I picked up the binder. “Stay here. Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it unless I call from my phone and say the word Wellington. Understand?”

She nodded.

I stepped into the hall and waited until I heard the lock click. Then I went downstairs.

The Wellington Grand lobby after midnight looked like a cathedral built for people who worshipped wealth — gold light over polished stone, white orchids in black vases, the night staff moving in practiced silence.

But near the far end, by Conference Room C, two uniformed officers stood beside a man in a navy coat.