I burst through the Liberty Street door, propelled forward by my desire to tell my friends that I, Billy Bradshaw, had found Zel. That Camille Roberts was not at her desk to check me in escaped notice until I confronted the hallway leading to the Row. So accustomed was I to hearing jazz and laughter emanating from inside, the silence stunned. No music. No laughter. Only the rumble of a vaguely masculine voice greeted me. With each step toward the door the voice became clearer, and I recognized the voice. Christopher Downing was visiting Bohemian Row.
I opened the door and tried to sneak quietly inside. But as always, I failed to anticipate the moment the door slipped from my hand and slammed behind me. Immediately, all eyes trained on me, again the interloper at the door. Alistair was on
