All the powerful people in Hot Type City gathered at the heart of downtown. When they couldn’t pack in any denser, downtown had grown up until massive towers gouged the low-flying clouds like fingers dipped into a stream. The buildings towered over Dolores and I, but I lacked the requisite respect for authority to be intimidated by them. I was just tired and annoyed with the traffic.

Dolores squeezed through gaps like a lemon seed pinched between fingertips until I was under the shadow of one of the most imposing towers, the Morales Building. It was home to many influential people, but the absolute pinnacle was Russel Sander’s penthouse. From below, the glass-bounded prism of the top two floors looked like every other level, but it was a palace.

Many articles had been written about the architectural stylings of Hot Type City’s most valuable real estate. I saw the Sanders’s residence touted on front covers of magazines in waiting rooms for years, a new one with every season. As far as I could tell, Russel didn’t give a damn how things looked as long as they were better than what everyone else had. He let his wife, Cynthia—the first lady of Sanders Worldwide News Media Conglomerate—handle all that business. She was glad for a way to keep her socialite lifestyle going after the golden years had passed.

I did a bit of reconnaissance around the building, but gave up on my due diligence the third time I had to swerve to avoid smashing into the flashing lights of a double-parked car or an impatient pedestrian trying to slip across in the middle of the block.

When I saw an open parking meter by the curb, I elbowed Dolores over. An oversized black town car filled each adjacent spot. For once, I was glad for the Vega’s compact form factor, even if I did sometimes feel like I was driving around inside a bargain bin toaster oven.

I had no intention of paying for parking. I was going to be quick, and I didn’t have much change to throw around. The two dollars it cost for the half hour was completely unreasonable.

When I looked back at Dolores, I saw how badly she stuck out. The kinds of people who lived and worked in the area would look for any excuse to dissuade the driver of a shitcan like her from bringing it around their parts again. She would be a prime target for parking enforcement officers.

The change I’d dug up from the couch jangled in my pocket, but I refused to be intimidated. I opened the passenger door, unlocked the glove compartment, and moved my gun out of the way so I could dig out the parking ticket I earned outside of The Cut. While I was there, I took the updated private investigator license and put it behind the plastic window in the official-looking badge holder I carried. Most times, a flash was all I needed to get through doors, but they paid the guards at a place like the Morales Building enough to give the appearance of caring.

I slipped the parking ticket under the windshield wiper arm and went to the front entrance. Seeing my confident stride, the doorman held the door open and offered a “good afternoon.” It would have been against the character of someone living there to thank or even acknowledge him, so I didn’t.

The concierge desk looked like the counter at the kind of bank you needed a personal invite and a million dollar deposit to join. It was the focal point of the pristine, polished marble lobby, otherwise filled with pods of low, uncomfortable furniture, cultivated vines, and oblique modern sculptures that screamed, “Do Not Approach.” On one side of the room, a sheet of water ran down a jet-black wall like a waterfall on a far-off planet made entirely of obsidian. The sound of chimes and brushed strings lilted around the murmur of running water, but the air still felt cold and heavy.

The men and women behind the desk wore red silk vests with black bow ties, a uniform that made them look more like actors. Some of them looked at me, strolling through the sparse herd of people walking to and from the elevators. They knew I was out of place, but their script didn’t include confronting guests. There were others on staff for that.

One of them found me in front of the elevators. He was a baboon in a short, cylindrical hat, and a red and gold double-breasted coat like a chef’s jacket, buttoned up to the neck.

“Are you visiting?” the baboon asked. He didn’t need to say the words to get his real message across: he knew I didn’t belong there.

“I’m here on business.” I flashed my badge and tried to keep walking, but his hands were fast. They went from clasped behind his back to snatching the leather folder out of my hands in an instant.

His lips moved as he studied the newly replaced license, looking back and forth between it and me, even though there was no picture to match up.

“Who are you here to see?”

“No need to worry about giving me directions. I know where I’m going.”

