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Fulmar saw that the floor there was a smaller version of the main, first-floor lobby—a wide application of the same beautiful polished marble and a looming, though smaller, chandelier.

There also was a picture window that faced south. Fulmar went to it and saw that it allowed for a grand view of the city in that direction, as well as decent ones to the east and to the west.

He found that, with a little work, he could see just past the apartment building to the west—it was on Fifth Avenue—and catch part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art that was behind it, and beyond that the vast dark area that was Central Park.

“Nice,” Fulmar said.

“This way,” Ingrid said with a smile.

She started down the hallway, pulling a fob that held a couple keys from her clutch.

Halfway down the hall, she stopped in front of a door. It was painted a cream color and, at eye level, had a four-inch-square frame with 1011 in it. There also was a black doorbell button.

She tried to put one of the keys into the lock but was having some difficulty.

She’s nervous. You’d think I was her first gentleman visitor….

Fulmar stepped closer.

“Can I help?”

&

nbsp; She worked more quickly with the key and it found its home.

Without looking at him, she said, “There, got it,” then turned the knob and pushed open the door.

She motioned with her right hand and said, “After you.”

Fulmar nodded and started to go through the doorway and into the dark apartment.

“The switch is here on the left,” she offered, reaching her hand in to hit the light.

There was the sound of something moving inside, behind the door—and the hair on the back of Fulmar’s neck stood straight on end.

With his left hand, he quickly swatted her hand away from the switch before she could turn it on. At the same time, he threw back the tail of his jacket with his right hand and pulled out his .45, thumbing back the hammer as he brought the gun up. Then he threw his full weight into the door and followed it to the wall.

But it didn’t hit the wall.

It stopped about eight inches shy of the wall, and when it did there came a heavy, soft thud from behind it and the sound of a man’s grunt. Then there was a dense, metallic clunk near Fulmar’s feet—

Was that a pist—?

—and then the crack of a small-caliber round going off.

It was a fucking pistol hitting the floor!

“Get out!” Fulmar called to Ingrid.

“Be careful!” Ingrid said.

He pulled back on the door and slammed his weight into it again, causing another thud and grunt. He reached around and grabbed at the person behind the door, found what felt like an arm, yanked hard, and threw the person to the floor facedown.

In the ambient light, Fulmar could make out that it was indeed a man.

Fulmar put his left knee on the man’s neck, forcing his face to the right, then stuck the muzzle of the .45 to the man’s right ear.

“Make a fucking move and your brains—”