The door opened.
“Who the hell are you?” The man was in an evening suit, pressed and freshly cleaned. His breath stank of Islay.
“David York?” I asked. “Rita is in the hospital.”
The color drained from his face. He shuffled aside.
The apartment was minimalist. It was out of place in the old wonder of the Descartes. A gray couch and gray coffee table on a gr…
