The afternoon was sultry, so glaringly hot and humid that Jake was sweating by the time he’d walked from his curbside parking space up the gently rising bricked driveway to the front door of the Tomlinson mansion. It was a quietly imposing house that spoke of old money, in a part of the city that Jake had never been in before. He saw a pair of youngsters lounging by the Bentleys and Porsches parked along the driveway and realized they would have taken his old Mustang and parked it for him. It’d look great, he thought, his beat-up old gray ghost alongside all those luxury cars.

An actual butler in a dark suit opened the glass-paneled front door and looked at him questioningly. Jake could hear muted laughter and the hum of many conversations coming from inside the house.

“Um, I’m Jacob Ross,” he said. “Dr. Cardwell—”

“You are expected, Dr. Ross,” said the white-haired butler, allowing himself a minimal smile. He opened the door wide and gestured Jake through. It was blessedly cool inside, cool and dry.

The foyer was bigger than Jake’s apartment. Marble floor. Broad staircase. Big windows with brocaded drapes shutting out the August heat. The sounds of the cocktail party were coming from a half-open door across the way, between two large paintings of soft green landscapes.

Jake felt mildly puzzled. Lev had told him to be there by four P.M. It was still a few minutes before four, yet the party seemed to be in full swing already.

“This way, sir,” said the butler in a quiet voice, not much above a whisper.

He led Jake across the foyer and pulled the half-open door all the way. The room beyond was crammed with people talking, laughing, drinking. Somewhere in the crowd someone was playing a piano. The men were mostly in suits, although Jake noticed some blue jeans and denim jackets among them. The women were young, fashionably dressed, glowing with jewelry and the self-assurance of wealth.

Feeling slightly shabby in his old gray slacks and navy blazer, Jake stepped into the crowd. At least I’m wearing a tie, he said to himself. A dark-suited waiter appeared at his side.

“What can I get for you, sir?”

Thinking about the drive back across town, Jake asked, “Do you have any ginger beer?”

“Of course.” The waiter disappeared into the chattering crowd.

A young woman smiled at him. “You’re Dr. Ross, aren’t you?”

Surprised to be recognized, Jake replied, “Jake Ross, yes.”

“I’m Amy Wexler. One of Mr. Tomlinson’s volunteers.”

She was pretty, with a lively smile and fresh, sparkling eyes. Like a cheerleader, Jake thought. Slim figure, strong cheekbones, beautiful honey blond hair cascading to her shoulders. Floor-length skirt of swirling blues and greens, soft blue sweater over a white blouse. Bracelets clattered on her wrist as she extended her hand to Jake.

Are those real gold? he wondered as he took her hand.