“Four months is about what we’re looking at,” Janson replied with implacable professional calm. “Could be less, could be more. The backlog is incredible. We’re trying to get to everybody as fast as we can. But when an appointment is canceled, you go to the end of the line. The message we got was, she wanted to have the problem dealt with before she got back to town. My supervisor got three or four calls about her problem. Bumped her up as a special favor. Now you’re saying forget it. Fine with me, but just be sure to tell Mrs. Cameron that. If somebody’s getting blamed, it isn’t going to be me.”

Weariness and wounded pride competed in the voice of the beleaguered phone repairman; this was someone who worked for an immense and immensely resented bureaucracy and was accustomed to being blamed personally for the failings of the system—accustomed to it, but not reconciled to it.

If somebody’s getting blamed: the senior doorman flinched a little. The situation called for blame, did it? Such a situation was best avoided. Now, speaking into the phone, he said confidingly, “You know what? I think you’d better let these guys do their job.”

Then he jerked his head in the direction of the elevator bank. “Down the hall and left,” he said. “Eighth floor. The housekeeper will let you in.”

“You’re sure? Because I’ve had a very long day, wouldn’t mind knocking off early.”

“Just go up to the eighth floor, she’ll let you right in,” the doorman repeated, and beneath the impassive manner was the faintest hint of pleading.

Janson and Kincaid walked down the polished floor to the elevators. Though the ancient accordion gate was intact, the cab they entered was no longer manned. Nor was there a security camera inside: with two doormen and a security guard in the lobby, the co-op board undoubtedly had rejected the additional security measure as intrusive overkill, the sort of showy technology that one would expect in an apartment building put up by Mr. Trump. A couple should be able to exchange a chaste peck in the elevator without worrying about gawking spectators.

They pressed the button to the eighth floor; would it light? It would not. There was a keyhole next to the button, and Janson had to massage it with two thin implements for twenty seconds before he was able to rotate it and activate the button. They waited impatiently as the small cab rose and then slowly shuddered to a halt. Given the munificence of the building’s tenants, the unrenovated nature of the elevators amounted to something of an affectation.

Finally, the doors parted, directly onto the apartment’s foyer.

Where was Márta Lang? Had she heard the elevator door opening and closing? Janson and Kincaid stepped quietly into the hallway, and listened for a moment.

A clink of china, but distant.