Larkin and Doyle raced to the front door of the complex, and Larkin began tapping apartment buzzers, waiting for someone who might have been home in the middle of the day to answer. “December 24, 2010, I was responding to a domestic, but the woman had barricaded herself in the bathroom and couldn’t buzz me in.” Larkin pressed more button combinations after no initial response. “The only tenant to answer told me to ‘fuck off, you shit-for-brains, it’s Christmas Eve and my fuckin’ kid thinks you’re fuckin’ Santa and won’t go back to bed,’ so I found the fire escape, hoisted myself up, climbed to the third floor, and got inside through an unlatched living room window just as the boyfriend broke down the bathroom door and took a kitchen knife to the vic.”

“’Ello?” answered the staticky voice of a dude-bro who sounded higher than a kite.

“NYPD, buzz us inside, sir,” Larkin demanded.

The lock unhitched.

“I discharged my weapon for the first time that night,” Larkin told Doyle as he grabbed the handle and flung the door open. “Put a bullet in the sonofabitch’s kneecap.”

They both drew their pistols as they entered the vestibule and stepped through the second set of doors into a lobby the size of an afterthought, its walls a thick, landlord off-white, the tile floors and staircase banister a not-quite-black. To the right were two first-floor apartments; to the left was a partially shut door, no number indicating it was someone’s home. Larkin carefully stepped toward the left, moving on the balls of his feet to limit the echo his derby heels usually gave off. He took a quick glance through the crack, then cautiously pulled the door open. The bottom hinge groaned, and then there was enough room to slip down a set of stairs that led to the basement. Larkin took the steps slowly and at an angle, keeping his gun at low-ready while watching the door behind the stairs come into view.

House letters were affixed above the peephole: GDN.

Larkin reached the bottom of the stairs and moved against the wall, training his weapon on the front door as Doyle moved past him to a second door at his back. He was only gone a moment before returning to whisper, “Laundry and utility rooms. All clear.”

Larkin nodded, approached the apartment, and banged loudly with the side of his fist. “Gary Reynold, NYPD. I want you to unlock this door, take a step back, and put your hands where I can see them. Do you understand?”

There was a shuffle of movement somewhere inside, a harsh murmur, then a scream that was abruptly cut short.

“Gary!” Larkin shouted as Doyle holstered his weapon and left his side a second time. “I don’t want you doing something you’ll regret. Let the girl unlock the door and join me in the hallway. Then the two of us can talk.”