Marine Park, Brooklyn, New York Jack tried to look as touristy as possible. He grabbed the map book he had been using, put on his shades and got out of Howie's car. He walked down the side of the road opposite the target house that Fernandez had identified. It stood at a T-junction to a dead-end street. Jack walked straight past on the other side of the road, his face turned away, the shades and map helping him get to the cover of a house that he hoped would serve as an observation post for him. He turned up a narrow driveway to his right and knocked on the door. A small woman in her late sixties answered. She had curly white hair, gold glasses and looked as though she could play the role of grandma in any film you'd care to cast. 'Good morning,' he said.
'I'm not buying anything,' cackled the woman.
Jack smiled. 'I'm not selling anything, Ma'am. My name is Jack King and I need your help.' He reached into his pocket and took out Howie's business card. 'I'm a former FBI agent and I'm working with this man, trying to help him solve a very serious crime, and I need to come into your house to do it.'
'You're not coming in here,' said the old lady, pushing the card back at him. 'You're one of those confidence tricksters. I know your type.'
Jack's cell phone rang in his pocket but he ignored it. 'Please. Please take the card,' he pleaded. 'I'm really not one of the bad guys. Take it, and go back inside your house, lock the door and call this man. He'll tell you why the FBI needs your help. I'll just wait here.'
The woman lifted her glasses and looked into Jack's face.
'Please, Ma'am,' he said again.
She grabbed the card, went inside and he heard her lock the door. It was painful for Jack to wait, and hard to resist the urge to spin round and check out the house almost directly behind his back, the house that might hold the dying girl. He'd noticed that all the properties around him were big enough to have basements. The area felt right. It was the kind of place a killer like BRK would choose.
The old lady's door opened and she reappeared. 'Come in,' she said, in a far more pleasant tone.
Jack stepped inside and let her close the door. The hall smelled of boiled potatoes and cheap meat.
'I'm just having some coffee, Mr King, would you like some?'
'I'd love some,' said Jack, relieved to be inside, 'but first I really have to ask you some questions and then I need you to take me upstairs to your bedroom.'
The old lady smiled. It had been a long time since Yoana Grinsberg had let a handsome stranger into her home and he'd been eager to go straight upstairs.