I grabbed my car keys from the bowl on the table and picked up the Pelican case.

We walked out into the downpour, leaving the front door of Darrow House wide open to the cold wind.

The drive down the Merritt Parkway was dark and silent.

The windshield wipers scraped rhythmically against the glass, struggling to clear the heavy rain.

Philip sat in the passenger seat, his forehead pressed against the cold side window, staring out at the red taillights of the trucks ahead of us.

I kept both hands tight on the steering wheel, my mind calculating the weight of what he had just given me.

If Grant had been skimming thirty percent of the capital improvement funds, the liability was no longer just a civil matter.

It was a criminal enterprise.

We arrived at the Manhattan headquarters of Whitaker Family Capital just after midnight.

The lobby was empty, the dark marble floors polished to a high sheen.

Up on the forty-second floor, the lights were burning bright in the main glass-walled conference room.