The elevator reached the top and slid open smoothly; and their faces fell. Before them stood a security man, and beyond him they could see black-and-yellow tapes announcing a “crime scene,” which was obscured by the heavy glass doors of Roland’s seventeenth-floor office. It looked as if some removal men had been spirited away, leaving behind the chaos of an unfinished job. Files, books, and other pieces of equipment were scattered about the area in disorganized piles.

A neat, well-groomed woman of about forty was in conversation with a uniformed policeman and a plainclothes officer not far from the elevator door, and in the rear of the offices men in white overalls moved about like ghosts.

The trio closest to them turned toward Simon and Lucy as the elevator doors opened.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked a little sharply, stepping forward. She directed her words to Lucy.

“Good morning. I’m Lucy King, and this is Simon Whelan. We’ve flown especially from London for an appointment with Mr. Brown.” Lucy’s words came in rather short phrases. It was obvious Mr. Brown was not going to be “at home.”

“Oh! Yes, he mentioned it. I’m sorry, I’m Pearl Garrett, one of Roland’s partners.” They hardly paused to shake hands, before she resumed. “He’s been called away urgently to Boston, and I meant to leave a message at your hotel but, as you can see”—she broke off to invite their eyes over the mêlée in front of them—“I’ve had my hands full since the police called me in at seven this morning. He’ll call you, Lucy—that’s what he wanted me to tell you. At around six tonight. He has the number, and suggests you meet at his apartment first thing in the morning. Which will be pleasanter than here.” Her voice inflected exasperation.

“Mrs. Garrett. I’m sorry, but could we have you back with us?” The plainclothes officer drew her attention to the gesturing from one of the men inside in a white jumpsuit.

“You’ll have to excuse me. You can see we have a small problem. We keep a great many highly sensitive pictures in our files here, not all of which are backed up on disk. The older ones sometimes attract paranoia from interested parties in politics or entertainment. Dirty underwear closets, you could say. We still don’t know what’s missing.” She called the elevator for them again, smiling as the door opened almost immediately. “You all have a nice day, now, and go play tourists. This city is like Disneyland for adults, don’t you think?” And she turned away without waiting for a word of reply.

“Coincidence? Or should we worry?” Simon’s voice completely lacked its habitual humor as the elevator arrived at the ground level.