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“We’re not the first ones to ask the question.”
    “Who else was asking?”
    Before Gaspar could respond, the elevator doors opened silently on the penthouse floor and the messenger Kim had seen pass through the lobby downstairs was waiting to enter for his return trip. He was lanky, Caucasian, brown eyes, brown hair. Maybe a little old to be riding a bike around the city in an ice storm, but fit enough. He wore a navy and white polo shirt with a Reliable logo across the front and back. He carried a bright yellow helmet, wore black bike pants, fitted bike gloves, and shoes with rubber soles. Kim wondered why he wasn’t dressed in heavier clothes, given the winter wonderland he was pedaling through. He nodded at them as they disembarked, but said nothing. They waited for the doors to close behind him and the elevator to begin its descent.
    Kim counted six apartments on this floor; the messenger could have delivered to any of them.
    Dixon’s apartment was to the right of the elevator. Like O’Donnell’s lobby, this hallway presented nothing to indicate a crime scene, fresh or otherwise, waited on the other side of the door.
    Given how chummy Gaspar had become with Colonel Silver, she figured he’d probably have mentioned a murder in Dixon’s apartment.
    Gaspar punched a code into the keypad on the wall above the doorbell. The front door clicked, he opened it, and they entered.
    “How did you know the code?” Kim asked when the door was safely closed behind them.
    “Think about it a minute,” Gaspar said.
    “Silver told you?”
    Gaspar frowned. “He was in Special Ops for forty-six years. Those guys don’t reveal much.”
    Kim let the question go because at that moment she stepped into Dixon’s apartment and was knocked back by the breathtaking view of the New York skyline through the windows opposite the entrance.
    “Wow,” she whispered.
    Kim waited, admiring the vista’s glistening structures while Gaspar made a quick sweep through the pricey apartment decorated with expensive furnishings. He returned to stand in the middle of the room to stare at the magnificent view while Kim had a look around.
    Karla Dixon lived literally and materially so far above anything Kim had expected that she couldn’t quite comprehend even as she walked from room to room, taking everything in like a child’s first experience with astonishing high-wire circus performers.
    Kim pulled out her phone and captured a quick video, mindful of her rapidly dwindling battery power, as she made a second, slower trip around.
    Although the decor was a bit too modern and minimalist for Kim’s taste, everything in the apartment was also relatively new and barely used.
    Dixon’s bedroom was larger than Kim’s entire apartment in Detroit and Dixon’s shower was large enough to accommodate Reacher’s giant body engaged in all sorts of contortions. Surprising, unless she regularly entertained such giants, since Dixon was almost as petite as Kim.
    Dixon’s clothes were of the bought-this-season designer variety. Kim didn’t wear designer anything, but she recognized the costly stuff. What did a forensic accountant need those clothes for? And more importantly, how could Dixon afford them? Kim had been a double major, herself. Accounting and law. She knew the salary ranges accountants were paid. Dixon’s income level must have been well above normal because she didn’t come from a wealthy family, according to her Army personnel file.
    Kim found a number of framed photographs on the walls in Dixon’s home office. She recognized a duplicate of the special investigative unit group photo she’d seen this morning on O’Donnell’s office ego wall.
    Kim took still shots of the photo before she continued.
    Dixon’s home office was as neat as the rest of her apartment. No computer or printer or phone. Only an open desk with no drawers. No visible papers of any kind. Kim realized she was actually standing amid the very first paperless office