CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

      The modern six-story brick-and-glass office building was on Atlantic and Summers Streets in downtown Stamford.

      I got there at 7:30 A.M. and waited in the garage.

      I had looked up the address for Sifton, Sloan and Rubin, where the article I’d read the day before said Harold Bachman was a partner. The underground garage had two floors. I asked the attendant at the entrance if there was any designated parking for the law firm, and he directed me down to the lower floor.

      I just didn’t go in.

      I positioned myself near the elevator, where I could get a decent look at anybody going in, and watched the procession of office workers and businesspeople arrive at work. None of them resembled Bachman.

      The first hour felt like three. Worried that he might be away or still on leave and not even coming in, I called the firm from inside the garage and asked to speak with him. The receptionist who answered put me on hold and then told me he hadn’t come in yet. So I was pretty sure he’d be here at some point.

      All I could do was pray he’d listen to me and wouldn’t alert the police.

      At ten of nine, a white Mercedes 350 drove in and rounded my corner. Through the glass I saw the driver’s curly gray hair and wire-rim glasses. I checked the photo I had printed at the café.

      It was him.

      Bachman parked on the lower ramp, took out a leather