The Black man did not look at the watches in the window when he entered the boutique.
That was the first thing the blonde clerk noticed.
Almost everyone looked.
It was difficult not to.
The boutique occupied the corner of one of Manhattan’s most expensive shopping blocks, its street-facing walls made almost entirely of spotless glass. Inside, display cases floated beneath carefully placed lights. Watches sat alone on cream suede cushions as if they were museum artifacts rather than objects someone might actually wear.
Nothing had a visible price.
That was deliberate.
Customers who needed to ask about ordinary prices could do so discreetly.
Customers invited to view the truly important pieces already knew what they cost.
At least, that was what the blonde clerk had been taught.
So when the Black man entered shortly after eleven on a clear Saturday morning and walked past a display containing three watches worth more than most houses without turning his head, she immediately decided he was not there to buy anything.
He was in his early forties.
Tall.
Lean.
Deep-brown skin.
Short, carefully faded black hair.
A neatly trimmed beard.
Black trousers with a relaxed cut.
A black shirt beneath a long black overshirt that could have been expensive or could have come from an ordinary department store.
No designer logo.
No diamond chain.
No expensive shoes anyone in the boutique could identify at a glance.
He carried no shopping bag from the luxury stores nearby.
The only obvious accessory was the watch on his left wrist.
Small.
Steel.
Round.
Old-fashioned.
The leather strap showed wear.
From across the room, the blonde clerk assumed it was sentimental rather than valuable.
She later learned that assumption alone should have warned her how little she actually knew.
The boutique was quiet.
An older white couple sat in a private consultation alcove with champagne.
A middle-aged Asian American man inspected a chronograph beneath a loupe.
Near the entrance stood a broad white security specialist in a dark suit, his hands folded loosely in front of him.
The blonde clerk was in her early thirties, polished from head to toe, wearing a fitted black blazer, cream blouse, narrow trousers, and a small gold name plaque without anything large enough to distract from the merchandise.