“Eighty-five thousand dollars went directly to a private charter company operating out of Teterboro Airport.”

“Who is the passenger?” I asked, my grip tightening on the phone.

“The manifest is listed under an alias, but the billing address matches the Mercer estate in Greenwich,” Miller said.

“The flight is scheduled to depart for Nassau in exactly one hour.”

I felt a cold chill run down my spine.

“He’s trying to run,” I said.

“I’m tracking the car service that just picked him up from his mother’s house,” Miller said.

“He’s already on the highway heading west.”

I walked back over to Grant’s desk, where his drawer lay open, its contents scattered across the polished wood.

I looked at a framed photo of Grant and his mother, Margaret, standing on the deck of their yacht.

I picked up the photo and turned it over in my hands.

The velvet backing was loose, and tape residue clung to the edges of the frame, as if a document had recently been ripped out.

“Agent Vance,” I said.

Vance looked up from a stack of paper folders.