We’ll talk about your financial confusion there.”

“I’m not confused about eighty-two thousand dollars,” I said.

“Please go home and get some rest,” Grant said gently.

“You look worn out.”

The elevator doors slid open behind me with a soft chime, and two city zoning officers walked into the reception area carrying rolled-up blueprints.

***

Richard Hale’s conference room on the fourth floor of the Pearl Street law building smelled of dark leather and lemon furniture polish.

Grant sat across the dark mahogany table next to Hale, who was tapping a gold fountain pen against his yellow notepad in a slow, steady click.