“I’ll submit the signed affidavit to the State Banking Commission before eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” Daniel said.

“Don’t confront him when he comes back to the penthouse.”

“I won’t,” I said.

I ended the call and slid the phone back into my cardigan pocket.

I walked back down the carpeted hallway to Cole’s private study at the far end of the apartment, where his mahogany desk smelled of leather conditioner and tobacco, and noticed his leather-bound desk ledger sitting beside his tax folders.

I reached into my pocket, took out the velvet Tiffany box, and slipped it back into the deep inside pocket of his charcoal wool overcoat.