Samuel's smirking grin reappeared at the compliment. He suspected a great many of their neighbors engaged in whatever they damn well pleased regardless of his presence there, which was likely at least in part his own doing: During the odd changing of the floors he had made it quite clear that routine police work was not his priority, and that so long as the goings-on did not directly affect his enjoyment of his flat and its immediate vicinity, he did not especially care what went on. There was of course the off chance he would take a personal interest, as he had done in Charlie's case, but the bulk of his fellow tenants were likely in the clear, and Samuel felt certain they knew it.
"Not a clue," he said, one broad shoulder lifting in a shrug. "There's a post office box in New York for some reason, but I only saw that when I was applying for the apartment. No personal name attached to it." Another vague, unconcerned shrug. "I doubt they're going to come around with a welcoming committee. You'd do just as well applying to the front desk downstairs."
His keys rattled softly as he freed them from the tight grasp of his palm. "Pleasure meetin' you, Philip, but there's a beer in the fridge callin' my name." A slow shift of his weight guided Samuel back toward his door; for whatever reason, he kept from putting his back squarely to the man. "You need anything, you know where to find me."