“Tell me.”
“He didn't think Mr. Hale looked like the appointment.”
Richard stared.
“What does that mean?”
Noah swallowed.
“You should ask him.”
“I’m asking you.”
“He asked me if Mr. Hale had a driver.”
“What?”
“He asked if someone was waiting outside.”
“Why?”
“I think he expected the buyer to arrive with staff.”
Richard rubbed his forehead.
“But the notes explicitly said no entourage.”
Noah nodded.
“Did Adrian read them?”
“I don't think so.”
“Why not?”
Silence.
Richard understood.
He had not opened the appointment.
He had formed an opinion first.
Then every later fact was interpreted through that opinion.
That was bad enough.
Then Maya Chen asked a question.
“Can I say something?”
Richard looked at her.
“Please.”
“This isn't the first time.”
His stomach tightened.
“What isn't?”
She glanced toward HR.
Then Richard.
“A client getting challenged because someone doesn't think they look right.”
The room changed.
Richard sat straighter.
“How many times?”
“I don't know.”
“Under Adrian?”
“Not only him.”
Richard looked toward HR.
The HR director went still.
Maya continued.
“Younger clients.”
“People in streetwear.”
“Black clients.”
“People who come alone.”
“Sometimes security follows them.”
“Sometimes somebody asks whether they are buying or just browsing.”
Richard said:
“We don't have that policy.”
Maya almost smiled.
“I know.”
“Have you reported this?”
“Once.”
“To whom?”
“My supervisor.”
“What happened?”
“I was told luxury service requires judgment.”
Richard stared.
“What does that mean?”
Maya looked toward the glass wall.
“It means figure out who matters before you spend too much time on them.”
The sentence stayed in the room.
Richard felt something colder than embarrassment.
His company sold objects whose value depended partly on trust.
Authentication.
Discretion.
Client relationships.
If employees had built an unofficial hierarchy based on appearance, the damage could be larger than one incident.
“How long?”
Maya shrugged.
“Since before I started.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Twenty months.”
Richard looked at HR.
“Complaint data.”
The director nodded.
“I'll pull it.”
“All client-treatment complaints.”
“Security complaints.”
“Private-access disputes.”
“Everything.”
“Yes.”
Richard stood.
“And preserve every camera from this morning.”
“Already requested.”
“Good.”
He looked toward Adrian’s empty office.
Then said:
“Do not call Marcus.”
Everyone looked at him.
Richard explained:
“He told me what he needs.”
“What?”
“To see whether we investigate before protecting ourselves.”
No one argued.
That evening, Marcus ate dinner at his mother’s apartment in Newark.
He had not intended to tell her.
The internet had.
She opened the door before he knocked twice.
Evelyn Hale, sixty-seven, retired school administrator, five-foot-four, possessed enough authority to make Marcus feel twelve regardless of net worth.