“I guess close to a quarter of a million.” She swept the rolls of bills off the bench and into the bag. “It’s not the amount that’s so important. It’s that ninety percent of it is counterfeit.” She zipped the bag closed and kicked it under the bench. “Not a word to anyone, Jesse. Understand?”

“But whose money is it?”

Ethel held up a finger. “Excellent first question.” She raised another finger. “The second—was Jonathan giving it to someone or receiving it? The answers will determine our next move. Are you up for it?”

Jesse felt a tingle of excitement run down his spine. “Yes. What else would you expect from a double-first-cousin-twice-removed?”

Chapter 8

Trevor Norwood swallowed a second shot of whiskey straight from the bottle and then struggled to wrap another layer of gauze bandage tighter around his upper left arm. He knew he needed stitches, but showing up at an emergency room, at least in the area, would bring the cops. His main goal was to stop the bleeding and keep the gash free from infection.

Finch’s bullet had gouged a half-inch trench in his flesh. The impact had knocked him back against the inside door panel and stunned him. But he knew he’d shot Finch center chest, and the man wouldn’t be testifying against him.

How could things have gone so wrong? Secrecy had bitten them in the ass. It should have been a simple operation. They arrange the peer-to-peer exchange of cash for Bitcoin in anonymity, a practice they use in all their messages. Then they follow the mark and jump him before he can examine the currency. A quick blow to knock him unconscious, reclaim the cash, and no one’s the wiser. How the hell could they have known the mark lived in a nearby boardinghouse? Then that it was Finch, of all people. Somebody who recognized him.

Norwood examined himself in the bathroom mirror. Blood stained his lower arm. His ashen face and bristly stubble made him look twenty years older than his actual thirty-five. When he went out, he’d put on a windbreaker with a hoodie. The waterproof fabric would keep any blood seepage from becoming visible. The hoodie might hide the pain in his eyes.

Seven thirty. The past three hours had been hell. He’d wait until most of the people in his Crystal City apartment complex had left for work. He’d use soap and bleach to clean the bloodstains out of his Tahoe. At least he’d been able to drive.