“"Man, you see how much whiskey costs over here?" Marino commented as he closed the door to the minibar. "I don't care." "Interpol's probably paying, anyway," he decided. "And I need a cigarette," I added. He lit a Marlboro for me and the first hit punched my lungs. He presented me with a tumbler of straight single malt on the rocks in one hand, a Beck's beer in the other. "What I'm trying to say," Marino resumed, "is if Interpol can do all this secret shit with electronic tickets and ritzy hote...ls and Concordes, and no one ever meets a soul who's ever talked to whoever these people are, then what makes you think they couldn't have faked everything else?" "They couldn't have faked his being murdered by a psychopath;" I replied. "Yes, they could have. Maybe that was the perfect timing." He blew out smoke and gulped down beer. "Point is, Doc, I think anything can be faked, if you think about it." "DNA identified . . ." I couldn't finish the statement. It brought images before me I had suppressed for so long.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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