"Yes, sir," he said quietly. "They told us you'd be coming."
He printed a visitor badge and slid it across the brass. Marcus took it.
He was turning toward the elevators when Clarence said, "Mr. Reed."
Marcus turned back.
The guard hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder at the empty lobby. Then he leaned forward a little.
"I've been working this desk eleven years," he said, very low. "I've watched that video nine times this weekend. My wife's watched it more. I just—" He stopped, then started again. "Welcome to the building, sir. That's all. Welcome to the building."
Marcus looked at him for a moment.
"Thank you, Clarence," he said. "I'm glad to be here."
* * *
Richard Caldwell was waiting for him outside the elevators on the forty-first floor.
Marcus recognized him at once from the photographs. He was tall, an inch or so taller than Marcus, with the kind of lean, patrician good looks that some families seem to pass down along with the silverware. Graying blond hair, swept back. A pale blue shirt with no tie. A navy blazer. But the photographs had not shown the shadows under his eyes, or the grayish tint to his skin, or the way he was standing, slightly hunched, with his hands clasped in front of him like a man waiting outside a hospital room.
He had clearly not slept.
"Mr. Reed," he said.
"Mr. Caldwell."
Richard held out his hand. Marcus looked at it for a moment, and then shook it. Richard's grip was damp.
"I tried to reach you," Richard said. "This weekend. Several times."
"I know. I'm sorry I didn't call back. I wanted to wait until we could talk in person."
"Of course. Of course." Richard swallowed. "Before we go in. I wonder if I could have two minutes. Privately."
Marcus considered him.
"All right."
Richard led him into a small, glass-walled conference room off the elevator bank and shut the door. He didn't sit down, so neither did Marcus. Through the glass, Marcus could see the long hallway toward the boardroom, lined with oil portraits of men in dark suits, and a young assistant hurrying past with a coffee tray who looked at the two of them through the glass and then quickly looked away.
"I want to apologize," Richard said. "For my wife. For what she said to you on Friday. For how she behaved. I've watched the video. I—" He shook his head. "There's no excuse for it. None. I'm deeply, deeply sorry."
Marcus nodded slowly.
"Thank you," he said. "But I'm not sure you're the one who should be apologizing."
Richard flinched slightly.
"She wants to apologize too," he said. "She asked me to tell you that. She'd like to meet with you. Whenever is convenient. She's—" He hesitated. "She's not in a good place. She hasn't left the house since Friday. Somebody figured out who she was by Sunday night, from the handbag, of all things. Our address has been posted online. The children's school called. Two of the charity boards she sits on have asked her to step down."
Marcus said nothing.
"I'm not telling you this to make you feel sorry for her," Richard said quickly. "I know how it sounds. I just want you to know that she understands. That she's—I think she's finally understanding. Something."
"I hope that's true," Marcus said. And he found, a little to his own surprise, that he meant it. "I'll think about meeting with her. Not this week."
"Of course. Thank you." Richard let out a long breath. Some of the tension went out of his shoulders. "And Mr. Reed, I want you to know that whatever she said, it doesn't reflect—it isn't how I feel. It isn't how this company feels. We're a very—we've always tried to be a very inclusive place. My grandfather—"
"Mr. Caldwell," Marcus said.
Richard stopped.
"I'm going to tell you something now," Marcus said, "and I want to be very clear about it, because I think you're worried about the wrong thing, and I'd rather you heard it from me before we go into that room."
He set his briefcase down on the glass table.
"I'm not going to judge you by what your wife said on that airplane. You weren't there. You didn't say it. A man shouldn't lose his job because of his wife's mouth, any more than he should get one because of his grandfather's name." He paused. "So you can put that part down. Whatever happens in that boardroom this morning, and whatever happens after it, it won't be because of Friday."
Richard stared at him. The relief in his face was so naked it was painful to look at.
"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, Mr. Reed. I don't know what to—"
"Don't thank me yet," Marcus said quietly. "I said I wouldn't judge you by what she did. I didn't say I wouldn't judge you."
He picked up the briefcase.
"Shall we?"
* * *
The boardroom of Caldwell and Pierce Holdings was long and dim, paneled in dark walnut, with a table that could seat twenty-two and a wall of windows looking south down Park Avenue toward the gray hulk of Grand Central. There were nine people already seated when Marcus and Richard walked in. They stood up, all at once, with a scraping of chairs.