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“Thank you, sir.”

I unfold out of the back seat and close the door. Tap the roof of the car, giving Ted the all-clear. Smooth the sleeves of my custom-made suit. Pants and coat are charcoal-colored and made of cashmere. I like cashmere.

I walk to the front entrance of my apartment building. The glass door is being held open by the doorman. He’s dressed like most doormen employed by high-dollar establishments. Jacket buttoned up to the neck. Shoes shined to a sparkle. Hat and gloves.

“Hello, Mr. Dalton.”

“Hello, Henry.”

Henry is all of seventy-five and never seems to have a bad day. Someone asked him once if he was ever going to retire. He answered that he hoped to die at his station. My kind of guy.

“Did you have a pleasant evening, sir?”

“Yes, I did, Henry. Thank you.” He doesn’t need to hear how it really went. Why dump my garbage on him?

“That’s good, sir.”

“Have a nice evening, Henry.”

“You too, sir.”

I walk into the building and see Mr. Burgess—the concierge—standing behind his counter with a pen in his mouth, looking at me over a piece of paper. Burgess has been with us for three years. He’s brilliant at his job, which is probably why we pay him so well.

“Mr. Dalton.” He gives me a finger wave.

“Burge.” I like to call him Burge.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.”

“Okay.”

I move swiftly from there to the private elevator, and as I wait for the door to open, Spence, a member of the security team, approaches me.

“Mr. Dalton, sir.”

I turn and look at him. He’s fidgeting and his right eye is twitching. He must have messed up big time. “What is it, Spence?”

“You have a guest up at your place. She isn’t on the list.” He must notice my jaw tighten, because he hurries to add, “But she was here a couple of days ago. Said she left something in your apartment.”

I breathe deep. Want to scream as I’m choking him. There’s a short list of people allowed onto my floor, and whoever’s up there isn’t one of them. No doubt a random woman I slept with without learning her name. Her getting up there is one of those things that should’ve never happened.

“You’re fired, Spence. Now hit the road.” I glance at Burgess, who’s been eyeing us. “Hey, Burge. You want to come with me?”

The elevator I’ve been waiting for finally arrives, and the door slowly opens. Spence is still standing there. “Why are you still here, Spence?”

“I thought I’d go upstairs with you and escort the lady out.”

“But you don’t work here anymore.”

“Well, I thought––”

“You thought… What did you think when she sashayed by you and got on the elevator? And how did she get in the elevator?”

Spence looked at the carpeted floor.

“I think you’d better leave,” Mr. Burgess tells him.

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