I slid the folder across the table. Housekeeping — Final. “Your real name is in there,” I said. “So is Martin Gale, the Cyprus account, and the full Harmon trail. There’s also a recording.” I paused. “I’m a forensic accountant, Gary. I’ve been one for fifteen years.” I watched him understand his single, fatal error. He had chosen me for my precision, but forgotten to account for it.
They took him at twelve-seventeen. No handcuffs in the house—Moyá had agreed to that, one small courtesy I had requested and she had honored. He walked out of the front door of the house on Calloway Street under his own composure, which I supposed was the last thing that was entirely his. I watched from the window.