The warehouse had the specific, particular quality of abandoned buildings at night — the particular darkness of spaces that had stopped being used, the smell of concrete and old dust, the specific silence that wasn't quite silence because old buildings breathed in their own way, settling and shifting with the particular patience of things that had been standing long enough to have stopped caring about what happened inside them.
Carver pulled out the chair across from Reeves and sat. Mateo stood to the side, his hand at his jacket in the specific, practiced positioning of a man who wanted his presence understood without requiring it to be stated.
Reeves looked at them both with the unhurried attention of a man who had been in enough rooms to know what kind of room this was.
"Why have you called me here?" he said. "And who are you?"
