Putting his keys into his leather jacket, he left the truck and went across the street. As he pushed his way into the lobby, what had looked lush from the street was magnificent up close, but there was going to be no loitering to admire the place. The instant he walked in, the guard behind the desk looked up with a frown.

“Good evening—are you Mr. Heron?” The guy was fiftyish and dressed in a black uniform, his eyes neither slow nor stupid. Chances were good he was armed and knew how to handle what he was packing.

Jim had to approve. “Yeah, I am.”

“May I see some identification, please?”

Jim got out his wallet and flipped it open to the New York State driver’s license he’d bought about three days after he’d arrived in Caldwell.

“Thank you. I’ll call Mr. diPietro.” The guard was two seconds on the phone, and then he swept his arm toward the elevators. “Go right up, sir.”

“Thanks.”

The ride to the twenty-eighth floor was smooth as silk, and Jim amused himself by locating the mostly hidden eyes of the security cameras: The things were positioned in the upper corners where the gold mirrored panels came together, and they were made to look like decorations. With the four of them, no matter which way someone was facing, there’d be a clean shot at his or her face.

Nice. Very nice.

The bing that announced Jim’s arrival was just as discreet, and as the doors parted, Vin diPietro was right there, standing in a long ivory hallway, looking like he owned the whole frickin’ building.

DiPietro put out his palm. “Welcome.”

Guy had a solid handshake, firm and quick, and he looked great—also not a surprise. Whereas Jim was in his second-best flannel shirt and sporting a fresh shave, Vin was in a different suit than he’d had on a mere three hours ago at the hospital.

Probably just wore the things once and threw them away.

“You mind if I call you Jim?”

“Nope.”

DiPietro led the way over to a door and opened the way into…Shit, the place was right out of the Donald Trump collection, nothing but black marble, gold curlicues, crystal crap, and carved statutes. From the floors of the front hall, to the stairs that led up to a second level…and then, yeah, what was laid down in the living room, there was so much cut and finished stone, Jim had to wonder how many quarries had been stripped to kit the place out. And the furniture…Christ, the sofas and chairs looked like jewelry, with all of their gold leafing and gemstone-colored silk.

“Devina, come meet our guest,” diPietro called over his shoulder.

As the sound of high-heeled shoes came toward the living room, Jim stared out at a truly stunning view of Caldwell…and tried not to think of when he’d seen the woman last.