The air in the stairwell smelled of old grease and damp plaster.

When we reached the street, the cold November wind hit us.

The fog was rolling in off the Hudson River, thick and gray.

Adrian’s black sedan was parked half a block away under a broken streetlight.

We helped Marcus into the back seat, letting him lie down across the leather.

“Stay here,” Adrian told him. “Keep the doors locked.”

“I should go with you,” Marcus said, trying to sit up.

“You’ve done enough,” Adrian said gently. “Rest.”

Adrian closed the rear door and turned to me.

He took the manila folder from my hands and opened it under the dim glow of the streetlamp.

“Slip 14,” he murmured, staring at the circled area on the blueprint. “That’s the deep-water dock.”

“My ex-husband doesn’t own a yacht,” I said. “He usually rents them for his summer parties.”

“He doesn’t need to own it,” Adrian said. “He just needs someone to clear the manifest.”

He closed the folder and looked out over the foggy street.

The river was only a few blocks away, hidden behind warehouses and chain-link fences.