less a lobby than a foyer

The main door of the building featured no buzz-through security lock. The neighborhood remained safe enough that apartment lobbies did not absolutely require fortification. Dripping, he entered a small space, less a lobby than a foyer, with a Mexican-tile floor. An elevator and a set of stairs served the upper stories. The foyer air curdled with the lingering meaty scent of Canadian bacon, cooked hours ago, and the musty smell of stale pot smoke. Weed had a singular aroma. Someone had stood here this morning, finishing a joint, before stepping out to meet the dreary day. From the bank of mailboxes, Ethan counted four apartments on the ground floor, six on the second, and six on the third. Reynerd lived in the middle of the building, in 2B. Only the last names of the current tenants were printed on the mailboxes. Ethan needed more information than these stick-on labels provided. An open communal receptacle, recessed in the wall, had been provided for magazines and other publications on those occasions when the volume of other mail didn’t permit the postman to put all items in the boxes. Two magazines lay in the tray. Both were for George Keesner in Apartment 2E. Ethan rapped a knuckle against the aluminum doors on several of the mailboxes for the apartments in which he had no interest. The [25] hollow sound suggested they were empty. Most likely the daily mail had not yet been delivered. When he rapped on Keesner’s box, it sounded as though it was packed full of mail. Evidently the man had been away from home for at least a couple days. Ethan climbed the stairs to the second floor. One long hall, three doors on each side. At 2E, he rang the bell and waited. Reynerd’s unit, 2B, lay directly across from 2E. When no one answered the bell at Keesner’s apartment, Ethan rang it again, twice. After a pause, he knocked loudly.