The address Lucas sent on Sunday night was a building on Lexington Avenue, twelve floors, unremarkable from the outside in the deliberate way of buildings that housed things they preferred not to advertise. No signage beyond the street number. A lobby with two security desks and a receptionist who looked like she had been chosen specifically for her capacity to appear neither welcoming nor hostile.
I arrived with Lillian at nine fifty-five Monday morning.
We had left the Whitmore house separately. Lillian had told Margaret she had a medical appointment, the same cover that had worked Tuesday. I had told no one anything, which was its own kind of statement but one I had decided I was comfortable making. The time for managing everyone’s knowledge of my movements was ending. Not yet ended.
