“What sort of business?” he said.

“What sort do you think?” I said.

“Well, I don’t know.”

“Then maybe you’re going to the wrong floor,” I said.

“I work there.”

“And you don’t know what sort of business they do? Jeez. First day?”

He sighed as the elevator raced past floors 1 through 20 so fast I thought my cheeks would slide off my chin.

“Young man,” he said, “I think you’ve made a mistake.”

“Young man?” I said, but when I got a closer look at him I realized my original estimate of his age had been off by at least a decade. His tan, tight skin and rich dark hair had thrown me off, as had the energy in his step, but he was at least a young-looking sixty.

“Yes, I really think you have the wrong place.”

“Why?”

“Because I know all the firm’s clients, and I don’t know you.”

“I’m new,” I said.

“I doubt it,” he said.

“No, really,” I said.

“No way in hell,” he said and gave me a paternal grin of perfectly capped white teeth.

He’d said “firm,” and I took a guess that it wasn’t an accounting firm.

“I was injured,” I said, indicating my arm. “I’m a drummer for Guns N’ Roses, the rock band. You heard of them?”

He nodded.

“So we had a show last night at the Fleet and somebody set off some pyrotechnics in the wrong place, and now I need a lawyer.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“The drummer for Guns N’ Roses is named Matt Sorum, and you don’t look anything like him.”

A sixty-year-old Guns N’ Roses fan? How could this be? And why was it happening to me?

“Was Matt Sorum,” I said. “Was. He and Axl had a falling-out, and I was called in.”

“To play at the Fleet Center?” he said as the elevator reached 38.

“Yeah, buddy.”

The doors opened and he blocked them into the return panel by placing his hand against it. “Last night at the Fleet Center, the Celtics played the Bulls. I know. I’m a season ticket holder.” He gave me that great smile again. “Whoever you are, pray this elevator gets back down to the lobby before security does.”

He stepped out and stared at me as the doors began to close. Behind him, I saw the words GRIFFIN, MYLES, KENNEALLY AND BERGMAN in gold leaf.

I smiled. “Desiree,” I whispered.

He reached forward and slapped his hand between the doors and they jumped back.

“What did you just say?”

“You heard me, Mr. Griffin. Or should I call you Danny?”

36

His office had everything the prosperous man needs, save a jet hangar. And he could have fit one if he chose.