“I’m looking for Dr. Anderson’s office,” Raymond announced to the liveried doorman who’d opened the heavy wrought-iron and glass door.

“The doctor’s office has its own entrance,” the doorman replied. He reopened the door behind Raymond, stepped out onto the sidewalk and pointed south.

Raymond touched the tip of his hat in appreciation before moving down to this private entrance. A sign of engraved brass read: PLEASE RING AND THEN ENTER. Raymond did as he was told.

As the door closed behind him, Raymond was immediately pleased. The office looked and even smelled like money. It was sumptuously appointed with antiques and thick oriental carpets. The walls were covered with nine-teenth-century art.

Raymond advanced to an elegant, boulle-work French desk. A well-dressed, matronly receptionist glanced up at him over her reading glasses. A nameplate sat on the desk facing Raymond. It said: MRS. ARTHUR P. AUCHINCLOSS.

Raymond gave his name, being sure to emphasize the fact that he was a physician. He was well aware that some doctors’ receptionists could be uncomfortably imperious if they didn’t know a visitor was a member of the trade.

“The doctor is expecting you,” Mrs. Auchincloss said. Then she politely asked Raymond to wait in the waiting room.

“It’s a beautiful office,” Raymond said to make conversation.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Auchincloss said.

“Is it a large office?” Raymond asked.

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Auchincloss said. “Dr. Anderson is a very busy man. We have four full examining rooms and an X-ray room.”

Raymond smiled. It wasn’t difficult for him to guess the astronomical overhead that Dr. Anderson had been duped into assuming by so-called productivity experts during the heyday of “fee-for-service” medicine. From Raymond’s point of view, Dr. Anderson was the perfect quarry as a potential partner. Although the doctor undoubtedly still had a small backlog of wealthy patients willing to pay cash to retain their old, comfortable relationship, Dr. Anderson had to have been being squeezed by managed care.

“I suppose that means a large staff,” Raymond said.

“We’re down to one nurse,” Mrs. Auchincloss said. “It’s hard to find appropriate help these days.”

Yeah, sure, Raymond mused. One nurse for four examining rooms unquestionably meant the doctor was struggling. But Raymond didn’t vocalize his thoughts. Instead he let his eyes roam around the carefully wallpapered walls and said: “I’ve always admired these old-school, Park Avenue offices. They are so civilized and serene. They can’t help but impart a feeling of trust.”

“I’m sure our patients feel the same way,” Mrs. Auchincloss said.

An interior door opened and a bejeweled, Gucci-draped, elderly woman stepped into the reception area. She was painfully thin and had suffered so many face-lifts that her mouth was drawn into a taut, unremitting smirk. Behind her was Dr. Waller Anderson.

Raymond’s and Waller’s eyes crossed for a fleeting moment as the doctor guided his patient to the receptionist and gave instructions of when he should see her next.

Raymond assessed the doctor. He was tall and had a refined look that Raymond sensed he possessed as well. But Waller wasn’t tanned. In fact, his complexion had a grayish cast, and he looked strained with sad eyes and hollow cheeks. As far as Raymond was concerned, hard times were written all over his face.