“I have a lawyer who can handle the federal prosecutor,” Adrian told her. “But you have to give us the address.”

Sienna reached down and picked up her phone, wiping the screen with her sleeve.

“He has a place near the old docks,” she said. “An apartment he bought under a shell company before he met me.”

“Where is it?” I asked, stepping closer to her.

She unlocked her phone, her thumb shaking so hard she missed the passcode twice.

“He keeps his old records there,” she said. “The ones from before he started the development firm.”

She opened an audio file on her phone and pressed play.

Grant’s voice filled the quiet, dusty studio, sounding cold and transactional.

“The delivery goes to the brick building on Cherry Street,” Grant’s recorded voice said. “The one with the green door.”

“Cherry Street,” Adrian muttered, his eyes narrowing. “That’s in the Lower East Side, near the Manhattan Bridge.”

“There is a code on the keypad,” Sienna said, looking at Adrian. “He changes it every month based on his mother’s birth year.”

“Nineteen fifty-four,” I said immediately.