Chapter Twenty-Three

A T THE END of a block across the street from a pizza place and a 16 Handles Yogurt shop stood a massive apartment building that almost pointedly lacked character. It soared into the sky above the rest of the Upper East Side, its too-small balconies jutting out from too-expensive apartments high above the streets. The lobby was lit with an almost unnatural yellow glow, and the two doormen on duty wore muted green uniforms, almost military in nature.

Dulce lounged in a chair, reading over her phone, relaxed.

Frank Cortese, on the other hand, paced back and forth, occasionally shooting dirty looks at the doormen.

Finally, as rain began to fall, a cab screeched to a halt, and Brittany ducked out. She raced across the sidewalk and into the building, shaking off inside the lobby, much to the chagrin of the doormen.

"That's who we're waiting on?" Frank snapped at Dulce. "You all broads in this DEA shit?"

"Who the fuck is this?" Brittany asked Dulce.

Dulce calmly got to her feet.

"Frank Cortese," Frank said, hitching his pants up to proudly display his golden badge. "NYPD liaison."

"Brittany Stagg, BEA special agent. I guess you can stay then, Frank" Brittany said, with every intention of ignoring him from that point on. She turned to Dulce. "What's going on?"

"Apartment of the man who put down the security deposit on the bloodbath," Dulce replied.

"Awesome," Brittany said.

Dulce had already gone to the elevator, and she looked at the doorman sitting behind the desk.

"Want to let us up?" Dulce asked.

The doorman pushed a button, and the elevator slid open.

Dulce lead the way, followed by Brittany. Finally Frank shoved himself into the elevator and leaned against the back wall.

It was an awkward and quiet ride up 17 floors.

The elevator opened to a darkened hallway, looking like something out of a horror film. Flickering fluorescent lights gave off a blueish light, but only in certain places. Large swaths of the hall were devoid of any illumination.

"It's down this way," Dulce said, once again taking the lead.

In front of the apartment, number 1788, Dulce stopped, knelt down, and pulled out her set of lock picks.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't see—" Frank started to say.

"How about pretending you went inside with us?" Dulce said.

"What the—" Frank tried to fit in.

The lock clicked open, and Dulce nudged the door open.

"National security," Brittany quipped, pushing past Frank and stepping into the foyer.

The apartment was decidedly nicer than the hallway. It wasn't huge, but it was decently sized, especially for Manhattan. It had a masculine vibe to it, the kind of place that hadn't seen a woman's touch in quite a while. Lots of leather, a few too many black accent pieces, a little more chrome than necessary.

It was a two-bedroom apartment, though in this case, the second bedroom had been turned into something between an office and man cave. Which seemed a little superfluous, considering the entire apartment was essentially a man cave.

"You want the office?" Brittany asked.

"I'll take the bedroom," Dulce replied.

Brittany shrugged, pulling a pair of purple nitrile gloves onto her hands.

"Did you take those from the ambulance?" Dulce asked as she shook out her plain boring latex gloves.

"Maybe," Brittany said with a smile.

Then the search began.