“I’m entitled. But you can’t say anything about it. Isn’t that the way it works?”

“You’re right.”

“Damn right, I’m right.”

“Can we be friends now?”

“That’s implying we were friends to begin with.” When Marge didn’t respond, Oliver frowned. “Okay. We’re friends. Happy?”

Marge patted his knee. The car crawled around the block until she finally parked in an underground lot. Silently, they rode the elevator to the eleventh floor—Oliver looking very sour—then got off and turned right, walking down a plush, quiet hallway to the Baldwins’ office. A young woman with mocha-colored skin and a nest of tumbling black curls met them at the door. She wore a white, short-sleeve, silk blouse tucked into a maroon skirt that brushed the top of her knees. Maroon pumps completed the look. They pulled out their badges, and the woman stepped aside so they could come in. She was breathless.

“I’m Maryam Estes.” Once inside, she closed and locked the door. “This way.”

They followed her down the thick-carpeted hallway, her chunky heels leaving depression marks in the nap. Her walk was stiff and quick.

“Are you a doctor as well?” Oliver asked.

She spoke over her shoulder. “Ph.D.”

Silence.

Oliver whispered to Marge, “I think she likes me—”

“Shut up.”

Panting, she led them into the Baldwins’ resplendent office. Paneled walls hosted verdant landscape oil paintings set into gilt frames; the polished parquet floors were adorned with several Persian rugs. The space was filled with handsome furniture that was old-fashioned in style but looked brand new—tables, chairs, sofas, and bookcases—the centerpiece being a walnut partners desk, its sides intricately carved with flowers, vines, and leaves. Strategically placed mullion windows showed off a city view.

Marge looked about. On the desktop sat two computers, blotters, pens, pencils, file folders, and piles of papers. She ran a finger over an empty spot on the smooth walnut surface—no dust. Someone had recently cleaned up.

Maryam said, “Sit anywhere you’d like.”

Marge settled into a rose upholstered sofa, but Oliver elected to walk around the room, dissecting the young woman in his head. She wasn’t pretty—her face was too round, and her eyes were too close set—but she still was attractive. Hot bod, good skin, and thick, biteable lips.

“Huge place.” He took in her dark eyes and smiled. “You could waltz in here!”

“They hold lots of group therapy sessions.” She averted her gaze. “They need the room.”

“What’s the rent on something like this?”

The woman stiffened. “I don’t know.” Another bristle. “I hardly think that’s important right now.”

“Probably not.”

Good job of enthralling her, Scott. But Oliver often had some method behind the incompetence. Marge looked at the partners desk. “Did the Baldwins share the same office?”

“They both have private space as well. There’s also an intake suite for interviews.”