His name was Paul Garrett.
Not Thomas Carver’s family — a different Garrett, no relation, the coincidence of surnames that a city the size of Chicago produced without difficulty. Paul Garrett was fifty-eight, grey-haired, with the bearing of a man who had lived carefully for a long time and had finally decided that careful living was no longer sufficient.
He had known Frank Bennett from Meridian. Had been a junior analyst there in the last two years before the collapse — young enough to have understood what was happening without being senior enough to have participated in it or powerful enough to have stopped it. He had watched and said nothing and carried the weight of that watching for fifteen years.
He came to the building on a Friday evening because he had tracked Frank Bennett to C
