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has brought a bald old man, who towers over her despite his being no more than five-foot-five, six tops.
    “You were screaming and screaming,” she practically screams in my face. “You woke up my Herbert. He heard it. Ask him, Ms. Burns.”
    I don’t ask Herbert. I scurry away. I don’t even use the elevator; I take the stairs.
Hurry!

Chapter 20
    EVEN BY MANHATTAN STANDARDS, I’m walking incredibly fast a few minutes later. People are parting for me left and right. I’m a sidewalk Moses.
    Next stop, the Fálcon Hotel. Probably the last place in the universe I want to visit. But I have to go there.
    Sure, a cab would be quicker. But I’d prefer not to freak out while trapped in a moving vehicle.
    No wonder I’m thinking again about my ex-shrink, Dr. Corey. While puffing away on his pretentious pipe, he would espouse these little self-help mantras. Things like “Hang tough!” and “Face your fear!” and “You have to take responsibility for your own life.”
    Back then I thought they were all pretty silly, clichés — not unlike a psychiatrist who smokes a pipe.
    Yet here they are, sticking in my head, a blast from the past. And they actually seem to be working a little.
    I pick up the pace. Only a few more blocks to go.
    I can feel the undertow grabbing hold now, sucking me in.
Why am I so drawn to this hotel?
Well, I happen to know the answer to that one, but it’s a secret I’m taking to my grave.
The secret of the Fálcon.
    Reaching to my side, I pat my shoulder bag for the outline of my camera. I know it’s there; I checked as always before exiting my apartment, but I’m leaving nothing to chance.
    The speed walking breaks into a jog as I cross over Park Avenue at 68th Street. Up ahead, around the corner on Madison, is the Fálcon.
    My heart starts to pummel my chest, and I can feel the veins in my neck throbbing.
    You can do this, Kris. Nobody is going to solve this but you.
    I’m steps away from the corner. Do I hear a crowd still gathered? Is that a siren? There’s only one way to find out.
    But my feet have other ideas.
    I stop shy of the corner, fighting the undertow and giving in to my fear. I’m afraid to look.
    Don’t be such a wimp!
    That’s not exactly one of Dr. Corey’s mantras, but it does the trick just the same. Taking a deep breath and balling my fists, I push around the corner and stare.
    At absolutely nothing.
    What I see is a typical New York street scene outside the Fálcon — people coming and going, cars and cabs sputtering along in front of the hotel’s bright red awning. It’s as if nothing happened.
    Duh.
What was I thinking?
    Obviously I misheard the guy on the radio. I was under the shower, after all. Too much water in the ears.
    That has to be it.
    I reach for my camera. These won’t be my most inspired pictures, but they may be among my most satisfying.
See, Kris, you’re not as crazy as you thought.
    And after clicking away, I’ll go inside the hotel and ask the front desk what happened
yesterday.
I’ll get the story, the scoop, the truth. Then I’ll put this whole bizarre thing behind me.
    I lift the camera to my eye, my hand reaching to focus. I’m twisting the lens clockwise when I feel someone touch my shoulder.
    I freeze.
    Like a picture.
    Click!
    Then —
crash!
    The camera slips from my grasp, falling to the pavement.

Chapter 21
    DAMN IT TO HELL! I stoop to pick up the Leica. Still in one piece, but the lens shattered on impact.
    Then I spin around — and it’s his eyes I see first, the same intense stare as yesterday. It’s that detective, the thin older man who smells of aftershave and tobacco and has that look that says “I know you did something.”
    He stands there, dressed in what appears to be the same dark gray suit, as I try to catch my breath. He says nothing — not even “Sorry I startled you.” Instead, he seems to be suppressing a smile.
What, this is funny to you?
    Suddenly, I don’t care how foolish I might look to him.
    “Do