“He was alone,” Frank said.

“He had his dark overcoat over his left arm, but he wasn’t carrying his leather briefcase.”

Frank held the heavy glass lobby door open, letting the cold December wind sweep across the polished floor.

A yellow cab pulled up to the curb, its exhaust rising white against the streetlights.

The cab turned south on Madison Avenue, its tires humming on the cold asphalt while the traffic lights blinked amber over the empty sidewalks.

My grandmother, Margaret Bennett, sat in the high-backed velvet armchair by her drawing room fireplace at seven thirty.