I had trusted him when he said he needed to spend weekends in Miami for investor meetings.

Now, the truth was laid bare in a series of flagged wire transfers and a one-way ticket to Eastern Europe.

My phone vibrated again in my hand.

It was a text message from an unknown number.

I opened it and saw a photograph.

It was Preston and Samantha standing in the garage of the Plaza.

Samantha was wearing a large pair of dark sunglasses and a camel-hair coat.

Preston was pointing toward the rear of their black SUV, gesturing angrily at the valet.

Another text followed from Daniel.

“They just drove out of the garage,” the message read. “They are heading toward the Lincoln Tunnel.”

I forwarded the photo and the message to Marcus. “They are on the road,” I wrote. “The clock is ticking.”

The taxi pulled up to the curb outside Marcus’s office building on Madison Avenue.

I handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill and stepped out into the freezing wind.

The lobby was warm and smelled of polished marble and expensive cologne.