We were closing in on floor eighteen. Did everybody in this town have an attorney on speed-dial? “Who’s Peter Langham?”

Spada didn’t answer.

“He passed away months ago,” I said. “Darby’s living in his house. Any idea how that came about?”

Spada shook his head, frowning. “Privacy issues prevent . . .”

The elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor and a white man in his twenties got on. He glanced at the two of us, unimpressed with what he saw, then faced front, his eyes on his iPhone, earbuds in his ears, his fingers moving a mile a minute. The music spilling out of the earbuds sounded like a herd of cats being skinned alive. A bomb could have gone off in the car and he wouldn’t have noticed till his hair caught fire. Spada reached into the outside pocket of his briefcase and pulled out a glossy folder with STERLING ASSOCIATES emblazoned on the front. He handed it to me.

“You obviously have no idea what we do here, but we’re one of the leading firms in this state for viatical settlements. My company has an excellent reputation, as do I. Top seller three years running.” He stood straighter, obviously pleased with himself. “You’ll never find one client who isn’t completely satisfied with the service we provide. That anyone here would have anything to do with what you’re suggesting, well, that’s insane.” He flicked a look at the oblivious young man.

I leafed through the folder at photos of all the smiling, dying people on the final adventure of their lives: sailing the high seas, standing in front of the Sphinx, drinking wine at an outdoor café in Paris, happy to have the money to go out on a high note. The third wheel, the young man on his phone, barely moved. Tenth floor.

I held the folder up. “You finance dreams.”

“We ensure our clients the best arrangement possible. A great amount of work and care goes into it. Each settlement is tailored for maximum success, maximum return. I take personal responsibility. In fact, I handle select clients myself, so your theory that Vincent and Tim had some kind of side arrangement going simply doesn’t hold water.”

“Who was Tim’s investor?”

Spada slid a look toward Mr. iPhone, then eyed the numbers above the door nervously. He wanted out bad. Fifth floor. We stood there, facing off across the elevator car, our eyes holding, the yowling of the skinned cats the only distraction. After a time, the door dinged. We’d finally reached the lobby. I could almost feel Spada’s relief as the doors opened. He smiled, checked his fancy watch, then darted out. I followed.

“Did you really expect me to answer that in a crowded elevator?”

“It was a crowd of one,” I said. “But we’re out now, just you and me. Who was Tim’s investor?”