EVEN BY MANHATTAN STANDARDS, I’m walking incredibly fast a few minutes later. People are parting for me left and right. I’m a sidewalk Moses.

Next stop, the Fálcon Hotel. Probably the last place in the universe I want to visit. But I have to go there.

Sure, a cab would be quicker. But I’d prefer not to freak out while trapped in a moving vehicle.

No wonder I’m thinking again about my ex-shrink, Dr. Corey. While puffing away on his pretentious pipe, he would espouse these little self-help mantras. Things like “Hang tough!” and “Face your fear!” and “You have to take responsibility for your own life.”

Back then I thought they were all pretty silly, clichés – not unlike a psychiatrist who smokes a pipe.

Yet here they are, sticking in my head, a blast from the past. And they actually seem to be working a little.

I pick up the pace. Only a few more blocks to go.

I can feel the undertow grabbing hold now, sucking me in. Why am I so drawn to this hotel? Well, I happen to know the answer to that one, but it’s a secret I’m taking to my grave. The secret of the Fálcon.

Reaching to my side, I pat my shoulder bag for the outline of my camera. I know it’s there; I checked as always before exiting my apartment, but I’m leaving nothing to chance.

The speed walking breaks into a jog as I cross over Park Avenue at 68th Street. Up ahead, around the corner on Madison, is the Fálcon.

My heart starts to pummel my chest, and I can feel the veins in my neck throbbing.

You can do this, Kris. Nobody is going to solve this but you.

I’m steps away from the corner. Do I hear a crowd still gathered? Is that a siren? There’s only one way to find out.

But my feet have other ideas.

I stop shy of the corner, fighting the undertow and giving in to my fear. I’m afraid to look.

Don’t be such a wimp!

That’s not exactly one of Dr. Corey’s mantras, but it does the trick just the same. Taking a deep breath and balling my fists, I push around the corner and stare.

At absolutely nothing.

What I see is a typical New York street scene outside the Fálcon – people coming and going, cars and cabs sputtering along in front of the hotel’s bright red awning. It’s as if nothing happened.

Duh. What was I thinking?

Obviously I misheard the guy on the radio. I was under the shower, after all. Too much water in the ears.

That has to be it.

I reach for my camera. These won’t be my most inspired pictures, but they may be among my most satisfying. See, Kris, you’re not as crazy as you thought.

And after clicking away, I’ll go inside the hotel and ask the front desk what happenedyesterday. I’ll get the story, the scoop, the truth. Then I’ll put this whole bizarre thing behind me.

I lift the camera to my eye, my hand reaching to focus. I’m twisting the lens clockwise when I feel someone touch my shoulder.

I freeze.

Like a picture.

Click!

Then -crash!

The camera slips from my grasp, falling to the pavement.

DAMN IT TO HELL! I stoop to pick up the Leica. Still in one piece, but the lens shattered on impact.

Then I spin around – and it’s his eyes I see first, the same intense stare as yesterday. It’s that detective, the thin older man who smells of aftershave and tobacco and has that look that says “I know you did something.”

He stands there, dressed in what appears to be the same dark gray suit, as I try to catch my breath. He says nothing – not even “Sorry I startled you.” Instead, he seems to be suppressing a smile. What, this is funny to you?

Suddenly, I don’t care how foolish I might look to him.

“Do you always sneak up and scare the hell out of people?” I ask him angrily. “You have some nerve.”

“I was hardly sneaking,” he says.

I watch as he pulls out a pack of Marlboros, shaking a cigarette loose. His hands are huge, knotted and gnarled. This guy works for a living.

“So, what brings you here?” he asks, lighting up, then inhaling deeply, enjoying it. “Or should I say, what brings you back here?”

It’s a simple question, certainly not unexpected given the circumstances. Still, I immediately get this vibe from him. He isn’t so much asking as he is interrogating.

“I’m on my way to work,” I answer. “This is the route I take every day. Most days.”

He exhales a thin stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “You want one?” he asks, extending the pack.

“No, thanks.”

“You sure?”

“I don’t smoke,” I say.

“You used to, though.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The way you’re looking at the cigarette,” he says. “Desire is an easy read with people – especially with the things we know we shouldn’t do. I’m a detective. Homicide.”

He’s right. I used to smoke. More than a pack a day, in fact. I started after I moved to New York. Not that I’m about to admit it and give him the satisfaction.

He takes another long drag and continues to stare at me. “Of course, there are so many things that can kill you in this city, what’s one more?”

It’s the perfect opening to ask him what happened – who were the people in the hotel and how did they die? But again there’s that vibe. Is he trying to get me to talk about it? If so, why? What could I know about four strangers?

“What brings you back here?” I ask instead.

And like that, he grins. Not unpleasantly, and he seems more human. “Sometimes the bad guy is dumb enough to return to the scene of the crime,” he says. “Or bad girl, as the case may be.”

So much for that vibe being just a vibe.

“What did you say your name was again?” he asks.

“I didn’t.”

He reaches into his jacket. Out come a ballpoint pen and a notepad. “Any time you’re ready,” he says, poised to write.

“Are you interrogating me?”

“No, I’m just asking for your name.”

“It’s Kristin Burns,” I quickly answer. “And yours?”

He stares at me. Those eyes.

“Delmonico,” he says. “Detective Frank Delmonico.”

He reaches into his jacket again and hands me his card. I don’t look at it. On purpose. Instead, I glance at my watch.

“Listen, I’m sorry to cut this short,” I say, “but I’m afraid I’m going to be late for work.”

It sounds like such a line, and for the most part it is. Then again, this guy has never encountered the wrath of Penley “the Pencil” Turnbull. As much as I want to hightail it out of there, I also need to. Otherwise, Detective Frank Delmonico might be investigating another death, this time up on Fifth Avenue. Mine.

“I promise,” I say. “If we can do this later, I’ll answer any question you have. But I don’t know anything. Just tell me where we can meet.”

He snaps his notepad shut. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” he says. “I’ll find you. It won’t be a problem.”

Then he touches one finger to the side of his temple. “Detective, remember? Homicide.”