I stopped the drink an inch from my mouth and watched him until he stammered, “Adam, the police were here.”

“What did they want?”

“They had a warrant. There was nothing I could do. I tried calling Roland and he wasn’t in. Henry either—he just hasn’t been around—”

“For Christ’s sake, Clayton, spit it out.” I caught myself. “Look, no one’s saying you fucked up. Just tell me what happened, okay?”

“All right.” He nodded silently, repeatedly. “Okay. It’s just that Rayfield—” He looked up and said, “Lydia’s bank account is total hash, Adam. It’s all wrong.”

“How wrong?”

“Eight hundred thousand fucking dollars.”

“How could that be? You’re computerized, you get daily balances—”

“I don’t know.” He slammed down his drink. “I mean, I do and I don’t. They made me go through the records and it’s gone.”

“What records? What did they show?”

He pushed a low stack of papers at me. “I copied what they took.”

“Good.”

“The top one’s Lydia’s last statement of account, all right? Now the earlier ones show that for years she kept her balance at around a million—”

“Just lying around at six percent?”

“Christ, Adam, I’m not her investment counselor. Henry is. That’s the problem.” He jabbed his finger at the top sheet. “Look here. On March fifteen, there’s an entry showing that Lydia’s account was debited eight hundred thousand dollars. Now she could have withdrawn that much, though I don’t know why she’d want to. But there’s no withdrawal slip, not a goddamned thing with Lydia’s signature to show she got the money. I know. Rayfield made me go through them twice. There has to be a slip. Money doesn’t leave here without one.”

“Or shouldn’t.”

He nodded, collapsing in his chair until his chin doubled into folds and his small round belly strained his shirtfront. His face sagged with the unexpectedness of it. “What about the auditors?” I asked. “You’ve got a daily audit. Wouldn’t they pick this up?”

“No.” Clayton wiped his face. “What they look at is whether the records for all our accounts square with the cash we actually have on hand. That part’s okay; Lydia’s statement shows eight hundred thousand dollars withdrawn and we’ve got eight hundred thousand dollars less money. The problem is that the money went out and there’s no signed withdrawal slip. The auditors don’t check slips. It would take too long.”

Clayton took off his glasses, wiping an imaginary smudge. My head began to throb. “Let me ask you something, Clayton. You don’t keep people’s money segregated, right? I mean, you don’t have some special place for Lydia’s and another for mine and Krissy’s.”

“Uh-huh.”