“We’ve got one Agnes Cameron on the floor above her,” Kincaid said. “Serves on the board of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, socially impeccable. I called the office of the director, pretending to be a journalist writing a profile of her. Said I was told she was in a meeting there, and I needed to double-check some of the quotes. A very snotty woman said, ‘Well, that’s impossible, Mrs. Cameron is in Paris at the moment.’”

“That the best candidate?”

“Seems to be, yeah. According to the phone company records, she had a high-speed DSL Internet connection installed last year.”

She handed Janson a cotton-knit shirt emblazoned with the black and red Verizon logo, matching hers. “Turns out your friend Cornelius has a brother at Verizon,” she explained. “Gets ’em wholesale. His-and-hers.” Next came a leather instrument belt to cinch around his waist. A bright orange test phone was the bulkiest item. Rounding out the costume was a gray metal toolbox.

As they approached the doorman at the awning, Jessie Kincaid did the talking. “We’ve got a customer, I guess she’s out of the country now, but her DSL line is on the fritz and she asked us to service it while she’s gone.” She flipped a laminated ID at him. “Customer name is Cameron.”

“Agnes Cameron, on the eighth floor,” the doorman told them, in what Janson recognized as an Albanian accent. His cheeks were lightly flecked with acne, and his visored hat sat high on his wavy brown hair. He went inside and consulted with the guard. “Repair guys from the phone company. Mrs. Cameron’s apartment.”

They followed him into the elegant lobby, which was trimmed with egg-and-dart molding and tiled with black and white marble in a harlequinade pattern.

“How can I help you?” The second doorman, a heavyset man also of Albanian origin, had been sitting on a round cushioned stool and talking to the guard. Now he sprang to his feet. He was evidently senior to the other doorman and wanted it to be clear that he would be making the decisions.

For a few moments, he silently scrutinized the two, frowning. Then he lifted an antique Bakelite internal phone and pressed a few digits.

Janson looked at Kincaid: Mrs. Cameron was supposed to be out of the country. She shrugged, in a tiny motion.

“Repairmen from Verizon,” he said. “Verizon. To fix a phone line. Why? I don’t know why.”

He put his hand over the mouth of the phone and turned to the two visitors. “Mrs. Cameron’s housekeeper says why don’t you come back when Mrs. Cameron’s in town. Be another week.”

Jessie rolled her eyes theatrically.

“We’re out of here,” Paul Janson said, tight-lipped. “A favor: when you see Mrs. Cameron, tell her it’ll be a few months before we’ll be able to schedule another appointment to fix the DSL.”

“A few months?”