Patrick Radden Keefe writes about a mysterious death in London.

At the door, Rachelle encountered a muscular chauffeur with a shaved head, dressed in a tailored blue overcoat and a purple tie. He had a phone to his ear.

“Where’s Zac?” the chauffeur asked.

“I don’t know. Who are you?” Rachelle said.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Zac’s mum.”

The man had been holding his phone so that whoever was on the line could follow the conversation. Through the phone, Rachelle heard a male voice say, “That can’t be his mum. His mum is in Dubai.”

The story unfolds like a movie, and there are twists that are stranger than fiction. It’s not a short piece, but it is riveting.