The hospital survived the brutal assault of the storm but the powers that be didn’t let the patients return, citing health hazards. Naysayers believed the late-night emergency evacuation was a ploy to take advantage of the property’s beachfront location so the owners could turn it into a luxury resort hotel. But no such renovation ever took place. One reporter unearthed a copy of the original deed to the hospital stating the land could only be used for a medical facility or public park.

As a result, the building had sat neglected for over twenty years. Battered by winter storms and the deadly Hurricane Sandy, the structure continued to sit atop the white sands of Far Rockaway like a monolith on the brink of collapse.

Frankel told Grant that every summer a few drunk teens or vagrants would be pulled from its run-down corridors and gone-to-seed rooms, having ventured inside either on a dare, looking to party in private, or looking for a place to crash. They all agreed it was spooky as hell and most weren’t sure if they were hearing the wind blowing through cracks or the haunted screams of former inhabitants.

It wasn’t quite the Overlook Hotel, but the redbrick, five-story structure emitted a feeling of impending doom from the long shadow it cast on the lot’s white concrete. Weeds poking through the crevices cowered in its presence, having turned brown while trying to shrivel their way back below the surface.

There wasn’t a car or person to be seen. Frankel checked out the edge of the parking lot closest to the building and tapped a foot beside some tire skid marks.

“These are recent. Otherwise, the rain the other night would’ve washed them away. If our guy ditched his phone, it should be somewhere around here.”

Frankel moved to a rusted dumpster. Grant walked over to join him. Both men peered inside to see a few broken bottles and crumpled fast-food bags.

A search of the parking lot and nearby sand didn’t produce a discarded burner phone either.

Grant studied a fence and the chain-link gate that separated the parking lot from the former hospital’s grounds. “Might have been more than just a quick stop.”

He pointed to a broken lock lying on the ground by the gate.

Frankel reached inside his coat and pulled out his service revolver. He looked over at Grant.

“Oh, right,” Frankel said. “You fellas over there don’t carry these.”

Grant realized he must have visibly reacted.

“And our murder rate was quite below yours last time I checked.”

“Need I remind you this maniac started on your side of the ocean?”

“He hasn’t used a gun,” Grant added. “At least not yet.”

“I’ve got a spare underneath the front seat if you want it.”

Grant shook his head. “I’ve managed to get this far in life without one.”

“Suit yourself.”