-dingus-is-worth-more’n-your-house-that. None of ’em had their happy faces on, and I couldn’t blame ’em.
    I always casually wonder, when people all look up’n see me the way these mugs all did, what they’re each seeing. Same basics, yeah; couple knuckles taller’n average, sharp face, dull blond hair—some wiseass once described the effect as a tomahawk wearing a straw toupee.
    Yeah, I thought so, too. But I swear to you, that ain’t why I killed him. Anyway…
    Point is, everybody was giving me the dust, either glad for, or irritated by, having a new distraction, and I knew each of ’em was seeing something just a tad bit different than the others. That’s how it always works with you mortals’n me.
    “’Fraid there’s more work for some of you boys,” I said. “Looks like the
gonif
didn’t just mess around down here after all. There’s a display upstairs been wrecked something ugly. Glass and stone and small whatsises all over.”
    Hey, no reason our mystery crook
shouldn’t
take the heat for it, right? I was only here in the first place ’cause of him.
    A few of the coppers bitched and moaned, but that wasn’t nothing to Lydecker. His “
What?
” was high enough, I figure he deafened every stray pooch in five blocks.
    “That’s not possible!” he shrieked. “We have security guards, I looked around for damage after I found the spear missing, there’s no way—”
    “Ankled the whole museum between calling the police and them getting here?” I asked. “You sure ’bout that, Mr. Lydecker? This is an awfully big place you got here.”
    “No, of course—”
    “Or are you saying you did your looking
before
you called? ’Cause that’d mean you lied about what happened when.”
    “
No!
”
    “Then I imagine it
is
possible, ain’t it?”
    The gink’s jaw was actually twitching; I swear he was grinding and chattering his pearly whites simultaneously.
    “How do we know that
you
didn’t—?”
    I glared. Pete glared. Most of Pete’s fellow buttons stared. It was a dumb accusation, and even those who didn’t know me personally could damn well see
that
. What
possible
motive could I have?
    You know, leaving aside the whole “me and Herne locked in mortal combat” thing.
    “You wanna dislike me, Mr. Lydecker, you go right on ahead. I could give you good reasons ’til they’re coming out your ears. But this ain’t one of ’em.”
    Reason number one, of course, is that I’m a big, fat liar.
    The fuzzy grey curator clammed up and retreated to the other side of the room, where he continued to glower holes through me.
    “Where’s Galway?”
    I’d turned to Pete while asking, but it was one of the others—clean-shaven kid who looked like he couldn’ta been on the force more’n a week—who answered.
    “Went upstairs a while ago. Something about finding a phone and making a dil-ya-ble to the precinct. Actually, ’fore he left, he said he wanted to chat with—”
    “Oberon! There you are!” The man himself appeared in the doorway, and I didn’t much care for what I saw. Galway was still hot under the collar—I’d figured, by now, that “hot under the collar” was his natural state—but it wasn’t at
me
anymore. Hell, I didn’t have to see it in his mug, hear it in his voice. The
flavor
of his anger had changed.
    I don’t much like sudden changes, and I think I was more comfortable when he
was
steamed at me.
    “I’ve talked to the station,” he said, jerking to a stiff halt in front of me. “They’re seriously considering hiring you on as a private consultant.” The expression he turned on everyone else wasn’t nearly so keen. “Me, I’m hoping they do. Since the officers assigned to me on this don’t seem able to keep track of
stolen property
, or catch a thief
in the