We were quiet again for a while as Sarah scribbled away at some figures. She’s always done the finances in our house. I worry about everything else. All the time.

“You know,” I said, “it’s just occurred to me now, I can’t believe I forgot about this, but I know a place where there’s a lot of money just sitting around.”

Sarah’s pen paused over the notepad. “What are you talking about?”

“It never came up, all the questions I had to answer for the police, I never even thought to mention it.”

“What?”

“There’s mail, some very thick envelopes I’d imagine, waiting to be claimed at several five-star hotels down in Rio de Janeiro. If you could find all the places they were sent to, you’d have yourself $140,000 in cash.”

Sarah put down her pen. “Excuse me?”

“The money Eddie Mayhew got from the Jamaicans for the drugs he took out of our car. He sent it down there, he was going to go down and collect it, live high for a while.”

“So it’s just sitting down there now,” Sarah said.

I nodded. “And here’s the interesting thing. I might just be the only person who knows about it.”

Sarah set aside her notepad. “How’s that?”

“Eddie told Trimble, and then when Trimble and I went back to Bullock’s place, he told Bullock and the guy I thought of as Blondie. The other guy, the one I shot, he wasn’t in the room at the time.”

“And all of those people …” Sarah said slowly.

“Are no longer with us,” I said.

“So if somebody were to go down to Rio, start going around to various hotels, and said he was Eddie Mayhew, they’d hand over the money to him.”

“I guess,” I said.

We watched some people walk past on the sidewalk. They waved, we waved back.

“It’s dirty money, of course,” I said.

“That’s for sure,” Sarah said. “Although … it was made from selling something that was in our car.”

“But it wasn’t yet our car when the stuff was removed from our car.”

“That’s true,” Sarah said.

A car drove by. Somewhere in the distance, a siren.

“And whoever tried to claim those envelopes would need some sort of identification,” Sarah said.

“Oh sure, a fake ID, you’d have to have one of those. I don’t even know where a person would begin to find one of those,” I said, and thought of Paul and his underage drinking friends.

I guess a full minute went by where we said nothing. Sarah started doing some more scribbling on her notepad, adding up some numbers. I was afraid to look over and see what sort of figures she might be playing with.

“The thing is,” I said, “I could never pull it off.”

“Did somebody suggest you should?” Sarah said, almost defensively. “I didn’t say a word.”