What was so utterly strange was the calm and the beauty of the tableau. The Pierre Hotel was dead quiet. Riding up in the deserted elevator, Neal had expected chaos. Opening the door to the grand suite, he saw, sitting near a broad window looking out onto a softly lit Central Park, an impeccably dressed man, hands resting on the arms of a lovely silk chair. It was Rovvie, his hair pulled away from his face. Near him sat two large steamer trunks and several Louis Vuitton suitcases. Rovvie wore a pale linen suit, a diamond tennis bracelet, and the two-tone Gucci lace-up shoes Neal had just written about in his Bergdorf Boy column. Rovvie looked very much the elegant man off to discover the world. He turned to Neal but stayed still, in the chair. Caz was nowhere to be seen.
“Come in,” Rovvi
