Frank glanced past my shoulder toward the glass street doors, lowering his voice as he straightened the stroller canopy.

“Mr.

Whitmore came through the lobby at five forty-five.”

“Did he mention where he was coming from?” I asked.

“He didn’t say a word, ma’am,” Frank said.

“His collar was open, his hair was a mess, and his platinum Whitmore cuff links were gone from his sleeves.

He looked right past me toward the elevators and took the freight car up.”

“Was anyone with him?” I asked.