He opened the gate as Vincent and I got out of the car.

“Everything quiet, Miller?” Vincent asked as we walked past him.

“Yes, Mr. Moretti,” the guard said, but his eyes darted to the end of the street before returning to Vincent.

I noticed his fingers tapping a fast, nervous beat against his thigh.

We walked up the stone steps and entered the warm hallway of the brownstone.

The house smelled of old wood, wool, and radiator heat.

Vincent led me into a small parlor on the first floor.

The room had heavy green drapes that completely blocked the windows.

A low fire was crackling in the hearth, throwing orange light across the worn oriental rug.

“You will be safe here for the night,” Vincent said, gesturing to a velvet armchair.

“Who is Miller?” I asked, remaining standing.

“He is the son of an old friend,” Vincent said. “He has been on my payroll for four years.”

“He was looking at the corner of the street,” I said. “And his hands were shaking.”

Vincent walked over to the small desk in the corner and sat down.