March 13, 1.58 p.m.
Outside in the street, the man looked up. He knew she lived on the fifth floor and counted until he imagined where she was sitting right now. He walked up the stone stoop and took out the key. He had had the key ever since he’d taken Capske out. The cops hadn’t noticed that one of the keys on his fob was missing. Subtlety was lacking in their investigation. He pushed it into the lock and turned it. The lock was on some kind of electronic catch and the bolt buzzed and released. He entered the lobby.
The building was old and crumbling, with post-boxes half-torn off or covered with graffiti. It smelled of mold and damp. The panels to the basement door were smashed out and the lower-ground laundry odors mixed with the heat from the apartments and the whiff of old carpets.
He didn’t like the dirt or the idea that he was breathing in spores. He moved toward the stairs and started to climb. The key to the apartment remained in his hand as he ascended to the fifth floor. He took a look over his shoulder and felt the excitement rising through his body, lifting him up with the sensation of flying.
In his coat pocket was his World War Two German Luger. A fine piece of engineering and beautiful to hold, the semi-automatic Pistole Parabellum 1908, to give it its correct name. He pulled the Luger out of his pocket as he reached the floor, took out an 8-round magazine and pushed it into the grip. Taking the toggle-joint between his thumb and forefinger, he pulled it back, then let the breechblock snap back into place, with a metallic clunk. A new cartridge was now waiting in the chamber. Lucy’s bullet was primed.