“Hi,” he said.

No names, of course.

“Just wanted to tell you, the client’s extremely satisfied.”

“Good.” What else was there to say? March had done what he’d been contracted to do in the Monterey area. He’d also eliminated evidence and witnesses and cut all ties that could potentially link the incident to the client, who was paying Jenkins a great deal of money for March’s services. The client wasn’t the nicest guy in the world—in fact, he could be quite a prick—but one thing about him: He paid well and on time.

“He’s sent eighty percent. It’s gone through proper channels.”

Bitcoin and the other weird new payment systems were clever in theory as a mechanism to pay anonymously for the sort of work that March performed but they were coming under increasing scrutiny. So Jenkins—the businessman in the operation—decided to resort to good old-​fashioned cash. “Channels” meant he’d received a FedEx box containing “documents,” which in a way, it did, though each document would have a picture of Benjamin Franklin on it.

Antioch March had eight safe-deposit boxes around the country, each with about a million inside.

Jenkins continued, “Wanted to tell you. Found a restaurant we have to try. Foie gras is the best. I mean, the best. And they serve the Château d’Yquem in Waterford. Oh, and the red wine? Petrus.” A chuckle. “We had two bottles.”

March didn’t know the wines but he assumed they were expensive. Maybe Jen­kins had even poured some for him in the past. He and Jenkins had worked together for about three years and from day one, Jenkins had treated March to fancy dinners like the one he was describing now. They were okay. But the elaborate meals didn’t really move March, in the same way the Vuitton and the Coach and the Italian suits didn’t. He accepted the gifts but was forever surprised that Jenkins didn’t even note March’s indifference. Or maybe he did but didn’t care. Just like March’s apathy at certain other times in his connection with Jenkins.

His boss now added, “Just had a proposal. I’ll tell you about it when I’m out.”

They were always vague when they were on the phone. Yes, these were prepaid mobiles but listenable if one were inclined to listen, and traceable if one were inclined to trace.

And people like Kathryn Dance would be more than happy to do both.

“I’ll be in tomorrow night,” Jenkins said.

“Good.” March tried to be enthusiastic. There was another reason Jenkins was coming to the inn, of course. Which March could have done without. But he could live with it; anything for the Get.

“Thanks again for all your work. This is a good one. This’s a winner. And it’ll open up a lot of doors for us. Well, think we’ve been talking long enough. ’Night.”

They hung up.

March checked the news, but there was nothing yet about Jon Boling’s death due to a bicycle malfunction. He supposed that with both brakes cut the bike would have been doing about fifty or sixty when Dance’s boyfriend had slammed into the traffic or rocks at Carmel Beach. March wasn’t sure exactly how close Dance was to this Boling but he knew he was more than a casual date; in her Pathfinder, at the Bay View Center, he’d found a card he’d sent her. A silly thing, funny. Signed, Love, J. March had noted the return address and driven there straight from the scene of the attack.