Chapter 94

From my position, I can clearly see inside the gallery through the long windows that flank the entrance. It’s exactly what I’d expect an art gallery to look like—a large, open industrial space with a high ceiling that exposes beams and duct work, the supporting walls made of red brick and wood flooring.

However, there are several narrow walls at various angles on which art is displayed that block part of the view to the back.

Was he shot here before he somehow made his way to the Hudson? Was he chased and forced into the water?

My gaze follows an invisible trail from the building to the river, mapping all possible routes.

When I feel enough of a crowd has gathered inside that I can easily walk around unnoticed, I head toward the entrance. The security guard, who’s dressed as well as the patrons, greets me, moving aside to allow me in.

A man in black slacks and a white button-up shirt lifts a silver tray filled with champagne flutes. “Drink, sir?”

“Thank you,” I say, taking one. But I