“Holy fucking shit,” I said.
“What?”
“Would you believe there are details of seventy-three murders in these documents?”
“Holy fucking shit, indeed.”
“They date back more than ten years.”
“Bob was a busy little beaver, wasn’t he?”
“Unless he spent it all, he’s certainly a millionaire or close to it. Shit, he probably made enough performing as Monique that he could squirrel away the rest of the money.”
“Want a refill?”
“Sure.”
I opened up my word processor and began to type. Thirty minutes later, I sent a rough draft to the printer, setting it to print two copies. When they came out of the LaserJet, I handed one to Mike
“See what you think of this?” I said.
I read my copy of the draft while Mike was reading his, and I made a couple of notations in the margin of the document before I looked up.
Mike was staring at me. “What?” I said.