“Eddie was unable to join us,” Trimble said. “He figured he’d get treated better taking a leap down ten stories, rather than come here and face you.”

Bullock was stone-faced. “What are you telling me?”

“He jumped. He’s dead.”

Bullock leaned forward. “Jesus Christ on a saltine, are you shitting me?”

“No.”

“But you got the stuff, right? Before he jumped? You got the stuff?”

“There is no stuff. He sold it.”

Bullock was starting to hyperventilate, which sent him into a coughing fit. He drank a few sips from the nearly empty water bottle.

“Then you got the money. Tell me you got the fucking money.”

Trimble said, “Not exactly. He sold the shipment for a handful of magic beans to the Jamaicans. A hundred and fifty thou.”

“A hundred fifty?” Bullock was stone-faced no more. He was stunned. “He sold that for a hundred fifty? That would have kept half the junkies in this city happy for a year. A hundred fifty?”

“Yeah.”

Bullock made a fist and slammed it so hard onto the table that we all jumped, even Blondie. A pink display box featuring Malibu Barbie slipped off the shelf and hit the floor.

“Fuck!” Bullock screamed. And that set off yet another coughing fit. When he was done, he finished off the water bottle and tossed it into the garbage. Another guy who didn’t know how to recycle.

Somewhat calmed now, he said to Trimble, “So, you came back with the hundred fifty?”

Trimble paused. “No. I came back with around seven thousand, maybe not even that. I haven’t had a chance to count it yet.” He dug the envelope out of his pocket and tossed it onto Bullock’s desk.

Bullock stared at Trimble, apparently unable to believe what he was hearing. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“He put it in envelopes and mailed it to Rio. Some in the regular mail, some by courier.”

“He put the cash in the mail,” Bullock said. Even Blondie looked surprised.

Trimble nodded. “I guess he had a lot of faith in the postal system. Sent it to a bunch of five-star hotels in Rio, planned to go down there and pick it up. At least it could have been worse.”

Bullock cocked his head. “How do you think it could be worse?”

“Could have been you who paid nearly nine grand for that car at auction. At least it was Walker’s money that did that.” He glanced over at me, like maybe he thought he was scoring me a brownie point.

It didn’t appear as though Bullock saw this as any sort of silver lining. He didn’t look at me or Angie, but settled himself into his chair behind the desk, then glanced down and saw the Barbie box on the floor. He eyed it curiously, as if seeing it for the first time.