The address is on the outskirts of Brooklyn Heights, and as I close the cab door and listen to it drive away, I assess the street. It’s nice. Nothing to fear here but conformity and Chihuahuas.

And yet it’s not far from where Nick Foley was killed, in his three-story town house with a pretty view and expensive furnishings. The security systems, the prestige, the money—none of it had kept out the bloodshed.

I glance around the area again. There are a handful of pedestrians, lots of yellow cabs and town cars flying by. Two are double-parked, probably waiting for their fares to pay them.

Walking toward the address, I wish I had worn different shoes. These high heels limit my speed and agility. Studying the addresses as I proceed down the block, I spot the one Travis wrote down. It’s a small apartment complex with a bank of individual buzzers by the front door. I reach out to press the one that corresponds to the apartment I’m meant to visit. But then, before I can actually press the button, I stop. Something’s amiss, I can sense it . . .

Someone is watching me.

I step back, look both ways. A woman with a designer bag and a screaming child in tow marches past me without a glance. Across the street there’s a couple strolling easily, holding hands. Farther down a man almost runs into a lamppost as he tries to walk and text at the same time. No one seems to notice me . . .

. . . but I could have sworn.

My hand goes into my bag and I feel the outlines of the envelope. I could leave right now. Call it a day.

And then I would have to walk away from the whole game. And after all I’ve done to get here, if I do that, I deserve to be set up. If I do that, I’m the one who deserves to die.

I press the button next to the number: 555.

“Yeah.” It’s a male voice, heavy with a Brooklyn accent, not exactly the norm here, in Brooklyn Heights.

“Hello, is this L.J.?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Travis Gable sent me.”

There’s a grumbling and then the sound of a buzzer as I’m let in.

Yeah, what of it? I consider the phrase as I take the tiny elevator to the fifth floor. It’s cliché tough-guy talk. So cliché I’ve never actually heard anyone who isn’t in a movie say it. When the doors open, I see a man dressed in ripped jeans and a T-shirt featuring a rapper who was popular about a decade ago. The man’s eyes are moving left and right as if he’s checking for unwanted company.

It’s suspicious . . . in a cartoonish kind of way. All he’s missing is a puffy jacket and a gold tooth.