Phoebe led me through the reception hall. It was wretched excess on the grandest scale, even more so when I considered that this once must have been the private home of some robber-baron merchant or industrialist. All this lavish splendor for a single family who probably spent less than half a year in residence.

She stopped at a richly paneled door and opened it. The door didn’t lead to another room—it concealed a small elevator, a glass cylinder like a pneumatic tube in a bank drive-through. As Phoebe stepped into the cylinder, I lurched to a stop. She looked back, puzzled, when I didn’t join her. “Oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t even think—! We’ll take the stairs, of course.”

“I’ll be all right,” I whispered, but I didn’t move.

“No, come.” She took me by the hand again. This time she led me out the front door and down the steps to the pavement. I glanced down the street. A black SUV was parked at the curb, and I could just make out Lester behind the wheel. Phoebe made a quick right turn and down another set of steps. She stopped at the heavy steel door of the below-stairs space and swiped a keycard through the electronic lock. It buzzed open.

I followed her into a room that was decorated with contemporary art and streamlined furniture in cool tones of gray and blue. It looked like someone’s home or the reception area of a professional’s office, another lawyer perhaps, or a psychiatrist. There was a desk—modern, glass-topped, with an ergonomic chair—and two flanking couches upholstered in suede, and a potted ficus tree in the corner.

“We keep this apartment for out-of-town witnesses.” Phoebe closed the door and handed me the keycard. “Especially witnesses we don’t want our adversaries to find out about.”

“You mean me?”

“No, well, obviously you’re not a witness. It’s just that Mark wants you to be comfortable until you’re on your feet.”

She showed me through the apartment, with arm waves at the top features, like a realtor at an open house. Beyond the lounge was a kitchen and dining area. “We’ve stocked up on some groceries for you, but here’s the number you should call to have anything else delivered that you like. Just tell them Mark’s name.” Beyond the kitchen were a bedroom and bath. The bed was king-size, with a suede-upholstered headboard and a suede duvet heaped with shopping bags from Saks.

“I’ll help you put these away,” Phoebe said.

“No, that’s all right.”

But she was already opening the packages and tearing through the dress bags. I wandered away for a peek at the bathroom—marble tile, rainfall showerhead, and an honest-to-God bidet—and then back out to the dining area. An expanse of French doors opened on the back garden of the property. There were electronic locks here, too. Outside, a teak dining table sat under a wisteria-vined pergola. Daffodils were erupting, just as in the prison yard. I clocked the security cameras aimed at the door and others aimed out over the garden.