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okay?”
    Outside, they faced the blustery ice showers once again as they slid along carefully toward their destination.
    Karla Dixon’s business address was also her apartment, located in a tony area of midtown Manhattan. Normal Midtown traffic around the entrance; no official vehicles or other obvious indicia of criminal activity within the building. They stood shivering outside the entrance, simply processing this lack of abnormal activity. Which might be okay. Or not.
    Gaspar stamped his feet in what she recognized as an effort to generate body heat. “We’re not going to learn anything standing out here, Sunshine. What’s your pleasure?”
    Kim took a last look around the immediate area to confirm the surveillance camera locations she’d spotted and the absence of discernible human surveillance. If Reacher or anyone else was watching from between buildings or behind vehicles, she didn’t see any sign of it. She led the way through the heavy glass door into Dixon’s building.
    A private security guard talked on the phone behind a desk twenty feet inside the entrance. He was about 5’9”, early 60s maybe. Gray hair, brown eyes, rimless glasses, and a growing paunch still comfortably covered by his uniform shirt without gaping spaces between buttons. He was unarmed, which might have rendered another man useless against threats more serious than tenants irate over delayed deliveries from Bloomies. But Kim’s quick appraisal revealed this guard wasn’t just another rent-a-cop.
    She’d seen men like him all over New York, DC, Chicago, even Detroit and smaller cities, since the events of 9/11 and the wars that followed. A plastic nameplate pinned above his blue shirt’s left breast pocket said simply “H. Silver,” but his bearing and general appearance all but flashed the neon warning: “Col. US Army, Ret.”
    Dixon would feel comfortable with an Army veteran manning the security desk for her building. Not that some regular Army retiree would represent a challenge for Reacher, should he decide to get past.
    Retired Army or no, Mr. Silver didn’t seem at all concerned when a uniformed bike messenger slipped by Kim and Gaspar, waved and continued past his station toward the residence elevators without stopping. Dixon’s killer could easily have done the same.
    Silver finished his call and asked Gaspar, “How can I help you today?”
    Silver’s assumption that Gaspar was in charge because he was the male half of the duo might have rankled at another place and time. As it was, Kim recognized the value of the man-to-man approach and stood aside, giving Gaspar room to talk them past Dixon’s gatekeeper. It was a short, fruitful conversation. Silver waved them by as breezily as he had the messenger, which made Kim feel uneasy.
    The elevator ride was express to the top floor, a distance they covered in forty-five seconds. Kim worried about airplanes, but never about elevators. Elevators were tethered by cables. They went straight up and straight down, and they were inspected regularly and maintained properly. If they fell, which rarely happened, well, they only dropped as far as the basement. She wasn’t claustrophobic or even particularly fearful. But she was aware of life’s risks. Riding elevators in city skyscrapers wasn’t risky enough to worry about. No elevator had ever crashed into an office tower and killed 3,000 civilians.
    “What did Colonel Silver have to say?” Kim asked.
    “Dixon isn’t home, but she left him a standing order to allow visitors up to her floor once he’d screened them.”
    “That’s curious, isn’t it?”
    “He said she’s running a business and her clients expect constant access. Sometimes, they meet here when she’s away.” Gaspar shrugged. “Maybe she’s expecting someone in particular. Anyway, she hasn’t been here for the past three weeks. He doesn’t know where she is. She travels on business.” Gaspar hesitated, glanced at her and finished his report.