The doorman led him to a door marked “Staff Only,” unlocked it, then led him up a flight of stairs to another door, marked “Utilities.” He unlocked that and held it open for Cantor. “This what you’re looking for?”

Cantor walked through a forest of antennae and steel boxes to the parapet and looked up and down Park Avenue, noting especially his view of the building across the street and the angle to the penthouse terrace. “This will do,” he said.

The doorman made a motion with his fingers, and Cantor took five folded hundred-dollar bills from a pocket and handed them to him.

“The doors will lock themselves when you come downstairs,” the doorman said, “and the elevator won’t stop until it gets to the ground floor. If you need to piss, there’s a drainpipe over there.” He nodded at the corner. “Don’t leave no trash, and if you see any of the building tenants, try not to look like a criminal.”

“Got it,” Cantor said. “And thanks very much.” The two men shook hands, and the doorman left. Cantor walked back to the parapet and surveyed the penthouse apartment across the street and two stories below him. “Fucking perfect,” he said aloud. He set up his tripod and began unpacking equipment.

He affixed a very long lens to the electronic camera and sighted the terrace, then he screwed on a Polaroid filter, in case he wanted to shoot through the sliding glass doors. When he was satisfied that he was ready for anything, he set a portable radio beside him, already tuned to a classical station, then he opened a folding camp stool, sat down and took a sandwich and a Diet Coke from his case. It was a nice day, and an al fresco lunch was just the thing. He stayed there all afternoon, occasionally stretching his legs but always with an eye on the penthouse across the street.

At five-thirty sharp, Bernard Finger left his office in the Seagram Building on Park Avenue at Fifty-second Street and stepped into his waiting limo. The driver closed the door and got in while Finger settled himself in the custom leather backseat. He pressed a button, and the window between himself and the driver lowered a foot. “You know where,” he said, then he raised the window and picked up the telephone beside him, pressing a speed-dial number.

“Hello?” She sounded cheerful.

“Hello, dearest,” Finger said. “How was your day?”

“It was okay; I did a little shopping.”

This was not the time to call her on her shopping addiction. “Dearest, I’m headed to a client meeting out of the office, and then I’m going to have to take him to dinner, so you’ll have to count me out for this evening. I’m sorry.”

There was a long, deadly silence. “Bernie,” she said, finally, “you’re fucking somebody.” It wasn’t a question.