the smuggler’s bible

Barraclough

“Hell of a way to go.”

Pontchartrain crouches, careful to keep her shoes out of the puddle, and tugs gingerly at a corner of the plastic sheet covering the body.

“Responders found him face down in a bathtub full of eggnog—that one over there, in case you wondered if there might be another.”

“Significant?”

“Hard to say. People will get up to all sorts of things. This, though, is why they called us. Said it might be our guy.”

The sheet falls back, exposing one soggy, milk-white hand. The fingers sit awkwardly, knuckles glittering.

“Five gold rings,” Barraclough says.