“That is too slow, Marcus,” I said, walking out into the marble lobby of the building. “The wire will clear before then.”

“I will call our forensic accountant, Sarah,” Marcus said. “She has a contact at the clearing house in New York.”

“Do it now,” I said. “I am coming to your office.”

I hung up and walked out of the revolving doors into the cold, damp air of Manhattan.

A light drizzle was falling, slicking the black pavement of Fifth Avenue.

I hailed a yellow cab and climbed into the back seat, the smell of damp leather and cheap air freshener filling my nose.

“Madison and Fifty-Seventh,” I told the driver.

He nodded and pulled into the crawling midday traffic.

I stared out the window, watching the pedestrians huddle under their umbrellas.

My phone buzzed again in my hand.

It was another alert.

“Pending Transfer: $4,800,000.00 USD.”

This time, it was from the domestic commercial account of Hayes Properties.

Preston was stripping the company of its liquid reserves.

He was burning the house down on his way out the door.