Chapter 3

I took a taxi to Thirty-Second Street, found myself on the third floor of an apartment building, knocked three times on door 3-A, and waited patiently for someone to answer.

Approximately forty seconds after knocking on the walnut door, locks clicked and the brass handle turned. The door was pulled inward, and Dane Bentley greeted me with a smile, a nod of his head, and said, “Shane, you’re very punctual.”

* * * *

I felt a little nervous. Dane was six-three and weighed about 220. He was forty but looked younger, with boyish blue eyes and thick, onyx-black hair. There were dimples in his cheeks and a tiny crescent-moon-shaped scar between his eyes. His eyelashes were thick, and his nose was long and slender. The man had the physique of a basketball player, but said he’d never played. He hovered over me and showed his white grin. I noticed his fingers for the first time: long and bony with untrimmed nails.

“Please,” he whispered, stepping aside, “do come in.”

* * * *