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KEVIN DOYLE HAD done his due diligence in his surveillance of his next target. Roger Dzoriack was a retired NYPD detective who lived alone on the third floor of a decent apartment building on Staten Island. Doyle had spent the afternoon learning the streets and alleyways around the building in case it was a problem.

The fact that Roger Dzoriack never left his apartment limited Doyle’s options. His plan was simple. Knock on the door. Tell Dzoriack he had something for him from the NYPD. Get himself invited inside. In his pocket, Doyle had a pill bottle of prescription meds crushed into a finely ground powder. He’d been very careful to use widely known pills. There were a few Ambien, nine crushed OxyContin, half a dozen Percocet, and a few Xanax.

Doyle realized there were a lot of challenges in this plan. Would Dzoriack let him in? How would he get Dzoriack to drink a glass full of water mixed with crushed pills to simulate a suicide? Plus a number of other pitfalls. That was the nature of his occupation. It would be easier to push Dzoriack into traffic or down a flight of stairs. That was his backup plan: pull Dzoriack out of his apartment and throw him down the stairs. There was a lot more risk in that plan.

Doyle had done what he could. He knew exactly where the video surveillance cameras on other buildings were pointed. He made sure there was no video surveillance of this building. He saw there was very little local police presence. Why would there be? Not much happened around here.

He slipped into the building from an alleyway. The lock on the rear door was broken. His wild luck came in when he noticed an empty cake box with a cellophane front lying on the floor near a trash can. There was still cake icing smeared on the sides and the cellophane. It was perfect.

A few minutes later, he rapped on the door of apartment 316. Doyle held the empty cake box in his left hand. He was dressed in nice khaki pants and a button-down shirt with a medium-weight jacket to protect him against the dropping temperatures.

He waited a full minute, then knocked on the door again. He wondered if he’d have to find another way inside if Dzoriack didn’t answer. From everything he had read, it was highly unlikely that Dzoriack had left the apartment. Since his retirement, the man had become a virtual recluse who ordered groceries online and had had absolutely no further in-person interactions with any of the people he’d worked with.

Just as Doyle was examining the lock to see how hard it would be to pick, he heard a voice that sounded like a rusty hinge say, “Who the hell is it?”

“John Martin, NYPD. I have something for you, Detective Dzoriack.” Doyle was surprised how long he had to wait before anything happened. When the door finally opened a few inches, he noticed not one but two heavy security chains keeping the door from opening any wider.

Then he saw the frowning face of an elderly man. “I don’t need shit from the NYPD or anyone else.” Then, after a pause, Dzoriack added, “What is it?”

“Cake left over from Lou Sanvos’s wake. Everyone thought you would appreciate it.”

The door slammed in his face. Doyle wasn’t happy about that. Things were about to get much more complicated. Then he heard the sounds of the chains being unhooked. A moment later, the door opened, and he had his first good look at the older man he’d been sent to kill.