The lock disengaged and Larkin grabbed the door handle. He and Doyle moved quickly through the lobby, the tip-tap of their oxfords bouncing off the tiled floor and vaulted ceiling. They went to the staircase on the left, drew their weapons, and cautiously began to ascend. The second floor echoed with televisions and voices behind closed doors, but otherwise the hall was empty. Larkin turned the corner and kept moving to the third floor. When he reached the landing, the smell hit him. Maybe to an untrained nose, that smell was sour milk and rotting leftovers kept to warm in the sun for a few days. But to a cop who’d experienced death in all its various stages?

“Decomp,” Doyle whispered from behind.

Larkin only nodded as he moved slowly down the third-floor hallway. Ahead of him, a door opened and a woman his age, her hair done in two long pigtail braids so as not to catch on her hoop earrings, stepped into the hall. Larkin trained his pistol on the floor and jerked his head, whispering, “NYPD. Back inside.”

She immediately backtracked, slammed the door shut, and threw the deadbolt.

Larkin waited, listened, then crept closer to 3G. The door wasn’t open, but it wasn’t closed and locked either. Larkin pressed himself to one side of the threshold, Doyle mirroring the motion, and then he tapped the door with his shoe. It creaked open. Light filtered into the hall. No movement came from inside.

Doyle whispered, “Backup.”

They’d come this close. No reason to make stupid mistakes now. Harry might still be home—he might not be. And whether he was destroying evidence that very second or was going to be caught red-handed, the stink of putrefaction told Larkin that Harry was accelerating out of control, and they’d be next if they went in balls-first. But before Larkin could nod in agreement, the light inside went out.

Larkin heard a very quiet thwiiick and his brain’s Rolodex spun out of control to place the sound. Cupboard or drawer—no. Cocked firearm—no. Lock—maybe. What kind? Door—no. Window—Larkin turned, studied the layout of the hall, the stairwell, then whispered, “Fire escape.”

Doyle mouthed, “Fuck,” with all of the facial grammar of a scream, which would have been funny at a different place and time.

Larkin reached a hand out, pushed the door, and let it fall open the rest of the way. “Harry Regmore, this is Everett Larkin with the NYPD. I have a warrant for your arrest.” He listened but heard nothing again. The smell of rot wafted into the hall. “Make yourself known at once.”