“Mr. Sterling,” the guard called out, his voice friendly and familiar. “Your wife’s still in her three o’clock meeting. Should be done in about twenty.”

The man, Frank Sterling, according to the security badge clipped to his lapel, nodded and headed toward the elevator bank. He hadn’t seen me yet. I was standing off to the side, holding a takeout bag from Austeria, Lauren’s favorite Italian place downtown. My heart was doing something strange in my chest, not racing, just stopping and starting like a car engine misfiring.