“That’s why prosecutors love conspiracy charges. 105.15 is a felony. With a max of twenty-five years.

“If McMunchun’s death was an accident, there’s no murder. The only other overt act likely to apply would be if money changed hands. You said it didn’t. Good. Then you’re down to 105.05…I think that’s the right number…Conspiracy in the fifth degree. That’s only a misdemeanor. Without the overt act, you easily claim that you told them it’s stupid, don’t do it, figured they wouldn’t, and walked away. Nobody’s going to prosecute.

“That’s where you are now.”

I had all this at my fingertips, including the statute numbers because I’d checked it out for myself. I didn’t mention that. I wanted to sound like I had Owen’s interests at heart and was figuring things out to protect him. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of faking it.

“If you go and say that’s a murder…doesn’t matter who did it…you have to say the reason you know is that the four of you talked about it. If the accident gets turned into murder, officially, that’s the overt act. Inescapable. It doesn’t matter who did it. Because you discussed it, you’re part of the felony conspiracy. Inescapable as far as I can figure.”

I’d certainly convinced myself that Owen needed this to stay an accident—which it was—nearly as much as the rest of us.

He looked like he was buying it. But he didn’t want to let go of his big payday.

“I found you the girl,” he said. “I named her price. I named my price. Full retail. Both. You didn’t blink. You didn’t hondle. I knew something was going down. I didn’t know what. Until I see the story of McMunchkin flying off the road and she’s with him. The things I know are that she’s involved, you’re involved, that Mrs. McMunchkin was willing to pay for him to be dead, and she’s now a widow with a hundred million dollars.”

Owen pushed his jacket back, showing me that he was carrying to back up what he said next. “I want my share. I’m going to get it.”

—

The rage came up. Maybe it was the stress of the prolonged confrontation. But I’d go with rage.

In my house. He showed me his gun in my house.

I masked it. Quickly. Had he seen it? I didn’t know.

I said, “Excuse me a second. At my age, my bladder…” turning, “…at our age…” walking toward the bedroom, “…how’s yours?” as I disappeared behind the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SHOTGUN BOOGIE

“Shotgun Boogie,” written and sung by Tennessee Ernie Ford, was #1 on the country charts for fourteen weeks.

WHEN I WALKED BACK INTO the living room, I was holding a Benelli M4.