“Your father is meeting us at the law office at two,” Margaret said.

“Has he talked to Cole this morning?” I asked.

“Cole called his office three times before ten o’clock,” Margaret said.

“Richard didn’t take the calls.”

“Cole will try to claim I left for no reason,” I said.

“Let him make his claims to the banking commission,” Margaret said.

At two thirty, the elevator took us up to the sixteenth floor of Harris and Croft on Madison Avenue.

A quiet forensic accountant named Arthur Vance sat at the head of the oak conference table, surrounded by twelve stacked white binders.