He didn’t answer me. I was taken aback until I realized he was listening to someone else. He had a coiled wire at his ear, like a Secret Service agent.

“Sorry, what?” he said as the elevator doors opened.

I repeated my question as we stepped on.

“Here at headquarters, two years. With CDMI, for eight years now.”

“Where else?” If the Law Department had auxiliary offices in, say, Paris, maybe someday I could transfer there. The prospect was tantalizing. Not the glamour. Just the idea of making a fresh start somewhere else, where everything could be new and shiny again.

“Southeast Asia, mostly,” Lester said as the doors opened and he led the way off.

“Oh?” I had to lengthen my stride to keep up with him. “I wouldn’t think there’d be much paralegal work to do over there.”

“I’m in Securities,” he said, and stopped at a door in the center core of the building.

That was even more puzzling. If he worked on SEC filings and the like, he’d be either in Washington or here at Admin headquarters.

He swiped a keycard to open the door, and at that moment I realized he hadn’t said securities. He’d said Security.

“Why would Corporate Security get involved in a document production?”

He hit a switch, and cool white lights came on over a vast, windowless, and nearly empty space. All of it was blindingly white. White walls, white ceiling, white concrete floor. White worktables lined the perimeter of the room, and every surface was covered with towering stacks of white paper.

“I wouldn’t know, ma’am,” he said, and shut the door behind us.

Chapter 15

Elliott Gutman came into Barrett’s office like a man in a trance. He was wearing a tweed jacket over what looked like a pajama shirt, and his hair was even more frizzed than usual. Barrett put an arm over his shoulders and steered him to the sofa. “Elliott, what can I get you? Coffee, tea?”

“Coffee, I guess.” Gutman put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

“Marcia, coffee for Elliott,” Barrett called to the ceiling. “You should eat something. Croissants?” Gutman didn’t answer. “Marcia, croissants, too.”

“Right away, Mr. Barrett.”

Gutman whispered something.

“How’s that?” Barrett bent lower to hear.

“I said, I had to ID her.”

“Oh, Elliott. You shouldn’t have done that on your own. I told you to call me first if the police contacted you. For anything.”

“There wasn’t time. They just showed up.”

“Next time—if there is a next time—you keep them waiting and you call me. Understood?”

“She looked . . . perfect. You couldn’t even tell—”

Barrett gave him a moment before he spoke again. “Elliott, think carefully now. What did the detectives ask you?”

Gutman lifted his face from his hands. “Barry. They think it’s suicide.”

Barrett’s breath caught. “Why would they think that?”

“They have her phone. They had me unlock it—”

“And you did?”

“Well, I could hardly refuse. How would that look?”