“I walked down Water Street, cut over on Cedar to Broadway then south.”

“And that’s where you lost your money clip. On Cedar. How did that happen?” Her tone and the questions were completely nonthreatening. He was relaxing now. His attitude was less aggressive. Her smiles and low, calm voice were putting him at ease.

“As near as I can figure, it fell out when I was getting my subway pass.”

“How much money was it again?”

“Over three hundred.”

“Ouch . . .”

“Yeah, ouch.”

She nodded at the plastic bag containing the money and clip. “Looks like you just hit the ATM too. Worst time to lose money, right? After a withdrawal.”

“Yep.” He offered a grimacing smile.

“When did you get to the subway?”

“Nine-thirty.”

“It wasn’t later, you sure?”

“I’m positive. I checked my watch when I was on the platform. It was nine thirty-five, to be exact.” He glanced down at his big gold Rolex. Meaning, she supposed, that a watch this expensive was sure to tell accurate time.

“And then?”

“I went back home and had dinner in a bar near my building. My wife was out of town. She’s a lawyer. Does corporate financing work. She’s a partner.”

“Let’s go back to Cedar Street. Were there any lights on? People home in their apartments?”

“No, it’s all offices and stores there. Not residential.”

“No restaurants?”

“A few but they’re only open for lunch.”

“Any construction?”

“They’re renovating a building on the south side of the street.”

“Was anybody on the sidewalks?”

“No.”

“Cars driving slowly, suspiciously?”

“No,” Cobb said.

Dance was vaguely aware of the other officers watching her and Cobb. They were undoubtedly impatient, waiting, like most people, for the big Confession Moment. She ignored them. Nobody really existed except the agent and her subject. Kathryn Dance was in her own world—a “zone,” her son, Wes, would say (he was the athlete of the family).

She looked over the notes she’d taken. Then she closed the notebook and replaced one pair of glasses with another, as if she were exchanging reading for distance glasses. The prescriptions were the same, but instead of the larger round lenses and pastel frames these were small and rectangular, with black metal frames, making her look predatory. She called them her “Terminator specs.” Dance eased closer to Cobb. He crossed his legs.

In a voice much edgier, she asked, “Ari, where did that money really come from?”

“The—”

“Money? You didn’t get it at an ATM.” It was during his comments about the cash that she noticed an increased stress level—his eyes stayed locked on to hers, but the lids lowered slightly and his breathing altered, both major deviations from his nondeceptive baseline.

“Yes, I did,” he countered.

“What bank?”

A pause. “You can’t make me tell you that.”

“But we can subpoena your bank records. And we’ll detain you until we get them. Which could take a day or two.”

“I went to the fucking ATM!”