“Whose side are you on, anyway?” he asked.

“Listen,” I said, “I feel bad about your office, I do. But it’s like we say in the syndicate: ‘You can’t make an omelette without blowing up a few offices.’”

“Criminal organizations always have the worst sayings.”

“We aren’t criminals,” I protested. “We’re paralegal. No, wrong word. Let’s go with quasi-legal. Back up.” We both took a step back to avoid a piece of his office falling to the sidewalk below. What was once a painting, I figured. “Some important people want you dead, but some other important people want you alive. I work for the latter.”

“Couldn’t the police have handled this?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “Right now, though, we aren’t sure the police are on our side. Most are, sure; we’re the good guys here. But all it takes is one bad apple.”

“So what happens now?” he asked.

“We get out of here, head to a safehouse, and wait.” Three black SUVs came around a corner a block away. Black SUVs are never the good guys. “Change of plans,” I said. “We run.”