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intuition as a baby trusts its mother, he switched off the engine and got out of the Expedition.
    No argument: Intuition was an essential survival tool. Honesty with himself, however, was more important than heeding intuition. In a spirit of honesty, he had to admit that he wanted to drive away not to find a place and time for quiet reflection, not to engage in Sherlockian deduction, but because fear had him in a pincer grip.
    Fear must never be allowed to win. Surrender to it once, and you were finished as a cop.
    Of course he wasn’t a cop anymore. He had left the force more than a year ago. The work that had given his life meaning while Hannah was alive had meant steadily less to him in the years after her death. He had ceased to believe that he could make a difference in the world. He had wanted to withdraw, to turn his back on the ugly reality of the human condition so evident in the daily work of a homicide detective. Charming Manheim’s world was as far as he could get from reality and still earn a living.
    Although he didn’t carry a badge, although he might not be a cop in any official sense, he remained a cop in essence. We are what we are, no matter what we might wish to be, or pretend to be.
    Hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket, shoulders hunched as if the rain were a burden, he dashed across the street to the apartment house.
    Dripping, he entered the foyer. Mexican-tile floor. Elevator. Stairs. As it should be. As it had been.
    Stale with the greasy scent of cooked breakfast meat and pot smoke, the air felt thick, seemed to cloy like mucus in his throat.
    Two magazines lay in the tray. On each mailing label was the name George Keesner.
    Ethan climbed the stairs. His legs felt weak, and his hands trembled. At the landing, he paused to take a few deep breaths, to knit the raveled fabric of his nerve.
    The apartment house lay quiet. No voices muffled by the walls, no music for a melancholy Monday.
    He imagined that he heard the faint tick and scrape of crow claws on an iron fence, the flap and rustle of pigeons taking flight, the
tick-tick-tick
of insistently pecking beaks. In truth, he knew that these were only the many voices of the rain.
    Although he could feel the weight of the pistol in his shoulder holster, he reached under his coat and placed his right hand on the weapon to be certain that he had brought it. With one fingertip, he traced the checking on the grip.
    He withdrew his hand from under his jacket, leaving the pistol in the holster.
    Having collected hair by hair along the back of his head, rain reached a trickling finger down the nape of his neck, teasing a shudder from him.
    When Ethan reached the second-floor hallway, he barely glanced at Apartment 2E, where George Keesner would fail to respond to either the bell or a knock, and he went directly to the door of 2B, where he lost his nerve, but only briefly.
    The apple man answered the bell almost at once. Tall, strong, self-confident, he didn’t bother engaging the security chain.
    He didn’t seem to be in the least surprised to see Ethan again or alive, as if their first encounter had never happened.
    “Is Jim here?” Ethan asked.
    “You’ve got the wrong apartment,” Reynerd said.
    “Jim Briscoe? Really? I’m sure this was his place.”
    “I’ve been here more than six months.”
    Beyond Reynerd lay a black-and-white room.
    “Six months? Has it been that long since I was here?” Ethan sounded false to himself, but he pressed forward. “Yeah, I guess that’s what it’s been, six or seven.”
    On the wall opposite the door, an owl stared with immense eyes, in expectation of a gunshot.
    Ethan said, “Hey, did Jim leave a forwarding address?”
    “I never met the previous tenant.”
    The hard shine in Reynerd’s eyes, the quick throbbing in his temple, the tightness at the corners of his mouth this time warned Ethan off.
    “Sorry to have bothered you,” he said.
    When he heard Reynerd’s television at low