It took three tries to find the right door. Two addresses on the short list of bonded carriers serving the legal district depositories turned out to be relay boxes with no attendant after dark; the third sat lit behind a half-drawn blind in a block that didn’t bother with its own signage once the sun went down.No sign named the place. The brass plate beside the door gave a suite number and nothing else, the kind of blankness the legal district wore in place of a storefront. When he knocked, the shape behind the blind took its time deciding whether to answer.The door opened on a chain first, then the rest of the way.“We’re closed.”“I have a reference number. I need to know where it went.”The man looked at him a moment longer than the sentence required, then stepped back to let him in.A single client chair sat against the near wall, the cushion long since settled into the shape of nobody in particular. Somewhere past the counter a kettle had recently boiled and been forgotten. On