Brendan took the pad from him. He pulled out a map.

‘Let’s see, 334 Amsterdam Avenue. I’d say twenty-five, thirty minutes from here. I’ll mark it on the map for you.’

Cormac snatched it and began to jog to the door.

‘Hey, wait up! If it is her, and I’m telling you there’s more chance it’s some hairy fat grease-ball who sits on his ass at a computer all day in between snacking, I think you should at least tidy yourself up a bit, don’t you?’

After a quick change and a reluctant breakfast with Brendan, he turned down 72^nd Street and followed the map towards Broadway. He tried to control his racing heartbeat for the first ten minutes until he gave up and joined it. He jogged the rest of the way in his jeans and boots. His hair was wet with sweat and his feet were hot with blisters when he arrived at the tall building on Amsterdam Avenue just after midday. The front door was locked and the whole length of the wall next to it was filled with buzzers and corresponding addresses. He scanned them all twice and there was definitely no address for a B.J. Fitzgerald. He studied them again, slower this time. The fifth one from the top looked familiar; it read: New York Writer’s Workshop. He was certain that’s what was written below the name on the article. He took a deep breath and pushed the button. Nothing happened for a second, and then the wall spoke to him in a tinny voice.

‘New York Writer’s Workshop, how may I help?’

He shouted into the silver box.

‘I’m looking for B. J. Fitzgerald?’

‘Do you have an appointment, Sir?’

‘No, I’m a friend.’

‘Sir, if you are a friend, you’ll know you cannot gain access to the building without an appointment!’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, of course. Could you just tell me if B. J. Fitzgerald is Irish … and a girl?’

‘Sir, forgive me, but I’m not authorised to provide such information and even if I were, I sure wouldn’t be providing it to a ‘friend’ who doesn’t even know if B.J. is a man or a woman! Good day!’

He buzzed twice more before crossing the street and preparing himself for a long wait.

There was no activity in the next tortuous four hours. So little activity, in fact, he was convinced the voice in the wall was the only employee in the entire building. He’d counted at least forty separate buzzers alongside the huge red door and yet no one had entered, or left, since he’d arrived at midday. His back ached from standing, and his blisters were rubbing on the heels of his boots. At 5:30 the door opened and a pale, fat, white middle-aged man waddled out, in front of a fatter and younger black woman. They chatted for a short while, before B. J. and the voice in the wall parted with a cheery wave to each other. He waited another thirty minutes in the freezing darkness just in case, before finally deciding he’d get a cab back to the Dakota. It was only the first day he’d been actively looking for her. He was disappointed, but not disheartened.