That was where Chaz Faircloth lived. Quick albeit obvious conclusion: Coming from great wealth was nice.

When Chaz opened the door, his white shirt was opened a button more than it should have been, revealing pecs so waxed they made a baby’s butt look like it had a five o’clock shadow. He smiled with the perfect teeth and said, “Come in.”

She glanced around the apartment. “Label me surprised.”

“What?”

Kat had expected a man cave or bachelor pad and instead found the place almost too classily decorated with old wood and antiques and tapestries and oriental rugs. Everything was rich and expensive yet understated.

“The décor,” Kat said.

“You like?”

“I do.”

“I know, right? My mom decorated the place with family heirlooms and whatnot. I was going to change it up, you know, make it more me, but then I found that chicks actually love this stuff. Makes me look more sensitive and stuff.”

So much for the surprise.

Chaz moved behind the bar and picked up a bottle of Macallan Scotch 25 Year. Kat’s eyes went wide.

“You’re a Scotch drinker,” he said.

She tried not to lick her lips. “I don’t think I should right now.”

“Kat?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re staring at that bottle like I stare at ample cleavage.”

She frowned. “Ample?”

Chaz smiled with the even teeth. “Have you ever had the twenty-five?”

“I had the twenty-one once.”

“And?”

“I almost asked it for a ring.”

Chaz grabbed two whiskey glasses. “This sells for about eight hundred dollars a bottle.” He poured both and handed one to her. Kat held the glass as if it were a baby bird.

“Cheers.”

She took a single sip. Her eyes closed. She wondered whether it was possible to drink this and keep your eyes open.

“How is it?” he asked.

“I may shoot you just so I can take the bottle home.”

Chaz laughed. “I guess we should get on with it.”

Kat almost shook her head and told him it could wait. She didn’t want to hear about the Swiss bank account. The realization of what her life had been—what her parents’ lives had been—was beginning to burrow through her mental blockades. Every house on every street is really just a family facade. We look at it and think we know what’s going on inside, but we never really have any idea. That was one thing, sure—to be fooled that way. She could get past that. But to be on the inside, to live behind the facade and still realize she had no idea of the unhappiness, the broken dreams, the lies and delusions being played out right in front of her, made Kat just want to sit on this perfect leather couch and sip this primo beverage and let it all slip into the wonderful numb.

“Kat?”

“I’m listening.”

“What’s going on with you and Captain Stagger?”

“You don’t want to get in the middle of that, Chaz.”

“Are you coming back soon?”

“I don’t know. It’s not important.”

“You sure?”

“Positive,” Kat said. It was time to change subjects. “I thought you wanted to see me about the numbered Swiss bank account.”

“I did, yes.”

“Well?”

Chaz put the glass down. “I did what you asked. I reached out to your contact at the Department of Treasury. I just asked him if he could put the account on their watch list. The list is huge, by the way. I guess the IRS is going hard after the secret Swiss accounts, and the Swiss are fighting back. Unless there is a strong hint of terrorism, they’re pretty backlogged, so I don’t think they’ve picked up on this yet.”

“Picked up on?”

“You said the account was new, right?”

“Right. Supposedly Dana Phelps just opened it.”

“When exactly?”

“I don’t know. From what her financial guy said, I’d assumed that she set it up two days ago when she transferred the funds into it.”

“That can’t be,” Chaz said.

“Why not?”

“Because someone already issued a Suspicious Activity Report on it.”

Kat put the glass down. “When?”

“A week ago.”

“Do you know what the report said?”

“A Massachusetts resident transferred over three hundred thousand dollars into that same account.”

Chaz opened up the laptop sitting on the coffee table and began to type.

“Do you have the name of the person who made the transfer?” Kat asked.

“No, it was left out of the report.”

“Do you know who issued the SAR?”

“A man named Asghar Chuback. He’s a partner at an investment firm called Parsons, Chuback, Mitnick and Bushwell Investments and Securities. They’re located in Northampton, Massachusetts.”

Chaz spun the laptop toward her. The Parsons, Chuback, Mitnick and Bushwell web page was the digital equivalent of thick ivory stock and embossed logos—rich, fancy, upper class—the kind of design that told those without eight-figure portfolios not to bother.

“Did you tell Detective Schwartz about this?” Kat asked.

“Not yet. Frankly, he didn’t seem all that impressed with the stolen license plate.”

There were links on the site for wealth management, institutional services, global investments. There was a lot of talk about privacy and discretion. “We’ll never get them to talk to us,” Kat said.

“Wrong.”

“How so?”

“I thought the same thing, but I made the call anyway,” Chaz said. “He’s willing. I made you an appointment.”

“With Chuback?”

“Yep.”

“For when?”

“Anytime tonight. His secretary said he’s working with the overseas market and will be there all night. Weird, but he seems anxious to talk. The ride should take about three hours.” He snapped the laptop closed and stood. “I’ll drive.”

Kat didn’t want that. Yes, she trusted Chaz and all, but she still hadn’t told him all the details, especially about the personal Jeff-Ron connection. That wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted around the precinct. Plus, much as he might be getting better, three hours in a car with Chaz—six hours round-trip—was something she wasn’t yet ready to handle.

“I’ll drive myself up,” she said. “You stay here in case we need some kind of follow-up.”

She expected an argument. She didn’t get one.

“Okay,” he said, “but it’ll be faster if you just take my car. Come on. The garage is around the corner.”

 • • •

Martha Paquet carried her suitcase to the door. The suitcase was old, predating the invention of the rolling ones, or maybe Harold had been too cheap, even back then. Harold hated to travel, except twice a year when he did a “Vegas run” with his drinking buddies, the kind of trip that caused cringing winks and snickers from all upon their return. For those outings, he used a fancy Tumi carry-on—it was only for his use, he said—but he’d taken that, and pretty much everything else of value in their condo, years ago, before the final divorce. Harold didn’t wait for the courts. He rented a U-Haul, took everything he could from the condo, and told her, “Try to get it back, bitch.”

Long time ago.

Martha looked out the window. “This is crazy,” she said to her sister, Sandi.

“You only live once.”

“Yes, I know.”

Sandi put her arm around her. “And you deserve this. Mom and Dad would so approve.”

Martha arched her eyebrow. “Oh, I doubt that.”

Her parents had been deeply religious people. After years of domestic abuse at the hands of Harold—no reason to go into that—Martha had ended up moving back here to help Dad take care of her terminally ill mom. But as it often plays out, Dad, the healthy one, had died of a sudden heart attack six years ago. Mom had finally passed last year. Mom had firmly believed she was going to Paradise with Dad—claimed she couldn’t wait for that day—but that hadn’t stopped her from fighting and scraping and enduring agonizing treatments to hang on to this mortal coil.

Martha had stayed with her mother the whole time, living in this house as her nurse and companion. She didn’t mind. There was no talk of sending Mom to hospice or a nursing home or even hiring someone. Her mother wouldn’t hear of it, and Martha, who loved her mother dearly, would never have asked.