A phone rang, and I listened to Phoebe answer in the bedroom. Her tone was low and intimate, and her closing words were a whispered “Me, too.” When she came out into the living room, she was beaming. “Good news! The judge put the applications over for sixty days to allow us to conduct discovery into Ned Bartman’s dealings with Northstar or the Harrington firm.”

“Good.”

“Mark says to tell you thanks.”

I wasn’t fooled by the gratitude. There was no way Ivins didn’t already know about reverse auctions. After all, he was the king of shareholder class actions. He wanted to flatter me, and I could guess why.

“I’m sorry I can’t have dinner with you tonight,” Phoebe said. “Prior engagement. And Mark has a function he has to attend. There’re takeout menus somewhere—” She found them on the kitchen counter and held them up. “Just use Mark’s name. Oh, and his card!” She dug in her bag and came out with a shiny black credit card. I read the embossed name as I took it from her. Shay Lambert.

“Meanwhile, Mark wants you to join him for a drink on the rooftop. He’s showing off,” she added with a fond smile. “He loves to impress his guests with that view.”

I couldn’t be any more impressed than I already was. “How do I get there?”

She started to point to a door that was as richly paneled as the one upstairs. The elevator, I guessed, as she caught herself. “Go back in the front door,” she said instead. “Use your keycard. Then follow the staircase up. Mark has a private apartment on the fifth floor. For when he works late. One floor up from there gets you to the roof.” She picked up her handbag from the dining table. “We’ve tried to think of everything, but if there’s anything you need, anything at all, just give me a call.” She opened the door to the elevator and pushed the call button. “Let me give you my number.” She stopped with an embarrassed laugh. “Oh, wait, let me give you your phone first. It’s all set up on the company account.”

I took the smartphone she handed me and turned it over in my hands. If I’d had such a thing back in February, the cops wouldn’t have been nearly so suspicious of me. “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been very kind.”

The elevator arrived, and the glass cylinder slid open. “Oh, by the way,” she said, stepping on, “this opens into the gym on the other side, so don’t worry if you hear the elevator landing on this floor. You can lock the door on your side.” She reached around to demonstrate.

“Okay.”

“Good night, then,” she called, and the elevator closed and whooshed away.

I closed the paneled door that concealed it, and engaged the lock, then I went to the front door and checked that it was locked. There was a deadbolt there, too, and I threw it, and I did the same with the French doors at the rear of the apartment. There, I thought—I was locked in another cage.