I sat on the concrete slab outside the entrance. I was answering e-mails and texts but got to my feet when a young man emerged from August’s doorway. He was in his twenties, dark hair hanging lankly over his forehead and a loosely knotted tie at the neck of a royal blue shirt. He was eating a bagel with one hand, clutching a travel cup in the other, a briefcase tucked under the coffee arm, manipulating the door with the bagel hand.

I held the door for him. “I’m a detective, looking for August Veriden. Do you know him?”

He swallowed, tried to speak, had to gulp down some coffee and said, “Not really,” in a thick voice.

“When did you last see him?”

“Can this wait? I’m late for work.”

“Yep, so is August. He hasn’t shown up for over a week. We’re trying to find him.”

“You and about twenty other people.”

“How so?”

He finished the bagel, licked cream cheese from his fingers, and switched the briefcase to the bagel hand. “He lives above me, so I can hear when someone else is there. He’s a nice enough guy but a loner. Last few days he’s had more visitors than the rest of the building put together. I’ve got to run.”

He took off down the street, his tie flapping over his shoulder.

I ran after him. “I’ll see you to your train or car or whatever. This is important. Over how many days? Last night? Night before?”

He stopped at the corner of Broadway, holding out his arm for a cab. One appeared almost magically, which calmed him enough that he paused, hand on the open door.

“I thought this might be serious. I told—well, the other person in my apartment—that we should have called the police, only you can’t start complaining about other people’s loud parties or they’ll report you next, and August is usually the quietest person on earth.”

“But when was it?” I tried not to shriek. “Last night? Night before?”

He thought for a moment. “Three nights ago. Yesterday I was at work, but another guy in the building said some cops showed up.”

He climbed into the cab and shut the door on my demand for the name of the guy who’d told him about the cops.

I ran back up Buckingham. Jorge Baros hadn’t arrived yet. When I phoned again, he said he was still drowning but would get there as quickly as possible.

I’d brought my picks with me on the principle that it’s better to carry more than you need than to curse yourself for leaving vital tools behind. I didn’t have to work the street door—I’d kept it from latching when I shut it behind the bagel eater—and August’s front door was worryingly easy because it wasn’t locked at all.