“All right, I’ll tell you. He’s looking for a quick sale because he needs the money.”

“He is in financial trouble?” Ramirez said.

“No-no.” Jack lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret that should go no further. “He’s in the hospital now. The poor man needs the money for medical expenses.”

“Really?” Ramirez’s tone was properly sympathetic; the sudden gleam in his eye was anything but. “That is too bad.”

Jack could almost see the wheels turning in Ramirez’s head: in the hospital… medical expenses... the photo of two men in the bedroom…

He was making a diagnosis.

“And you say the sale price includes all of the furniture?”

“Yes. All fine, fine European antiques. At the asking price, I assure you, it is quite a bargain.”

Ramirez shrugged. “I do not know. It is very old. Have you had much interest in the property?”

“Strangely enough, no. I don’t understand it,” Jack said slowly, then pretended to catch himself. “Not that there’s been no interest. There’s been good interest.”

Ramirez smiled. “As I said, it is an old house. But I feel sorry for this poor sick man. I will take it off his hands. But not for the asking price, I am afraid.”

Jack sniffed. “It’s already underpriced.”

“I must disagree,” Ramirez said.

And then he made a low-ball offer, a good twenty percent under the asking price.

You bastard, Jack thought. Jorge had said he’d steal from a dying man, and Ramirez had just proved him right.

Jack had begun thinking of his imaginary client as a real person, so he didn’t have to fake being indignant.

“Out of the question. My client would never consider such a price.”

“You will call him and ask him?”

“No. It’s an insult to the property.”

“Well, if you have had a better offer,” Ramirez said with a shrug, “then I will go away. But if you have not, I think it is your duty to consult your client.”

“I’ll do just that,” Jack said.

He whipped out a cell phone and called Jorge’s number.

When he answered, Jack said, “Mr. Gates’s room, please.” While he pretended to wait for a connection, he turned to Ramirez. “Even from his hospital bed, I’m sure Mr. Gates will muster some harsh words about your offer.”

Another shrug from Ramirez. “I am only offering what I can afford.”

Then Jack spoke into the phone. “Yes. Hello, Mr. Gates. This is David. I’m sorry to call you so early, but I’ve had an offer on the house.” Pause. “Yes, well, I’m not so sure you’ll say that after you hear it.” He gave the figure and waited, as if listening. “But—” he said, then cut himself off, “But…”

Jack frowned, glanced at Ramirez, then turned his back and stepped away.