“They were drafting a preliminary agreement,” Nora said flatly.

“Spencer was lining up legal representation for her before you’d even been wheeled out of recovery.”

The waiter set down two fresh cups of dark coffee, steam curling up between us in quiet white wisps.

“Does Spencer know you pulled these payroll records?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Nora said, sliding the papers back into her leather briefcase.

“And you can’t ask him about that East End Avenue address until we’ve mapped every corporate transfer.”

I got to Spencer’s corporate suite on Fifth Avenue just after one o’clock, carrying a white paper deli bag with his lunch in it.