He drove into Manhattan and up the FDR Drive, then got off at Sixty-third Street and drove toward Park Avenue. He parked in a very expensive garage just off Park, took his large equipment case, the one with the wheels, and his tripod from the trunk, then walked down Park until he reached the building in question. It was a steel-and-glass tower of around fifteen stories, very slim and elegant, and he could only guess at what the apartments cost. He stood to one side of the building and looked up.

What he saw was an array of tall buildings, but the one that interested him most was directly across the street, a prewar co-op with a limestone facade and the usual awning. A doorman stood out front, rocking on his heels, waiting to open a taxi door for somebody. Cantor crossed the street and approached the doorman.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Morning, sir,” the doorman, a paunchy man in his fifties, replied. “Can I be of service?”

“Is the super around?”

“No, he’s in the hospital; had his tonsils out. Ain’t that something, a guy his age having his tonsils out?” He laughed in a way that made Cantor think the guy didn’t like his boss much.

“That’s a good one,” Cantor chuckled. “How would you like to make five hundred bucks?”

The doorman stopped rocking on his heels and eyed him warily. “We’re not allowed to murder the building’s occupants.”

“No violence involved. I just want to take some photographs up and down Park Avenue from the top of your building. There’s probably part of the roof devoted to equipment, that’s separate from the penthouse property, isn’t there? You know, air conditioning, satellite dishes, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, there is.”

“Good view of Park from that spot?”

The doorman nodded. “A very good view.” He looked at Cantor for a moment, then took a deep breath.

Cantor cut him off. “Five hundred is the max. I’ll need to be up there until dark, probably, and if I don’t get what I need, I’ll have to come back tomorrow, and in that case, it’s another two hundred.”

“You’re not a cat burglar?”

“I’m a retired cop.” Cantor flashed his badge.

“Name?”

“That’s all you need to know.”

Another doorman appeared from inside. “I’ll take the outside for a while, Tim.”

“Okay,” the doorman replied. “I’ve got to run this guy up to the utility area, anyway.” He took a clump of keys from the doorman’s station in the lobby and motioned with his head for Cantor to follow. They rode up in the elevator to the sixteenth floor in silence, then got off. “I don’t want to know what this is about, do I?”

Cantor shook his head. “Why would you? It doesn’t involve any of the people who live in your building.”