I tried to take my badge back, but the baboon turned away, walking to a small desk tucked to the side of the elevator area like a maître d's station at a fancy restaurant. “I’ll just call up and let them know you’re here.”

He took a phone handset off the prongs of its archaic cradle and stared at me, his finger hung over the rotary dial like the sword of Damocles.

I glanced back as an elevator opened. A well-dressed couple walked out, getting an early start on a night on the town. I could make a break for it, but now that the tough-guy had his sights on me, I wouldn’t get far. They’d shut down the elevator, call for more muscle, and throw me out on my ear. I had to play along.

“I’m going to the top. Sanders’s residence. I’m here to talk to Cynthia about her stepson.”

The baboon gave me a deserved scowl, hesitating to even bother such venerable people as the Sanders. “Are they expecting you?”

“Not exactly. I’m following up on an ongoing investigation. Can’t say too much more, you understand.”

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The man checked my license again, seeing if maybe he’d missed an HTPD emblem somewhere on it.

“I’m working with the police on this case. I believe the Sanders have been dealing with Detective Henry.”

Saying his name, implying I would ever share a patrol car with him again, was like stabbing myself in the kidneys. I grit my teeth against the pain, and it almost looked like a smile.

The baboon stared a moment longer, then stuck his finger in the ring, spun the dial to zero, released it, then spun it to zero again.

“Yes. Hello, Margaret,” the baboon said in a voice far more cordial than the one he used with me. “Would you let Cynthia know there’s a man to see him? An inspector. Says he works with a Detective Henry.”

The baboon stared at me as he went back and forth with Margaret, making sure she got all the information. After, he was quiet for a long minute. People passed us by, coming and going from the apartments.

He looked surprised when the voice came back. All I heard was a tinny mumble, but he nodded along. “All right, Margaret. I’ll bring him up.”

He let out a long, reluctant sigh as he set the phone down, then led me to the elevator. The inside of the box was lined with shiny brass, which made a warped mirror out of each wall. The baboon’s hand skimmed across the tall stack of buttons. Instead of pressing any of them, he stuck a key from his pocket into a keyhole next to a plate that said, “Penthouse.”

The elevator rocked at first, but moved smoothly once it got going. It accelerated slowly, so it wouldn’t put too much strain on the ancient knees of the bluehairs who occupied the upper floors.

The door opened on an entryway almost as grand as the lobby itself, but with a few more homely touches to give it the appearance of comfort. Persian rugs lined the path to the living area, each worth more than I had ever paid for a car. The statues flanking the door were made of wood, abstract but with inviting round edges. A mirror on the wall reflected the image of a budgie in a smock walking toward us.

“Thanks, Edward,” Margaret said once she had a moment to get over the shock of my earthy appearance in her celestial domain. “I’ll take him in to see Madam Sanders.”

The baboon gave the girl a toothy grin and tapped his coffee-can hat. He pressed a button, and the door closed with a swish.

Again, Margaret hesitated, taking in my appearance and wondering if she had made a mistake letting me in to befoul the rarefied air of the apartment. I was glad I had stopped by my place for a shower and a change of clothes. She might have kicked me to the curb anyway, but something stopped her.

I saw recognition in her eyes. There was something magical about seeing a person in the domed glass of a TV screen. Cathode ray tubes could shoot photons straight past a person’s natural defenses against nonsense and bullshit, inveigling on the subconscious and allowing the ideas to set up shop. It’s what made television marketing so effective and what allowed people to believe someone like Regis Fellini was going to make our city, state, or country a better place.

Margaret shook herself. When her feathers settled, she swept her arm down the hallway with a slight bow and confirmed my suspicions about her knowing who I was. “Right this way, Mr. O’Howell.”

