The Ayers family owned manufacturing and industrial service companies, apparently, and had their pampered little hands in banks and boards and conglomerates and such, which meant next to nothing to me, since my money didn’t travel in those circles. I pushed through the glass doors to Ayers, Thurston, and Morgan to find a prim-looking, middle-aged woman sitting at the receptionist’s desk. She was smartly dressed in a lavender suit with gold buttons, her auburn hair coiffed just so, her nail polish matching the suit. The nameplate on the big wooden desk read H. GARDNER.

“Good morning,” H. Gardner said. “May I help you?” Her smile was effusive. Here was a woman who enjoyed her work, or at least appeared to enjoy it.

I returned the greeting, and the sparkle. “Cassandra Raines to see Mr. Ayers.”

“Certainly,” she said, reaching for a leather-bound appointment book.

“You won’t find me there. I don’t have an appointment. But Mr. Ayers will know why I’m here. I only need a moment of his time.”

H. Gardner closed down on me. She pinched her face, her shoulders bunched up, even her hands laced into tight little balls. “I’m afraid if you don’t have an appointment—”

“Perhaps if you let Mr. Ayers know I’m here, he’ll choose to see me without an appointment.” I kept the smile up. “It really won’t take long.”

I could tell she doubted me, but she picked up the phone and punched 4-6-6-3, which I duly noted, even though from my vantage point I was seeing the numbers upside down. I hoped she was dialing Ayers’s extension and not building security.

“Mr. Ayers, there’s a Ms. Cassandra Raines here. She . . . Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Gardner listened for a few seconds, making affirmative noises, letting the big guy know that she was listening and that she understood. All the “yes, sir” utterances were a bit too deferential for me, but different strokes, I guess. After a time, Gardner put the phone down and stood. “Please have a seat.”

She quickly headed off toward the back, and I watched her go. The moment she disappeared from view, I quickly scanned reception for security cameras, but didn’t see any. Didn’t mean much; they could be hidden anywhere—behind a potted plant, at the edge of a picture frame—still, I decided to go for it. I leaned over the desk and twisted the appointment book around, flipping through the pages, reading the names, looking for one I might recognize, like Vincent Darby or Nicholas Spada. Neither name was there. I heard Gardner returning and hastily flipped the book back around and moved away from it, the very picture of innocence.

“Mr. Ayers is unable to see you at this time,” Gardner offered condescendingly—as though I ever had a chance of getting past her desk. “He refers you to his attorney, Mr. . . .”