Paragon used to have their own skyscraper downtown, but they’d sold it during their cost-cutting days fifteen years ago. Their headquarters now occupied five floors of one of a nest of modest towers in Lincolnwood. The outdoor lot at the complex was packed so densely that I had to park over a block from the entrance to the first building.

From my space at the edge of the lot I could see the purple Hyatt where Alan Dorfman had breathed his last. As I locked the Impala’s door the thought of the gunmen who’d blasted the gangster—on a nod from his driver—reminded me of my own frailty. I patted my own gun for reassurance and strolled into the lobby.

No guards or receptionists waited to direct the ignorant. I wandered around, looking for a signboard. Apparently I’d come in a back way—I had to go through a couple of corridors before I found a directory. It pointed me to the building next in line, where Paragon held floors four through eight.

The whole complex seemed oddly empty, as though all those cars in the lot had decanted their owners into outer space. No one passed me in the halls and I waited alone beside the elevators. When I got to the fourth floor I faced a bare aqua wall with a minute sign directing me to reception. Presumably in Paragon’s days of penury they’d decided not to waste money on big letters.

The place was so empty I was beginning to wonder if a blinking computer screen would greet me at the reception area. I was relieved to see an actual person, a woman about my own age with shoulder-length curls and a brownish jacket dress that was limp and faded from years of wear. I began to feel more confident about my blue jeans.

I gave a smile intended to convey both empathy and self-assurance and asked for the controller. She obligingly dialed a number, then put her palm over the mouthpiece.

“Who can I say is calling?”

“My name’s V. I. Warshawski.” I handed her a card. “I’m a financial investigator.”

She transmitted the information, stumbling a little over my name, as receptionists so often do, then turned back to me. “They’re not hiring anyone.”

“And I’m not looking for work. This will be so much easier to explain directly to the controller, instead of through you to her secretary.”

“It’s a him. Mr. Loring. What do you have to say to him?”

I counted on my fingers. “Six words. Diamond Head Motors and debt financing.”