By the time they reached the second floor, the musty air was so thick that it irritated his lungs. Kevin could tell that plenty of maintenance had been done to keep the old building going, but none of it could hide the decay slowly taking its toll.
Not too long ago, somebody had repainted the corridors, hoping to cover up cracks that were running through the foundation. Even the carpet below looked new, barely showing any signs of traffic.
In the few minutes they had before reaching the building, he'd called up the owner on file, hoping to narrow down which one of the thirty-eight apartments and its tenants might be the one in question.
He'd inquired about any young women living there, or people who had daughters visiting often. His quest had left them with six places in total, most of them on the second and third floor.
With his Glock drawn, Kevin followed his partner through the eerily quiet hallway, stopping every few moments to look over his shoulder.
The evil.
He remembered the Vietnamese store clerk describing him as the evil she sensed. And today he finally began to understand what she meant; feeling it in every muscle and sinew of his body.
A few feet ahead, Javi slowed down and positioned himself across from him by the front door of number 7. Hopefully not their "lucky" number seven, or so he mused.
Cocking his head in silent understanding, he took position on the other side and knocked once.
"Police. Open up."
He could hear the floor squeak on the inside, signs of movement, but no other noise. Perhaps this was the lucky one after all.
"NYPD, open up!", he yelled along with a second, more forceful knock that made the old door rattle in protest.
Across from him, he saw Javi back up a step, getting ready to kick it in to gain entry, when the lock opened, causing the creaking door to swing to the inside.