Wren smiled. “Well, I’m very glad to hear that, Ms. Winslow.”

“Stefanie, please.” She touched his arm. “Ms. Winslow sounds vaguely authoritarian.”

Wren nodded agreeably. “Do you suppose I could see Mr. Lawrence now for those few minutes you promised me? Before he becomes too tied up with other things? I know he has a news conference scheduled for two o’clock.”

“Now would be fine, Mr. Wren.” She took his arm as she might an old friend’s. “Come with me. We’ve got him hidden in the back.”

They went inside through a lobby decorated with brightly colored posters and children’s drawings, past a reception desk, and down a hall with doors opening into classrooms and offices. Through tall glass windows, Wren could see a grassy play area filled with toys and playground equipment shoehorned between the surrounding buildings.

“The nursery, kitchen facilities, dining rooms, Special Ed, and more classrooms are upstairs,” Stefanie informed him, waving to one of the teachers as she passed by an open door. “Life goes on.”

Simon Lawrence had set up shop in a tiny office at the very back of the building. He sat at an old wooden desk surrounded by cartons of supplies and forms, his angular frame hunched forward over a mound of papers, files, notepads, and pens and pencils. He was on the phone talking, but he motioned Wren through the open door and into a folding chair identical to the one he was occupying. Stefanie Winslow waved good-bye and went out the door, closing it softly behind her.

The Wiz finished his conversation and hung up. “I hope this isn’t bad news, Andrew,” he said, smiling wearily. “I’ve had just about all the bad news I can handle for the moment.”

“So I gather.” Wren glanced around at the boxes and bare walls. “Quite a comedown from your last digs.”

Simon snorted derisively. “Doesn’t mean a thing compared to the cost to Fresh Start. It will take a minimum of three to four weeks to get the warehouse converted and the program up and running again. How many women and children will we lose in that time, I wonder?”

“You’ll do the best you can. Sometimes that has to be enough.”

Simon leaned back. His handsome face looked worn and haggard, but his eyes were bright and sharp as they fixed on the reporter. “Okay, Andrew, what’s this all about? Lay it out on the table and get it over with.”

Andrew Wren nodded, reached into his briefcase, took out the copies he had made of the documents with which he had been provided, and placed them on the desk in front of the Wiz. Simon picked them up and began scanning them, quickly at first, then more slowly. His face lost some color, and his jaw tightened. Halfway through his perusal, he looked up.

“Are these for real?” he asked carefully. “Have you verified they exist?”

Wren nodded. “Every last one.”

The Wiz went back to his examination, finishing quickly. He shook his head. “I know what I’m seeing, but I can’t believe it.” His eyes fixed on Wren. “I don’t know anything about this. Not about the accounts or any of the transfers. I’d give you an explanation if I could, but I can’t. I’m stunned.”