“I’m terribly sorry, but I have to fly back to New York early this afternoon. Could we possibly meet any earlier this morning? I apologize for the rush. My partners and I work for a family with ties to the Detroit area, and late yesterday the old man—I’m sorry, I mean Mr. Henry—anyway, he called and said he was putting me on a plane and flying me to Detroit and that I needed to find locations today and then fly back to meet with him and the rest of the family.” I pause as if considering my words. “Mr. Henry can be … mercurial, I suppose, but once he’s made up his mind, he’s made up his mind. But I know this location on Michigan Avenue would be perfect for what he wants to do.”

“I see,” Yousef says, which is total bullshit. I don’t see it, and I’m the one making up the story. “I suppose I can see about shuffling a meeting around to open up something at nine o’clock …”

“Yousef, you are a gem,” I say. “Mr. Henry will be very happy. Not to get ahead of ourselves, but if the property is everything I think it is, and Mr. Henry agrees, could I call you later this evening to get the ball rolling on paperwork?” I wait a beat, then before Yousef can say anything, I add, “There wouldn’t be any financing involved. Cash only.” As the property is listed at just over half a million, I’m hoping Yousef understands that the completely fictitious Henry family is wealthy enough to drop that kind of cash on a dime.

Apparently Yousef understands this quite well. “Not a problem at all, Miss James. Let’s say nine o’clock?”

“Please,” I say, smiling, “call me Alice.”

AT 8:55 AM, the dark-blue Cadillac I saw parked in Yousef’s driveway rolls up and parks on the side street next to the shuttered Indian restaurant. I’m waiting on the sidewalk by the front door, tapping on my phone like a very busy woman. I see Yousef get out of his car and approach, but I don’t acknowledge this until he says “Alice?” and I look up, startled but not scared. “I’m Yousef,” he says, smiling warmly and showing white teeth. He holds out a hand.

“A pleasure to meet you,” I say, taking his hand and shaking it. He’s a handsome guy, medium height with olive skin and black hair only beginning to salt-and-pepper on the sides. He’s wearing a blue suit and an open-collar white shirt and tan Oxfords—classy and successful, but not overly expensive so as not to intimidate clients. I’m willing to bet Yousef is a good salesman.