His name was Mr.

Sterling, and he was a careful, formal man, and when he sat down across from me in the sitting room of the suite, he did not unbutton his suit coat.

The penthouse, which for two years had been filled with the soft hum of faraway traffic and the crackle of Miles Davis records, felt vast, and hollow, and silent.

He handed me a heavy cream envelope, sealed with red wax and stamped with a monogrammed emblem I did not recognize, and he looked at me with a quiet concern that unsettled me.

“Please, sit down,” he said, though I was already sitting.