At my younger son’s wedding, my grandchild and I were quietly pushed into the kitchen to eat alone. Then sirens echoed outside, and the police chief walked in with a message that stunned everyone.

The Plaza Hotel didn’t just smell of money; it smelled of old money, a specific alchemy of lilies, floor wax, and that crisp, refrigerated air that seems to exist only where the average credit limit exceeds the GDP of a small nation. To anyone else, it was the scent of luxury. To me, it was the scent of cover stories.

I paused at the edge of the carpet, smoothing the skirt of my navy blue dress. It was a St. John knit, twenty years old, purchased at Macy’s during a clearance sale in D.C. I had spent an hour this morning pressing it, the steam hissing like a captured snake, until the pleats were sharp enough to draw blood.