I suddenly got it. I couldn’t believe it. Even as I knew I comprehended it correctly. That part of my brain that had left the sane got how perfectly logical it was. And admired the audacity. I did have to check. Not that it couldn’t be. Just that it shouldn’t be. I gestured toward the larger part of the office space. “You’ll have a pool, out there, of unhappy, women. They’re talking about divorces. You find the ones where there’s a lot of money at stake. You find out who’s really, really angry. Full of hate…”

“Or fear,” she said.

“Or fear.” I agreed. “Yeah, that’ll do. Then you gently guide them, toward a special offer.”

“Yes,” she said, “a special offer,” like she hadn’t thought of that phrase for it before.

“Just get rid of the guy. They’ll end up with a lot more money. At least double. If there are kids, sole custody. Instead of months or years in court, it’ll be quick. And it’s really, fully, finally over. No more bickering, no more threats, no more fucking lawyers.”

She didn’t nod, but I could see from her face that I’d gotten it just about right. I continued and got to the punchline. “You get…” I guessed, “…half.”

“I don’t get the money,” she claimed.

“No?” That was the point, wasn’t it?

“The deal is…or will be…as with Madelaine…they invest. With LIFE.”

“Oh my.” Unable to avoid sounding sarcastic, I said, “That’s better then.”

“Goddamn it,” she said, “It is.” She moved her hand, palm up, in a half circle, as if she was conveying funds from where we stood out to the main office thronged with worthy causes.

“It can fund idealistic law suits. Even those with low odds of success. Even those with low payouts when they do succeed. Ones that otherwise no one would finance. Wage theft from domestics and home care workers. Systemic abuse of female farmworkers.”

Pardon my skepticism. I said, “You’re willing to lose money?”

“Of course we’ll keep an eye on the bottom line. A company without profit is like driving a car with no oil in the engine. But this method, as a source of funding, allows us a much greater range of actions.”

“Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?”

She took a moment. Looked hard at me. Finally, she said, “You know what I want.”

“Let’s not pussyfoot. Or beat around the bush. Let’s lay it out. You want me to be your staff assassin?”

“Yes,” she said, though she didn’t shout it out.

“I don’t like killing people.”

“It’s my understanding…well…that you have killed people before…You shot a couple of gangsters in Miami.”

“No,” I said.

She looked at me, like she knew better.