Cal stared at him but said nothing. Denny nodded at a staircase behind him. Spencer realized he’d have to walk back down several bays to get the steps up to their level, so he reached up, grasped the bottom railing and climbed up and over, completing the move with a little vault.

“Thank you, guys.” As he tucked his shirt in again, he nodded back toward the entrance doors. “What do you reckon? Rain?”

They didn’t reply. “Hmm. OK then,” he said as he walked toward the stairs.

Spencer didn’t realize that driving wasn’t the only thing he could do fast. He’d acquired a knack for making enemies. He could do it in a New York minute and didn’t even need a fully structured sentence. Talent.

He climbed a double flight of stairs and went down a short corridor to a solid white door with a pneumatic closer. He pulled it open and his face was cooled by a blast of chilled air. He entered a sizeable reception room with two low black leather couches and a glass coffee table. The slat blinds were open just enough to let in some light.

A woman in her forties with dyed blonde hair and reading glasses sat at a desk in front of an open office door. She spoke quietly on a cell phone while reading from the screen of another. On her desk lay another four. She glanced up as Spencer entered.

Spencer heard voices in the office. He recognized Johnny Boy’s, although he sounded different than when he was giving Spencer a ride home. Then he’d been avuncular and jovial, in a good old homeboy sort of way. Now he sounded serious and determined, with an eye for detail and refusal to accept that a problem might be insurmountable. Spencer could only make out the occasional phrase. There was something about whether it was possible to turn off the CCTV in a truck’s cab. It wasn’t interesting enough to stop Spencer from feeling fidgety. He felt the woman’s eyes on him as he walked to the coffee table to get a magazine. This also allowed him a glimpse inside McGrath’s office.

A guy in his sixties with silver hair swept back from a high brow sat in front of a big desk. He wore the blue-collar uniform of faded denim shirt and work pants. He was hunched over the edge of his seat, feet twitching, hands loosely clasped in his lap—like he was watching a nail-biter of a game.

The couch squeaked when Spencer dropped into it. The sound made the man turn. On seeing Spencer, he recoiled, visibly upset. His reaction silenced the conversation. Johnny Boy’s head appeared in the doorway. He clocked Spencer—and closed the door. No smiles, no wave hello.