The pattern was on the glass.
Alistair Vance knew this the way he knew his own name, which is to say: with absolute, unshakable certainty. It was a pattern of lines and intersections that ran across the surface of the building's windows on the forty-seventh floor of the Vance Tower, invisible to anyone else but unmistakable to him—a geometric web that mapped the flow of capital through the city like blood through arteries....
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