Mrs. Gable frowned, looking from my mother to me.
“The conference room is open,” I said, pointing toward the frosted glass doors at the back of the lobby. “Let us look at the footage together.”
Mark was already sitting at the long mahogany table when we walked in, his thumb tapping his phone screen with a rhythmic, irritating click.
My mother marched in behind me, Mrs. Gable and the third-floor couple following out of curiosity.
I set my laptop on the center of the table and plugged the HDMI cable into the wall monitor.
“David, old friend,” Mark said, his greasy charm fully active. “We don’t need to do this in front of the board. We can work out the bank discrepancy over a cup of coffee.”
“It is not a discrepancy,” I said. “It is grand larceny.”
I clicked the play button on the media player.
The large screen on the wall flickered, showing the interior of our Park Slope living room from the afternoon of January second.
