I spent the whole night at the desk.

By five in the morning I was on the phone to my most discreet investigator; by eight, as the sun came up, I had an address — a modest middle-floor apartment in a quiet working-class building in New Jersey.

Chapter 8 — Door 602

I did not shower or change out of my wrinkled suit.

Delphine was in the living room when I came out, haggard, a tablet in her lap, the morning financial news murmuring about “rumors swirling around hedge-fund titan Roderick Wolcott after a bizarre altercation at Lincoln Center.” She looked up at me with red-rimmed, venomous eyes.

“My family’s holding company is calling an emergency meeting.