Page 31 of Lorenzo

The crooked sign. The boxes. The dog standing guard beside her. The coffee cooling near her laptop.

Julian could have sent me to investigators with larger offices, established firms, full staffs, and names that appear regularly in court filings.

He sent me here.

I am beginning to understand why.

“My son met Genevieve at a club,” I say. “They left together and went to the Halston Hotel.”

Chapter Four

Donna

The Halston Hotel rises above the street in limestone, dark glass, and the kind of wealth that comes from charging more for one night than I paid for my first car.

I slow as I approach, taking in the brass-framed entrance, the uniformed doormen, and the line of expensive cars easing beneath the covered drive. Even the flower arrangements visible through the front windows look as though someone chose each stem carefully.

The hotel wants everyone who walks through its doors to understand two things immediately.

It is expensive.

And it will protect the privacy of anyone who can afford to be there.

That second promise is why I am dressed in a fitted black coat, a pale silk blouse, tailored trousers, and heels I bought years ago for a version of my life that ended badly. My hair is smooth, my makeup understated, and the handbag over my shoulder costs enough to discourage anyone from asking whether I belong.

At least Lorenzo Conti is paying enough to justify it.

More than enough.

When Julian sent over the agreement, I read the amount twice. Then I checked the decimal point, checked it again, and called him to make sure he had not made a mistake.

He had laughed.

Julian does not laugh often, which told me everything I needed to know about the Contis.

The initial payment alone covers several months of rent, business expenses, and enough advertising to make my empty calendar less embarrassing. By the end of the job, I might be able to afford an office where the radiator does not threaten to shake itself apart every twenty minutes.

Maybe even one with a back room large enough for Mocha and me to stand in at the same time.

A doorman opens the door before I reach it.

“Good afternoon.”

I smile as I pass. “Thank you.”

The lobby is warm and hushed, with soft music playing somewhere above the low murmur of conversation. Nothing here clatters. Luggage wheels glide over the marble. Phones remain on silent. Even the staff speak as if raised voices would lower the property value.

I take a few unhurried steps inside and pause near a wide arrangement of white flowers.

My first look is broad.

Front desk to the left. Concierge beyond it. Elevators toward the rear, partly hidden by a seating area arranged around a long fireplace. A bar opens on the opposite side of the lobby. Two hallways branch away from the public space, one toward conference rooms and another marked for restrooms.

Cameras cover the entrance, the desk, and the elevator bank. I spot another near the bar.

All visible once I know where to look, though each has been placed carefully enough to blend into the architecture.

I pull out my phone and glance at the screen as if checking a message while I study the staff. Three people work behind the front desk. One is young and visibly new, watching the others before answering questions. One is efficient enough to be useless to me. The third is a woman in her forties with an immaculate dark bob and the professional, pleasant expression of someone who has spent years catering to wealthy guests.