He squinted his eyes, watching the dog for some sign of rebellion, looking for evidence of an unquenched yearning; seeing none he realized that the quivering was his own, the vibrations were ones his eyes had projected upon the dog. The greyhound stood still. The woman shifted her feet.

"Nothing yet. I left Echo's room about forty-five minutes ago. I'm on eighty-seventh street, outside Memo's building. I can't find her, she won't answer her phone. I'm going to try to get in and see what I can learn. They haven't seen her since Wednesday at the University. Would you try pulling her bank records? What can you do there? Can you call me in fifteen minutes?"

The light changed and the woman stepped off the curb, the dog followed, it's trembling feet playing a private Rachmaninov on the blacktop. His eyes drifted across the street to the white brick building squatting in the afternoon sunlight.

"What should I be looking for?"

A red delivery van with yellow letters arched across the side of it pulled away as the light changed. Parked at the curb behind it were two motorcycles -- black crouchbikes -- tucked together and facing away from the curb.

"I don't know. ATM records? Restaurants? Any transactions that will help me track her down. I want to know when the last activity was, see if we can trace her.."

The motorcycles were devoid of chrome, flat black, and they merged in his sight into a single malevolent creature. Their headlights glowered at the street and the angles of their front wheels and machinery hissed at him, Tarantula. Identical four-cylinder slabside BMW's, hunchbacked twins, each with the obsidian ball of a helmet resting on the seat. Eightballs.

"Drexler, do you have any idea how much you are asking? I'm not sure that's even legal."

Drexler began walking to the corner, anticipating the light.

"Carla, if you have a better idea, let me know. Would you just tell them what I asked for, if it isn't legal they won't do it. It's important to me that we do this right, but it's really important to me that we actually get it done. We have to find Memo."

The light turned yellow.

"Right. Ok, I'll call you when I hear something."

It turned red.

"Thanks. Talk to you later."

As Drexler clicked his phone closed the glass door at the base of Memo's building flashed silver, momentarily reflecting the sky. A blond-haired man came through the door briskly, hardly checking his stride as he came from the lobby to the street. He was wearing black riding leathers and he was wiping the left side of his face with a red bandana, as though he was drying a weepy eye. He straddled the first of the two bikes and started the engine. He kicked back the stand and gunned the bike into traffic, the whole time keeping his left hand to his face, rubbing his eye.

As Drexler crossed the street, he watched the rear tire wobble slightly as the driver leaned to turn the corner and gun the bike out of sight. The sun made reflections at him from helmet and the headlight of the remaining bike, shining from the axle pivots and hubs of the black machine, the brightly beaded eyes of a spider. And from the gutter the sun glinted on the smoothness of the other helmet that was gently rocking in the grit, alone.

Drexler stepped up on the curb and walked slowly, scanning through the glass in the lobby, trying to time his arrival at the door. Against the faded beige of the back of the lobby he saw the elevator indicator brighten and he quickened his pace, reaching his right hand into his pocket as though fishing for keys. As the elevator doors opened an elderly woman stepped out, straightening her shoulders and gathering her coat to herself, an umbrella clutched in her strong, thin fingers. Nearing the entrance, Drexler slowed his pace and pretended to fumble in his pocket. She looked through the glass at him through narrowed eyes; he ignored her gaze and reached his hand deeper into his pocket, then looked up at her and moved aside as though to make way for her. She snapped her purse closed and pushed the door open, stepping through and walking away without looking back. He snatched the handle before the door swung closed and went in.

Five steps across the cracked yellow tile floor and he was standing at the elevator wall, reaching his finger to press the brushed-nickel call button. The plastic triangle etched into it's surface glowed amber and Drexler stood back to wait. The fabric wallcovering was beige, the color of some vague maple, and veined with loose threads woven through it, picked at in places near to hand. The paint on the frames of the elevator doors was mocha, or had been once, and it was chipped here and there, the tattletale flaked places showing other flavors of fashion: cream and chocolate and even a deep cherokee red showed through at the edges of the chipped areas.

An elevator to his left dinged and he stood aside as the door opened and the elevator emptied. He went in and found the 38 among the tightly packed buttons, pressed it and stood back while the doors closed. He studied the laminate as the cab rattled upwards. AMOS was scratched at eye level next to the control panel. He read the Inspection Certificate. He watched the light move behind the numbers above the door, clicking through the floors. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. The elevator slowed and shuddered to a stop and he waited for the door to open.

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