It started with the guy talking like he was from a different planet, all about remote SMS and bullshit. If he hadn’t been able to send the SMS remotely, he explained, there was a risk that they’d find evidence after the crash of the brakes being cut. Or even worse, the woman would have known immediately upon leaving the parking lot that they were disabled.

Beaufort didn’t give a shit about what “SMS” stood for. Did the guy see the car go off the edge of the cliff? Was the woman dead?

No, the man had to explain every detail of the setup, and the drive down the mountain, and his conversation with the woman at the bottom.

“What do you mean, at the bottom? Are you saying she’s not dead?”

That’s what he was saying, the man said, but it was all very professional, so Beaufort didn’t have to worry about the woman suspecting anything.

“I didn’t want her unsuspecting, I wanted her fucking dead!” Beaufort screamed. Then he screamed that he wanted his money back.

The guy told him to come and get it, easy to say when Beaufort didn’t even know his name and it was unlikely that Yanchak back in Florida would ever give it to him. Good old Yanchak, he managed to let Beaufort take the fall for the drugs all those years ago and he was still screwing him. Why had he ever trusted the Polack? The way he saw it, Yanchak owed him one. He owed him a big one.

Beaufort had finally hung up the phone without another word, as there were no words in his head. Oddly, his thoughts turned to Gloria Bentham. She had been so easy. He thought he could play Brigid Quinn the way he could play Gloria or any other woman. Now he knew there was more to Quinn than met the eye. Who was this woman who could get off a mountain without brakes?

The whole day had been a bust. He didn’t find anything at the house, in his haste and frustration he left the bag of loot there, and now this.

Still steaming from the conversation, Beaufort got into his car, drove the short distance home, and pulled into Gloria’s driveway. He bolted from the car, walked into the living room, and threw his car keys on the glass coffee table, where they hit one of the porcelain figures that Gloria loved so much. The porcelain toppled. The glass won.

“Jerry?” Her voice came from the bedroom, all questioning and timid. That made him angrier.

“Jerry!” The voice was in the room now. He whipped around to see her standing in some baby-doll getup, the black lace struggling to support her sagging tits and her saddlebags spilling out from beneath the panties. His life was unraveling and all this idiot cared about was sex.