THE ELEVATOR was large—an anomaly for Manhattan no matter what the price point. There were no Keith Harings hanging on the paneled walls but Dr. Selmer’s parents had to be proud.
Selmer stood in a corner, staring at the floor. They would escort him to the clinic where he would begin calling the parents of other children who had been sired by the same donor. At least that was what he said the scope of his activities would be. Papandreou and Lincoln would stick with him until the footwork was done and they had a list of parents. Always the list.
Hemingway’s phone made him jump.
She pressed it to her ear. “Hemingway.”
“Hemi, it’s Papandreou. It looks like they found Nigel Matheson in the East River.”
She felt the air leave her lungs and she checked her watch. It wasn’t yet 1 p.m. “What do you mean, ‘looks like’?”
“It’s hard to tell; the bottom of his face has been sawn off.”