Higgins’s security system records at forty-eight kilohertz,” Arnie said, touching a slider on his mixing board.

“The window glass bounced back most of the sun glare, but the outdoor directional microphone picked up clean audio from twelve feet away.”

He pressed a black button on the console.

A light hiss filled the studio speakers, followed by the faint clink of silver spoons against crystal goblets.

My father’s deep, commanding voice came through the speakers first, bragging about three commercial leases he had closed in North Palm Beach.

“Pass the roasted carrots, Beatrice,” my mother’s breathless voice murmured in the background.