Codella found him lying facedown on a king-size bed in a large bedroom to her right off the elevator. She felt for a pulse at his neck. His skin was warm, and her touch caused him to turn his head and moan.
She quickly scanned the large room. Ice-frosted windows faced Central Park. The bed was on the south wall, and at the north end were twin love seats facing each other in front of a restored gas fireplace. On a coffee table between those couches sat two Starbucks cups. She went over and looked at the cups. “Fuck!” she said under her breath. There had been too many strange liquids in the bottoms of cups and glasses. She turned back to Merchant. How long did he have, she wondered, before whatever he’d swallowed pulled him into death’s grip?
She took out her cell phone and called 9-1-1. Then she looked around for the phone and called down to the doorman. “An ambulance is on the way for Mr. Merchant,” she said. “Send up the young man sitting in my car. He has EMT training. Do it now.” Then she hung up.
She left the bedroom and made her way to Merchant’s living room where the vaulted ceilings gave the room a cathedral-like feel and the floor-to-ceiling windows were an altar to New York City. She walked through the dining room, kitchen, and study and climbed the spiral stairs to a second-floor balcony that led to seven spacious rooms. They were all empty.
She found Merchant’s master suite on the top floor of his triplex. It was decorated with dark wood panels on the walls and a raised bed. She searched his intricately tiled bathroom and opened the door to his cedar-scented walk-in closet where dozens of suits and monogrammed shirts hung in neat rows across from racks of polished Italian leather shoes. And then she paused to think.
If she was right about who had killed Lucy Merchant and Baiba Lielkaja—and she had to be right—then why was Merchant lying unconscious on that bed? Had he always been the intended third target?
She went back to his kitchen. The door to the fire stairs and service elevator were unlocked. She unsnapped her shoulder holster and kept her hand on her gun as she opened the door. She found herself staring into a small landing in front of the service elevator. At one end of the landing sat a blue recycling bin and a large gray garbage can. At the other end was a closed door labeled “Fire Stairs.” Codella turned the doorknob, but the door was locked from her side. No one had left Merchant’s apartment via these stairs.
Brandon Johnson found her staring into the landing. “What is it?” he asked.
“You need to be with Merchant,” she snapped.
“He’s okay for now. Semiconscious.”
“I think he just took whatever was in one of those cups on the coffee table. Don’t touch anything in there, Brandon. Just stay at Merchant’s side until the EMT arrives. He might get worse. He might stop breathing. Someone might have given him a narcotic. You may have to resuscitate him, you understand?”
Brandon nodded.
“Don’t let him stop breathing. We need him alive. I’m trusting you. Don’t let me down. I’m going to find whoever’s responsible for this.”
“How?”
“Never mind. Just go.”
She watched him turn, and when he was gone, she called the service elevator. The motor that powered the pulley whined as the car ascended. When it finally arrived and the door opened, she stepped inside and the strong smell of garbage hit her. She took only shallow breaths as the elevator descended. It moved slowly, like the elevators at Park Manor, and when it finally jerked to a stop, she wanted to rush out, but she held herself back. Who was out there?
She squeezed the grip of the Glock, still in its holster. She exited slowly. The drone of the building’s boiler drowned out all other sounds. Ahead of her was a long, narrow corridor with doors off to either side. She would have to open each of those doors and search the rooms one by one. Under any other circumstances, she would not be doing this. It was foolhardy to come down here alone. It was wrong to leave Brandon with Merchant. The right thing to do was get back in the elevator, go to the lobby, and call for assistance. But this was her chance to put the last nail in the coffin. She had disobeyed McGowan’s order to cease her investigation, and if she didn’t come out of here with her handcuffs around the killer, her career in homicide would surely be over. It might be over even if she did.
Three-foot-long fluorescent ceiling strips bathed the corridor in light, and that, at least, was a relief. She stepped to the first door marked “Bike Room” and turned the knob. It was locked. If anyone were in there, they had unlocked the door with a key, and it wasn’t likely that Merchant’s visitor had that key handy.
The metal door beyond the bike room was ajar. Codella pulled her Glock from its holster as she pushed the door open with her boot. The room was dark, and she stuck her hand inside and slid her palm up the wall until she hit a switch and the room became flooded with fluorescent light. Tools of every kind hung from hooks on pegboard: hammers, mallets, saws, chisels, cable cutters, and an entire row of screwdrivers. A worktable in the center of the room was covered in sawdust. Her eyes moved quickly around the room, but no one was hiding in there.
Codella returned to the corridor and continued on. When she turned the next doorknob and pushed open the door, the first thing she saw was a row of tan aluminum lockers. She stepped inside. On the left was a worn-out couch—more threadbare than the one in Cheryl O’Brien’s apartment—an old Panasonic television, and a small kitchen area with a table, chairs, refrigerator, and microwave. To her right was another door.
She stared at that door. She took another glance into the corridor, and then she stepped across the staffroom and stood next to the door. Adrenaline made her heart pound as she listened for sounds on the other side. Then she raised her weapon, pulled the door open, and looked in.
Behind the door was a small pedestal sink and a toilet with the seat up. A roll of toilet paper sat on top of the toilet tank, several squares dangling down like a paper tail. The overwhelming smell of urine told her men had missed the bowl in here many times and that no one had disinfected the tiles recently.
She returned to the brightness of the corridor. Then, as she considered her next move, all the brightness was extinguished and she was standing in darkness as black as a mineshaft. She heard the flick of something. A lighter? A flashlight? She turned. And then pain exploded in her skull, and the blackness in front of her eyes became blackness inside her brain.