Free Dance of Death by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child

probably sported a thousand apartments at least. There'd be people inside who knew the victim, could provide some color, maybe even speculate on what happened. He craned his neck, counting floors, until he again reached the open window. Twenty-fourth floor.
    He began pushing his way through the crowd again, avoiding the megaphone-wielding cops, tacking as directly as he could toward the building's entrance. It was guarded by three large policemen who looked like they meant business. How on earth was he going to get in? Claim to be a tenant? That wasn't likely to work.
    As he paused to survey the milling throng of press outside, his equanimity quickly returned. They were all waiting, like restless sheep, for some police brass to come out and begin the briefing. Smithback looked on pityingly. He didn't want the same story everybody else got: spoon-fed by the authorities, telling only what they wanted to tell with the requisite spin attached. He wanted the real story: the story that lay on the twenty-fourth floor of Lincoln Towers.
    He turned away from the crowd and headed in the opposite direction. All big apartment buildings like this had a service entrance.
    He followed the facade of the building up Broadway until he finally reached its end, where a narrow alley separated it from the next building. Thrusting his hands back into his pockets, he turned down the alley, whistling jauntily.
    A moment later, his whistling stopped. Up ahead lay a large metal door marked Service Entrance - Deliveries. Standing beside the door was another cop. He was staring at Smithback and speaking into a small radio clipped to his collar.
    Damn. Well, he couldn't just stop dead in his tracks and turn around-that would look suspicious. He'd just walk right past the cop like he was taking a shortcut behind the building.
    "Morning, Officer," he said as he came abreast of the policeman.
    "Afternoon, Mr. Smithback," the cop replied.
    Smithback felt his jaw tighten.
    Whoever was in charge of this homicide investigation was a pro, did things by the book. But Smithback was not some third-rate line stringer. If there was another way in, he'd find it. He followed the alley around the back of the building until it turned a right angle, heading once again toward 65th.
    Yes. There, not thirty yards in front of him, was the staff entrance to La Vielle Ville. Deserted, with no cop loitering around outside. If he couldn't get to the twenty-fourth floor, at least he could check out the place where the man had landed.
    He moved forward quickly, excitement adding spring to his step. Once he'd checked out the restaurant, there might even be a way to get into the high-rise. There had to be connecting passages, perhaps through the basement.
    Smithback reached the battered metal door, pulled it ajar, began to step in.
    Then he froze. There, beside a brace of massive stoves, several policemen were taking statements from cooks and waiters.
    Everybody slowly turned to look at him.
    He put a tentative foot in, like he was going somewhere.
    "No press," barked one of the cops.
    "Sorry," he said, flashing what he feared was a ghastly smile. "Wrong way."
    And, very gently, he closed the door and stepped back, walking back around to the front of the building, where he was once more repelled by the sight of the vast herd of reporters, all waiting like sheep to the slaughter.
    No way, not him, not Bill Smithback of the Times. His eye cast around for some angle of attack, some idea that hadn't occurred to the others-and then he saw it: a pizza delivery man on a motorbike, hopelessly trying to work his way through the crowd. He was a skinny man with no chin wearing a silly hat that said Romeo's Pizzeria, and his face was splotched and red with frustration.
    Smithback approached him, nodded toward the carrier mounted on the back. "Got a pizza in there?"
    "Two," the man said. "Look at this shit. They're gonna be stone-cold, and there goes my tip. On top of that, if I don't get it there