“Shut up,” Celeste hissed, her face contorting with anger. “You are just a paid technician. You don’t know anything.”

“She knows enough to trace the three million dollars you moved to the bank in Zurich last Tuesday,” I said.

Bennett’s face lost what little color it had left.

“That was a legitimate business transfer,” he muttered, though he did not look at me.

“It was grand larceny,” I said. “And the Swiss authorities have already frozen the account.”

Marta stepped out from the kitchen corridor, wearing her wool coat and carrying a small key ring.

“I found these in the guest bedroom dresser, ma’am,” Marta said, handing me three small key fobs. “The keys to the private garage and the safe deposit box at the bank on Fifty-Seventh.”

Bennett took a step toward Marta, his fists clenching. “You treacherous old—”

“Step back, sir,” one of the police officers said, moving his hand closer to his belt.

Bennett stopped, his shoulders sagging as the reality of the situation began to settle over him.

He looked around the grand living room, at the art on the walls that he had never really understood, and then at me.