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seemed to be people, some businesses. There were two apartments or offices per floor, labeled “L” and “R”. EPPICK — that’s all it said — was 3R.

    Stepping back, Dortmunder looked up at the windows that should be 3R, and they were covered by Venetian blinds slanted up to see the sky, not the street. Okay; fifteen minutes. He went for a stroll.

    It was still five minutes before the hour when he’d completed the circuit twice, wondering what the proper word was for a Mongolian bodega, but enough was enough, so he pressed the button next to EPPICK and almost immediately the door made that buzz they do. He pushed it open and entered a tiny vestibule with a steep flight of stairs straight ahead and a very narrow elevator on the right. So he took the elevator up, and when he got off at three there were the stairs again, flanked by two doors, these of dark wood and marked with brass figures 3L and 3R.

    Another button. He pressed it, and another door gave him the raspberry. This door you had to pull, he soon figured out, but the buzz was in no hurry, it kept buzzing at him until he got the idea.

    Inside, the place was larger than Dortmunder had expected, having taken it for granted a building like this would consist of a bunch of little rooms that people would call a “warren of offices”. But, no. Many of the warren’s interior walls had been removed, a rich burgundy carpet had been laid to connect it all, and on the carpet were separate areas defined not by walls but by furniture.

    Just inside the door that Dortmunder was closing was a small well–polished wooden desk facing sideways, to see both the door and the room. Next to the desk stood Eppick, wearing his winner’s smile plus, this morning, a polo shirt the same color as the carpet, gray slacks with expandable waist instead of belt, and two–tone golf shoes, though without cleats.

    “Right on time, John,” Eppick said, and stuck out a gnarly hand. “I’m gonna shake your hand because we’re gonna be partners.”

    Dortmunder shrugged and stuck his own hand out. “Okay,” he said, limiting the partnership.

    “Lemme introduce you,” Eppick said, turning away, keeping Dortmunder’s hand in his own, an unpleasant experience, “to our principal.”

    Dortmunder was going to say he didn’t know they had any principles, but then decided not to, because here was the rest of the room. To the right, along the wall under the windows with their upward–slanted Venetian blinds showing strips of pale blue late–autumn sky, was a blond oak conference table with rounded ends, flanked by eight matching blue–upholstered chairs. On the left side, where there were no windows because of the next building in the row, was a conversation area, two dark blue sofas at right angles around a square glass coffee table, and a couple of matching chairs just behind them, ready for overflow. To the rear behind the conversation area was a galley kitchen, with a simple table and six chairs in front of it, and in the final quarter, behind the conference table, stood a StairMaster and other gym equipment. Not what Dortmunder would have guessed from an ex–cop. Not from an ex–cop called Eppick, anyway.

    “Around, here, John,” Eppick said, and led Dortmunder around in an orbit of the front desk, aiming for the front left corner of the space, where a high–tech wheelchair that looked as though it were ready for spacewalks squatted facing the glass coffee table, opposite one of the blue sofas, with the other sofa against the wall to its left.

    Someone or something hunkered in the wheelchair, inside black brogans, black pants, a Navajo–Indian–design throw rug draped over the shoulders, and a scarlet beret on top. It seemed large and soft, just barely squeezing into the available space, and it brooded straight ahead, paying no attention to Eppick as he led Dortmunder forward by the hand.

    “Mr. Hemlow,” Eppick said, and all at once he sounded deferential, not