“Yes, you do,” I said, handing him another collection of legal-sized papers stating that he and Carlos Rodriguez were the free-and-clear owners of the property and the property taxes were paid for three years. I’d purchased the building from the city, which had held it in escrow since its rightful owners were now gone. Then I transferred ownership to Jimmy and Carlos.

I didn’t tell Jimmy the money had come from a forged Wassily Kandinsky painting.

Before I’d left the late Mr. Sloane’s Ecuadorian hideaway, I’d wrapped Jackie Ochoa’s body in the silk bedspread and laid her carefully in the center of the bed. Then I’d said a Hail Mary over her. Considering the personality of Ms. Soligney, I’m sure this was the closest Jackie would come to a dignified burial. I was about to leave the bedroom when my mother’s spirit whispered, “What’s wrong with this picture?”

Above the bed hung an “expert copy” of Kandinsky’s 1923 Composition VIII. Aside from the fact that the painting was a forgery, hung upside down and imprisoned in a vulgar gold-leaf frame, I couldn’t see anything that was wrong with it.

I looked more closely at the frame—the bottom corners were hinged.

It only took a few seconds to find the release for one of the hinges. Once I triggered it, the bottom left side of the frame dropped. Inside the ugly hollow frame was a half million in cash and five million in negotiable bearer bonds. Bug-out money, I figured. In case things got a little too hot for Sloane in Ecuador.

Getting the money back to Detroit took some doing.

But isn’t that why rich people have lawyers and accountants?

I have a very good lawyer and a very good accountant who—though not altogether too happy about it—proved exceptional at doing a bit of laundry.

“But—”

“No buts, Jimmy,” I said. “The building’s paid for. You’ve got tax, repair, redesign and repurposing money in the bank. And I happen to know one of the major hospitals is looking for a community care presence in Mexicantown. Make sure they offer the folks who lost their Authentico jobs employment. ”

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Say, ‘I deserve this, goddammit.’”

“I deserve this, gosh dang it.”

“Close enough,” I said. “Get to work.”

When I came home after the second and last of my Afghanistan tours, I stayed at my folks’ house. The same house I grew up in and took possession of after they passed away.