“Yeah, sure, but let me ask you this. What’s a five-letter word for a dog? Starts with a ‘p.’ ”

I turned and ran back up the stairs, leaving every door I went through wide open. I returned to the bedroom, found Lawrence exactly as I’d left him (like, maybe I was expecting him to be sitting up and making phone calls?), and put the cell back to my ear.

“I’m back.”

“Sir, you shouldn’t have left—”

“Look, I’m assuming you’re sending the police, too, because, in case I forgot to mention it, somebody tried to kill this guy.”

“Yes, sir, you did tell me that.”

I was so rattled I was repeating myself.

The operator wanted my name, and Lawrence’s, and as I gave her all the information, I could hear the wail of a siren in the distance, getting louder with each passing second. And, a few seconds later, a commotion at the bottom of the stairs as the paramedics came charging up.

“Up here!” I shouted. I told the dispatcher help had arrived, hung up, and slipped the phone back into my jacket.

Two paramedics appeared almost simultaneously at the bedroom door.

“He’s still breathing,” I said. “At least he was five minutes ago.”

Said one, “I’ll have to ask you to move out to the living room, sir, so that we can do our job. But I would ask that you not leave the apartment, because the police are going to have to ask you some questions.”

I did as I was asked. In the living room, I looked at the CDs and books and DVDs on Lawrence’s shelves, seeing them but not seeing them, while from Lawrence’s bedroom I could hear the sounds of urgency and controlled chaos. Snippets of hurried conversation slipped out.

“Okay, turn.”

“Jesus.”

“Hand me that.”

“Hello, Mr. Jones, just take it easy.”

Two uniformed cops came through the door, glancing around quickly, trying to assess the scene as rapidly as possible. One, a bulky six-footer with a thick mustache, focused on me while the other went down the hall to the bedroom.

Before he could ask his first question, the cabby was at the door.

“You need me anymore, man?” he asked.

My cop wheeled around. “You’re going to have to stick around, sir. If you’ll just wait in your cab, I’ll be down to speak to you shortly.”

The cabby rolled his eyes and retreated, but not before giving me a look that seemed to say, “Thanks a heap, pal.”

“You called 911?” the cop asked me.

I admitted it. I told him who I was, and that I was doing a feature on Lawrence Jones for The Metropolitan—

The cop’s eyes narrowed. “You work for The Metropolitan?”