THE BILL

Michael Leonard Brown had spent his whole life in the insurance business, and he had never once neglected his own coverage.

Greg Epstein had forgotten that.

For eleven months, he had lived exactly as he had promised himself he would. A penthouse above Ipanema with a terrace that looked out over the whole curve of the beach. A housekeeper, a driver, a boat he did not know how to sail. A young woman from São Paulo who laughed at his jokes, and a Brazilian lawyer who assured him, every month, for a very large fee, that the American extradition request was going nowhere. Courts could be persuaded. Judges could be rewarded. He had been right about that.

He slept well. He had always slept well. It was one of the things Brown had valued in him.

On a warm evening in early March, he came home from dinner a little drunk and found the door to the terrace standing open.

There was a man sitting in his favorite chair.

He was small and neat and gray-haired, in a pale linen suit, with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. He might have been a retired dentist, or a minor official from the consulate. On the low glass table in front of him lay a folded copy of the Wall Street Journal, eleven months old, open to a photograph of Michael Leonard Brown.

“Mr. Epstein,” the man said pleasantly. “Please. Sit down.”

Epstein did not sit down. He took one step back toward the door, and found that there was another man standing in it.

“Who sent you?” His voice had gone thin. “Brown is dead.”

“Yes. A terrible business.” The man in the chair nodded sympathetically. “But Mr. Brown was a careful man. Many years ago, he made an arrangement with my employers. A policy, you might say. The premium was paid in full, in advance. The terms were very simple.”

He unfolded the newspaper and turned it so that Epstein could see the photograph.

“If anything should ever happen to Mr. Brown, and his money should ever happen to go missing, we were to find out where it had gone.” He smiled. “And with whom.”

Epstein’s mouth had gone completely dry.

“I can pay you,” he said. “Whatever he paid you. Double. Triple. I have—”

“Oh, we know exactly what you have, Mr. Epstein. Down to the last centavo. It took us some time to trace, I will admit. You were very good. Mr. Brown always said you were the best he ever had.” The man stood up and smoothed the front of his linen jacket. “But he was also very clear on one point. He did not want the money back.”

Epstein stared at him.

“He knew he would not be needing it.” The man picked up his hat from the arm of the chair. “He only wanted the bill paid.”

Out over the dark water, the lights of a cruise ship were moving slowly along the horizon. Down on the beach, someone was playing a guitar.

Later, the police in Rio would call it a robbery, and then an accident, and then, when the American newspapers lost interest, nothing at all. A wealthy foreigner, too much wine, a terrace railing. It happened.

Some men pay for their crimes. Others merely postpone the bill.

But sooner or later, every policy comes due.