“No, ma’am,” Marta said. “The security staff is at the front desk downstairs.”

“Bennett is on his way there,” I said. “He is coming for the vault.”

There was a pause on the line.

“The vault in the private study?” Marta asked.

“Yes,” I said. “You must lock the inner security door.”

“The manual override?” Marta asked.

“Yes,” I said. “The switch behind the bookshelf.”

“I will do it now,” Marta said.

“Be careful, Marta,” I said. “He is desperate.”

“I understand, ma’am,” she said and hung up.

Bennett stopped at the corner of Tenth Avenue and raised his hand.

A yellow taxi pulled up to the curb.

He climbed into the back seat, slamming the door.

“Follow that cab,” Julian told Thomas.

Our sedan accelerated, blending into the light evening traffic.

The taxi turned east, heading toward the Midtown tunnel.

“He is not going to Park Avenue,” I said, watching the taxi’s route.

“Where is he going?” Julian asked.

“The Carlyle,” I said. “He has a suite registered under his sister’s name.”

“Why would he go there?” Julian asked.