The short hallway let out into a massive living area strewn with art. If not for all the seating, multiple bars, and conversation pit like a swimming pool, I might have thought it was a museum. There was one portrait of Cynthia, Russel, and a chipmunk too young to be Douglas, but the rest of the pieces were all impersonal. The far wall was all glass and gave an unimpeded view of the gray clouds of smog the city was steeped in.

Margaret gestured to a hallway cut into the wall to the left side of the room. “Mrs. Sanders is with friends in the sitting room right this way.”

I wanted to hang around and get a sense of the place before I talked to Cynthia, but I felt Margaret pushing me along. I didn’t care much for leashes. As soon as one was around my neck, I looked for a way to slip out of it.

“If you wouldn’t mind, may I use your phone before I talk to Cynthia?” I asked. “I need to call back into the station to make sure I’m not missing any updates.”

Margaret stopped, squinted. Her mind was engaged in a heated battle. One half demanded she protect her employers, but the other insisted she could trust me. Her deeply rooted feelings about me won out in the end, and she gave me another imperceptible bow.

“If you’d like, Mr. O’Howell.”

I tried to pick up on anything that might constitute a clue as we passed through the living area. Margaret and the rest of the staff kept the place immaculately clean. There could have been a ritualistic cult suicide there the night before and I would never have known.

Margaret led me down an austere hallway into an area reserved for the service staff. The phone was at the end of the hall. To the left, I saw a smaller elevator and to the right, the chrome monstrosity of an industrial kitchen.

I made a show of appreciating the portraits on the wall above the table the phone was on, but it stopped being an act when I noticed a familiar face tucked into the corner, past more pictures of the chipmunk from the main room.

One out of the eight frames featured a porcupine. His buck teeth were more pronounced in the outdated photograph, but I recognized him from two days ago. He was the kid I had tried to interrogate at Sam Marlowe Academy. Could have saved myself a hell of a trip if that hard-headed rhino hadn’t gotten in the way and I had more time to prod at Douglas back then.

Margaret cleared her throat and gestured to a copy of the archaic phone Edward had used below.

“Right. Sorry,” I said, picking up the handset and putting my finger into the rotary wheel. I spun out the first two numbers, then paused and gave Margaret a serious look. “Actually, would you mind giving me some privacy? There might be some sensitive information.”

Margaret looked around. I was testing her undue trust as she considered the weight of her position. She gave in, but held on to some reservations. “I’ll be right at the end of the hall when you’re finished.”

She nodded and walked back the way she had come, looking over her shoulder several times. She stopped short of the portal to the living area and stood to the side with one hand laid demurely on top of the other in front of her.

I would have liked more space so I could have a proper look around, but I didn’t press my luck. I finished dialing one of the numbers in my mental Rolodex and caught the tail end of a jazzy riff before the weather report began.

There wasn’t much to see in the cubby. The desk was empty except for a small notepad placed next to the phone’s cradle. I inspected the top sheet, gilded with Russel Sanders’s personal letterhead. No one had left any messages out in the open for me to read, but I felt indentations when I brushed my fingers over the top. It was probably the receipt of Edward’s call from the lobby, but I had always been the nosy sort.

I held the phone in the crook of my shoulder and knocked the pencil out of my notepad’s spiral binding. I scrubbed the deboss with graphite as the voice on the phone predicted sunny weather for Tuesday—a lie to get in the spirit of Election Day.

The pen must have been low on ink or guided by a malignant heart, because the servant who had taken the message did so with a heavy hand. White words showed through the haze of gray I painted with my pencil. “Fosse for Sanders, 8:30 AM. Re: Douglas. Call back ASAP.”

It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start. Everyone knew Fosse and Sanders ran in the same circle—all the elite did—but it was telling that they had talked about Douglas that morning. I had been nosing around the case, stirring up shit he thought he’d settled. Maybe Fosse called Russel to warn him about me. Maybe Sanders called someone else to warn him about me. I thought of the black Cadillac. I hadn’t seen it that day, so it could have been unrelated. What I had seen was a transparent attempt to put me off the case. The Sanders had to be involved.