“Let’s just say a subsidiary of the company,” she said. “For whatever reason—personally, I can’t see it—you seem to inspire loyalty in people who should otherwise know and appreciate who truly butters their bread, Lieutenant Snow. Like Dieter and Mr. McKenny. My assets. I didn’t mind the two thugs Dieter iced—for lack of a better term—in Switzerland. In this job, there’s considerable downtime. And however they choose to amuse themselves during such downtime, I don’t give a shit. But having Dieter kill the Frenchman was a bridge too far. You invited yourself to my party, put your cock in the punch bowl and stirred vigorously.”

“You want these guys to build their ghost towns?”

“For the first time in five years, we would have known the locations of at least a sixth of the world’s most well-financed and dangerous players,” she said, standing and smoothing her form-fitting white dress. “I can still salvage the deal they made with Vic Bronson about the Detroit condos, but—”

“Leave Mexicantown out of this.”

She laughed.

Then with furious power she grabbed the body of Sloane by the lapels of his bloody robe and heaved him over the balcony railing, watching him fall to the breakers two hundred feet below.

“In two hours, he’ll be shark shit,” she said, watching the breakers for a moment. Then she cut her eyes back to me. “Your worldview is adorably quaint, marine. That being said, you have certain ‘friends’ who prevent me from ripping your gigantic brass balls off and stuffing them down your goddamn throat.”

“Wow,” I said. “And I thought I had anger issues.”

“See ya round, gunney,” the blonde with long, shiny legs said as she walked past me toward the front door.

“If we meet again, what do I call you before I shoot you?” I said.

“Ms. Soligney,” she said. “And you’ve got five minutes before my cleaning crew gets here. I would suggest you take that time to go upstairs, second bedroom on the right, and say goodbye.”

I ran past the blonde and took the staircase two, three steps at a time.

At the foot of a king-size bed lay Jacqueline Ochoa, dressed in a blue bikini, bleeding profusely from three stab wounds to the stomach. Her breathing was quick and shallow. I sat beside her and took her into my arms.

“Jesus,” I said. “Come on, Jackie. You can’t—”

She looked up at me, attempted a smile and in a hoarse voice said, “August.”

Then she was dead.

42

42

“What’s this?” Jimmy Radmon asked after I handed him the folded pieces of legal-sized paper.

“The ownership papers for 87915 Vernor Highway,” I said. “The old Authentico Foods building. It’s yours.”

Jimmy gaped at the papers for a stunned minute before saying, “I—I ain’t got that kinda money, Mr. Snow.”