“You know,” said Pleski, “if anyone ever looks at all that other documentation, takes a hard look, and something’s not right, the bank would be shocked, surprised, and appalled, right? How could such a thing happen, the bank being so upstanding and all? So they’d look: Who’s the exec on the account? You. Who went rogue? Who takes the fall?” He pointed a fat finger at her.

How closely had Pleski’s sources of funds been checked? she wondered. That wasn’t her department, but she was supposed to notify Compliance of any red flags, and Pleski, from day one, looked like he was wrapped in a red flag. Or two, or three. But his account had been a good one, for the bank and for her.

But not anymore. She stood up. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” she said. “I can’t help you with this.”

“Sit down,” Pleski commanded. “I think you may need another drink. And not coffee.” He hailed a waiter. “Scotch for the lady.”

She didn’t want to sit, but she did. She needed to hear what was coming next.

Pleski lowered his voice. “Remember our deal with Kemper Media? Your deal? How it was stuck but went through because that kid in New York had an accident?”

Catherine nodded. Waiting.

“You called to tell me about it. You said it was good news, bad news. Good news that a kid got killed? Kind of callous, don’t you think?”

“It was an accident,” she said.

“That’s right. It was an accident. And then there was that guy who was bothering you, messing with you—I saw him—and you told me about him. Barnstable.”

Catherine nodded again, getting numb now. Heading into nightmare territory.

“And then he had an accident, too,” Pleski said.

Catherine noticed he left out one thing—that she had also told him that Barnstable was looking into him, Pleski. The way Pleski was telling it, it was all on her. Barnstable was her problem, not his.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” she said.

Her Scotch arrived. She drank a swallow.

“I’m just saying it’s a funny thing, you practically insinuating I had something to do with what happened to that kid, like I’m some kind of hit man or something, and then making a point of telling me this Barnstable character was bothering you, almost like you were asking me for a favor.”

What favor? Catherine thought. Like I asked you to murder Barnstable?

Oh, right, that.

“Just like I’m asking you for a favor now,” Pleski said.

Catherine wished she was recording this, so she could play the tape back later, parse the words, parse exactly what he was saying.