“Some days you don’t move two blocks an hour, others you sail right through,” Frankel pointed out. “You used to catch the stagger up and down the avenues but it’s gone to hell ever since Uber and Lyft, along with apps like Waze and Tell-Me-the-Fucking-Best-Way-to-Get-There.” He finally gave up honking and dug up a portable red light encased in a plastic bubble, tossed it on the dashboard, and clicked a siren switch that let out an annoying whoop-whoop.

“That seems to help considerably,” Grant commented a minute or two later when they had barely budged an inch.

“If our friend’s intent on killing someone in that building, let’s pray he’s stuck in the same traffic jam.”

Grant glanced at a city map to get his bearings. He’d earlier asked Frankel about Eighty-Eighth Street; what if the address were either 98 West or East Eighty-Eighth Street instead? A quick check revealed that those locations would be the actual middle of intersections, as both directions of Eighty-Eighth Street ended with the number 88 before jumping to 100.

At least they were looking at one building instead of three. Still, 988 Eighth Avenue was fifteen stories high.

Frankel used “police privilege” to deposit the sedan in front. He slapped a police banner on the dashboard, then motioned for Grant to get out of the car.

The commander glanced up the gray edifice—it was completely nondescript and probably only got washed by the splatter of wind-based thunderstorms. He started, then quickly stopped, counting windows.

“This is going to take us forever.”

“Hopefully this guy will prove useful.”

Frankel indicated the doorman stationed outside massive glass doors. He produced his NYPD shield, then proceeded to give the semi-lowdown on the situation they were facing to Jordan Sanchez, a hefty, handsome Latino who commuted from Queens every day except Sunday.

“And why do you think someone here is going to be targeted?” Jordan asked.

“Afraid we’re not at liberty to share that information,” Frankel responded.

They got Jordan to discuss the recent nonresident visitors to the building. Unfortunately, with over sixty apartments, the figure was in the dozens over just the past couple of days.

Guests were asked to sign and check in, but formal identification wasn’t required. Visitors wrote down the apartment they were headed to, then the doorman buzzed the resident to inform them of their arrival. But that wasn’t a guarantee the visitor went directly to the apartment in question; it was easily possible to make a stop or two on other floors of the building.

There was also the matter of deliveries. Tenants were accustomed to takeout and online shopping, so things appeared at all hours. Jordan provided the register for the past three days, then took them to meet the super, who could assist further and provide access to the building’s security system.