Righteous Prey

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One Bitcoin billionaire, amateur art historian, onetime farm boy George Sonnewell sat on a concrete abutment in a sour-milk-smelling alley near Union Square in San Francisco, the cement rough against his jean-clad butt. The night was chilly, a good excuse for the long-sleeved work shirt and nylon Air Force jacket, heavy jeans, and boots, although a neutral observer might have been puzzled by the translucent vinyl gloves he wore on his hands. The clothing had been worn only this once, the better to minimize the transfer of DNA to a murder victim. And he waited, a predator in plaid. Overhead, between the buildings, he could see exactly one star, surrounded by roiling purple nighttime clouds that reflected the kaleidoscope of city lights back to earth. Though he rarely used alcohol, Sonnewell had three-fourths of a jug of Burnett's peach vodka by his hip. Bait. His hands trembled. Nerves, he thought. He was scared, but he was going for it. And here came Duck Wiggins, right on schedule,...

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