The boast had some basis in fact. Upon arrival in London from New York, he’d used fake credentials to get a job at a brokerage house in London. Learned to trade futures well enough to earn enormous performance bonuses and a letter of commendation from the managing director.

Within eighteen months, he’d quit, was investing for himself. Nine years after inheriting $1.36 million, his savings had grown to $7.1 million.

Not counting the Swiss bank account, which would take a while to access.

Something else from Switzerland: Mounted at the back of one of the scrapbooks was an elegantly handwritten receipt from a clinic in Lugano. Nothing itemized; the franc conversion translated to fifty-five thousand American dollars.

“Maybe a drug problem, one of those high-end rehab places,” said Milo. “But except for the macho-juice, we didn’t find anything iffy.”

“Could’ve been successful rehab,” I said. “If so, too bad for society.”

“What do you mean?”

“He got his head clear enough to chop off other people’s.”

Despite Nicholas St. Heubel III’s financial acumen, he’d picked up no clients and Hydro-Worth remained a scheme.

I said, “Superficially charming but maybe when they got to know him, he spooked them like he did the sisters.”

“Too cute for his own good.”

“The game was too much fun.”

“Raul found something he wrote on a hard copy of the prospectus. ‘Time for a frugal lifestyle, funnel in on what’s important.’”

“Getting his priorities straight,” I said.

He said, “Another too bad.”

As we worked on our second round of drinks, Milo’s phone vibrated on the bar.

Inaudible above the drone of bar-talk and an old football game on ESPN Classic.

He watched it jump like a Mexican bean, chewed his olive, swallowed, picked up.

“Sturgis… you’re up late, Doc… That so? Oh, man… I do appreciate it, anything else? True… I’ll ask him, thanks for letting me know.”

Emptying his glass, he waved for a refill.

I said, “Which doc was that?”

“Steinberg, at the coroner’s. Ol’ Dale’s autopsy was prioritized, orders from the chief.”

“All those bullet holes, an autopsy was necessary?”

“Police-involved shootings must be treated with utmost care,” he pronounced as if talking about someone else.

His drink came. He sipped. Hummed something I couldn’t make out.

I said, “What?”

He placed his glass on the bar, twirled the stem. “Turns out Dale–Nick–Mr. Bizarro had no balls. Literally. Surgically removed, nice neat job all healed over.”

“The Swiss clinic.”

“I hear money buys you anything there.”

“He pays to get castrated,” I said, “takes testosterone to stay masculine.”

“No doubt, you’ve got an explanation based on your training and expertise.”

Above us, on screen, someone made a thirty-yard run for a touchdown. Ancient history but some of the drinkers at the bar got excited.

I said, “I could theorize about the desire for total control. Regulating his dosage, enjoying the fluctuation.”

“But?”