His briefcase was made of dark brown calfskin, with brass latches that had dulled over the years. He had bought it when he first started Vale Capital, back when he still had to convince investors he was older than he was.
“The traffic on the Kennedy was a parking lot,” he said, his words crowding each other as he set the briefcase on the foot of my bed. “I had to take the side streets through Bucktown just to make it here before the lunch rush. We have a noon meeting with the regional underwriting team.”
“Adrian,” I said, speaking slowly to match the heavy rhythm of my own breathing. “You dropped this yesterday.”
I reached over to the bedside table and handed him the folded slip of thermal paper.
He glanced at the blue logo, his thumb immediately finding the edge of his left gold cuff link and shifting it a fraction of an inch against his white sleeve. A quick, practiced laugh came from his chest, too loud for the small room.
“Just a mobile notary for the office,” he said, slipping the receipt into his vest pocket without looking at me. “We had to file some routine corporate resolutions before the end of the quarter. It was easier to have the guy meet me here than to run back downtown.”
