He walked all the way to the end of the block, passing the Jamaican restaurant where they had first discovered a clue about Emily. He reached Ninth Avenue without seeing anyone he knew. No one. Just a few strangers brushing past. He went back up the block and this time drew a curious glance from Nellie, the proprietor of the Jamaican restaurant. She was perched on her customary table, staring blankly out into the night and bobbing her many braids to some unheard rhythm. Her eyes took in T.S.'s returning figure without emotion, but T.S. had no doubt that she had recognized who he was.
One door down, he reached Emily's apartment house again. Still no sign of the ever-vigilant Herbert Wong. He stood at the front door, holding the key. Quite frankly, he was afraid to go in. He did not know if he was being foolish or brave.
A figure was hurrying up the block toward him. At last, he thought, one of the bag ladies. Probably Adelle. She was that tall. But he was very much mistaken. The willowy figure passed through a pool of light and he saw that it was Leteisha Swann, ubiquitous woman of the night. He remembered the morning she had stumbled into this very building and passed out in the closet. Oh, dear, she was no doubt headed home for a breather. And he was in no mood for witnesses. He was about to turn his back to the door when she breezed right past the building, her steady gait showing no sign of inebriation. She was heading quickly toward Eighth Avenue, her tall figure squeezed into a long-sleeved silver dress. She negotiated the spike heels like the pro that she was. Within a half-minute, she had disappeared into the shadows at the upper end of the block.
T.S. still lingered at the front door. He wondered briefly what Auntie Lil would do in such a situation, found his answer, and quickly inserted one of the keys. It fit. The tiny downstairs hall was deserted and smelled of sour cooking oil with a faint undercurrent of cheap wine. He hurried into the elevator and pushed the sixth-floor button, looking nervously around to see if he was being observed. He felt slightly ridiculous, huddled in the tiny elevator, his hands clutched tightly in the pockets of his trench coat. Who was he expecting, anyway? Peter Lorre?
The elevator car creaked and groaned its way to the top floor. That hallway, too, was deserted. He would use his wits well, he decided firmly. If he was taking a big chance, he'd best eliminate as many little ones as he could. He checked the stairway door. It opened easily, onto winding stairs and landings that, as far as he could see, were deserted and, thankfully, well lit. He inspected every corner of the hall and tried Emily's door. It was securely locked. That left only one thing to do.
He put an ear to the door of the apartment next to Emily's. There was a faint sound inside. A vacant hiss of static and garbled voices. Someone was watching television. Surely, murderers didn't sit and watch television while they waited for their victims? He inserted the key in the lock and turned it lightly. The bolts opened with a loud click. Immediately the television went silent. T.S. took a deep breath and slowly swung the door open all the way to the wall. If someone was hiding behind it, he wanted to know.
The inside of the one-room apartment was dimly lit by a single lamp that cast a pool of light across a cheap rug. In the center of the room stood a small black boy, hands jammed in his pockets. His head was ducked slightly and he stared up at the door with a furtive unease that exploded into fright once he recognized T.S. "You!" the boy shouted, dashing for the door.
T.S. responded automatically. He slammed the door shut behind him and stood against it, preventing the boy's escape. "What about me?" T.S. shouted back. This did nothing for the young boy's panic.
The kid backed away, eyes wide and voice trembling. "Stay away from me," he ordered in a trembling voice. A small hand darted into a jacket pocket and he pulled out a knife. It clicked open and gleamed in the dull light. It was a ridiculously small blade. On the other hand, no blade was ridiculous, T.S. reminded himself.