“The address on that dry cleaner’s ticket belongs to a two-bedroom residential lease on East End Avenue,” Nora said, her voice low enough that the barista behind the counter didn’t look up.

“The lease was signed six months ago under a shell company.”

“Who owns the company?” I asked.

“Spencer is the only managing director,” Nora said, tapping the second page with the capped nib of her pen.

“And the payroll records for his office staff show something even more direct.”

“What did you turn up?” I asked.

“Brielle Foster went from forty-two thousand dollars a year as a junior assistant to a hundred and twenty-six thousand in less than two quarters,” Nora said.

“That’s a three hundred percent raise, signed off personally by your husband.”