The smells of coriander, curry and pepper scented the air as York followed Roy down the street. A sign hung over the entrance to an Indian restaurant, the lights glowing out of the front window. Roy went inside, passed the restaurant entrance and headed to the door in back, the one that led to the apartments upstairs.

They took the two flights in silence, the ancient stairs squeaking. If they ever decided to turn it into a safe house, they had a built-in security system.

Roy rounded the landing for the last run of stairs then stilled. Reached for his gun, secured in a holster under his jacket.

York felt a little naked.

“Door’s ajar,” he said and held up his hand in a fist.

Stop.

Fine. He let Roy, the man with the weapon, go first as he crept up to the apartment on the top floor. To his left, another door—also ajar—went out to a broad rooftop terrace. In the distance, the river turned silver in the starlight.

Roy edged the door open, then rolled in, his gun out. He flicked on the light.

“Clear,” he said, and York followed him in.

Roy checked the kitchen, then went to the bedrooms, maybe even the bathroom. He came back. “Empty.”

York stood in the kitchen, his breath a razor in his lungs. Glass shards glinted off the light from a hole in the windowpane. A tiny round table lay toppled on its side, a chair turned over, another one also taken down. A couple sandwiches, not unlike the one he’d just eaten, were tossed across the room—bread, pastrami, lettuce.

And on the floor, near the table, the chairs, the glass…blood. It pooled, rusty, then smeared across the yellow floor tiles. A handprint pressed the counter, and a smudged footprint lead out to the carpeted hallway.

He followed it. It faded into the bedroom, near the small twin bed, and from there, vanished.

But he could do the math.

“Someone was shot,” Roy said, coming into the room.

York looked at him. “Really?”

Roy held up his hands. “I’m just the messenger. The blood isn’t entirely dry, but it’s darkening. I’d say maybe an hour, at most.”

York’s gut wanted to lose the liverwurst.

He walked past Roy, back out into the hallway. Stared down the stairs.

Then looked out, onto the terrace.

The door still hung ajar.

He pushed it open and walked out into the darkness. A table, a couple chairs. And along the edge, a skinny metal staircase that probably served as a fire escape led to the ground, some three stories below.

Leaning over the side, he hoped—terribly, brutally—he’d find RJ hiding in the bushes of the courtyard. But the space was empty, save for a dumpster, an old bike and a dog sniffing at a bush.

It lifted its leg and York turned away.

“Anything?” Roy, behind him.