“Ten million cash, twenty million negotiable bearer bonds,” the man said. “Indications are you took possession of these funds after killing Mr. Sloane. Is this true? And before you answer, Mr. Snow, let me assure you, my associate is nowhere near as patient or forgiving as me. If you have the money and agree to turn it over to me, my associate leaves you to heal peacefully. If, however, you lie to me—things will get very final very fast. Am I understood?”

“Perfectly,” I said. “And without further delay or adieu, I declare my innocence.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t have your goddamn money,” I said. “I never did.”

“You killed Mr. Sloane for—”

“Hey, no offense, but are you as deaf, dumb and blind as my swinging dick?” I said. “Sloane’s got your money. The body in the morgue is a cutout. Some poor homeless vet who mostly fit Sloane’s description. Sloane is probably somewhere rolling in a bed of your money and drinking piña coladas. Jesus! Are you telling me I’m smarter than some international consortium of brigands and ne’er-do-wells? ’Cause that’s really kind of sad.”

The other end of the line was quiet for a minute. Then the man said, “Why have you persistently interfered with business that isn’t remotely yours to be interested in?”

“An old man I’d known since I was a kid died because of people of questionable moral character that you dangled your money in front of,” I said. “This city—my motherfucking city!—has gone through enough shit without you importing rich criminals, building luxury apartments and cheating tax rolls that already bleed the poor to death. And the Jersey boys you sent to cap me? The ex-cop, ex-con you paid that put me in the ground? Listen to me very carefully: I didn’t take your money—not a fucking dime—but you have for damned sure motivated me to snatch the breath out of your fucking lungs.”

Silence on the end of the line.

The killer in my room moved the suppressed gun a quarter inch closer to my nose.

“I will, of course, investigate your story, Mr. Snow,” the man on the phone finally said. “If you are lying—”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You’ll put me in the hospital. Did you put Lincoln Quinn’s head in a box?”

“Sometimes, the wayward enthusiasm of my young associate overextends itself. I hope Mr. Quinn wasn’t a friend?”

“He was an asshole,” I said. “That doesn’t mean I approve of you going around my city lopping heads off.”

“Of course not,” he said.

“Since we’re old pals now, what do I call you?”

“Mr. A,” he said. “Or the Albino.”

“Seriously?” I said. “Isn’t that a little—”

“Goodbye for now, Mr. Snow.”

He disconnected.