Marge did so. “Something else—I’ve just noticed the check numbers, which are higher than the checks I’ve written.” She opened the checkbook. “I discovered that two sheets of three checks each have been ripped out and were used for the forgeries. The bastards are even using the same check-writing machine I use.” She showed them the machine, then she remembered. She dug an index card out of her desk drawer. “I noticed a thumbprint clearly visible on my machine, and I did my best to preserve it.” She handed Kehoe the card.

“Ms. Mason,” Kehoe said, “you’re a very smart lady. If you ever get tired of working for Mr. Hayward, I wish you’d join the NYPD.”

“I watch way too many cop shows on TV,” Marge said.

“We’ll run this print today. Tell me, Mr. Hayward, who has a key to this apartment?”

“Marge, my girlfriend, Theresa Crane, and me. And, of course, the hotel has pass keys. Theresa and I were out of the country when this happened, and she certainly would have had nothing to do with this.”

“Does your girlfriend live here?”

“Yes.”

“Is she here now?”

“No, she’s at work.”

“And who is her employer?”

“Ralph Lauren, at the store on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-fifth, but perhaps you’d better call her before you show up.”

They took charge of the canceled checks, asked a lot of questions, then left. Grappa drove over to Fifth Avenue, and Kehoe found Theresa Crane and introduced himself. “Ms. Crane, Mr. Hayward tells us that you have a key to his apartment, and that you were recently out of the country together.”

“That’s correct,” she replied.

“Can you tell us where your key was when you were traveling?”

“In my purse,” she replied, “which was with me the whole time we were gone.”

“Is there anyone else of your acquaintance who might have had access to the key at some point?”

She shook her head. “No one at all.”

“Thank you, Ms. Crane. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“No bother,” she replied.

“If you think of anything else we should know, here’s my card.”

She tucked it into her bra. “Thank you. I’ll call, if I do.”

The detectives returned to the 19th Precinct and processed their evidence. They ran the fingerprint, but there was a computer glitch and a delay for the results. They phoned the manager at the bank that cashed the checks, Harmon Wills.

“Yes, I remember some of those checks,” the man said. “The company, an art gallery, opened the account a couple of weeks ago and deposited a check for seventy-five thousand.”

“Who opened the account?”

“A man named Harold Bremmer. He had all the required documents and ID. He gave me a PO box number for an address, and a cell phone number.”

“Can you describe him?”