when it hadn‟t rained. Everything in town seemed to drip, like the city was a sponge that had surpassed its capacity…the cars, the buildings, the spindly trees, all of it wicking the moisture out of the air and channeling it down onto the perma-damp asphalt and concrete beneath your feet.
Definitely more L.L. Bean than Louboutin.
At the front door of the house, she craned in for a closer look at a seventies-era intercom that had three little buttons. Per Isaac‟s instructions, she punched the one on the bottom.
A moment later, the ring was answered by a woman dressed in a retina-busting, retro afghan the size of a bed-sheet. Her hair was cranked into corkscrew curls the color of a Halloween pumpkin and there was a cigarette between the painted fingertips of her right hand.
Evidently, her look had gotten stuck in the same era as the intercom.
“You‟re Isaac‟s girl?”
Grier stuck her hand out and did not correct the statement. Figured it was better than
“attorney.” “I‟m Grier.”
“He called here.” The woman stepped back. “Told me to let you in. You know, you don‟t 40
Crave
seem like his type.”
A quick image of the man sitting so silent and deadly flashed through Grier‟s mind: on that theory, the guy should have been dating a Beretta.
“Opposites attract,” she said as she looked over the landlady‟s shoulder. Down at the end of the tight hall, the staircase loomed in the distance like a spiritual beacon, at once apparent and yet unattainable.
“Well…” The landlady lounged against her flocked wallpaper. “There‟s opposites, like one person is a talker and the other isn‟t. And there‟s opposites . How did you meet?”
As her nosy stare locked on Grier‟s gold necklace, there was the temptation to answer, “the penal system,” just to see how far the woman‟s eyes would bug. “We were matched up.”
“Oh, like eHarmony?”
“Precisely.” The main points of compatibility being his requiring someone with a law degree to get him bail and her having a JD from Harvard. “Will you let me in his place now?”
“You‟re in a hurry. You know, my sister tried eHarmony. The guy she met was a frickin‟
jerk.”
It turned out that getting the landlady up the stairs took about as much effort as throwing her over a shoulder and carrying her to the third floor. However, ten minutes of question deflection later, they were finally at the door.
“You know,” the landlady said as she put her keys to work and unlocked things, “you should think about—”
“Thanks so much for all your help,” Grier said as she slipped inside and shut the woman out in the hall.
Leaning against the wood panels, she took a deep breath and listened to the grousing fade on its way downstairs.
And then she turned around…Oh, God.
The barren room was as wilted and lonely as an old man, proving that poverty, like age, was a great equalizer—she could have been in any tenement or drug house or condemned building in any city in any country: The old pine floors had all the gloss of a sheet of sandpaper, and the ceiling had water stains in the corners that were the color of urine. No furniture in sight, not one table or chair or TV. Just a sleeping bag, a pair of combat boots and some clothes in precisely folded piles.
Isaac Rothe‟s pillow was nothing but a sweatshirt.
As she stood just inside the apartment, all she could think of was the last place her brother had stayed. At least her client‟s was clean and there weren‟t hypodermic needles and dirty spoons everywhere: This sparseness did not appear to be the result of an addict‟s slanted priorities.
But good Lord, it was still a shocker to remember where Daniel had ended up. The filth…the cockroaches…the rotting food…
Forcing herself to get a move on, she went into the kitchen and wasn‟t surprised to find all the cupboards and the drawers and the refrigerator empty. Bathroom had a razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, and
Definitely more L.L. Bean than Louboutin.
At the front door of the house, she craned in for a closer look at a seventies-era intercom that had three little buttons. Per Isaac‟s instructions, she punched the one on the bottom.
A moment later, the ring was answered by a woman dressed in a retina-busting, retro afghan the size of a bed-sheet. Her hair was cranked into corkscrew curls the color of a Halloween pumpkin and there was a cigarette between the painted fingertips of her right hand.
Evidently, her look had gotten stuck in the same era as the intercom.
“You‟re Isaac‟s girl?”
Grier stuck her hand out and did not correct the statement. Figured it was better than
“attorney.” “I‟m Grier.”
“He called here.” The woman stepped back. “Told me to let you in. You know, you don‟t 40
Crave
seem like his type.”
A quick image of the man sitting so silent and deadly flashed through Grier‟s mind: on that theory, the guy should have been dating a Beretta.
“Opposites attract,” she said as she looked over the landlady‟s shoulder. Down at the end of the tight hall, the staircase loomed in the distance like a spiritual beacon, at once apparent and yet unattainable.
“Well…” The landlady lounged against her flocked wallpaper. “There‟s opposites, like one person is a talker and the other isn‟t. And there‟s opposites . How did you meet?”
As her nosy stare locked on Grier‟s gold necklace, there was the temptation to answer, “the penal system,” just to see how far the woman‟s eyes would bug. “We were matched up.”
“Oh, like eHarmony?”
“Precisely.” The main points of compatibility being his requiring someone with a law degree to get him bail and her having a JD from Harvard. “Will you let me in his place now?”
“You‟re in a hurry. You know, my sister tried eHarmony. The guy she met was a frickin‟
jerk.”
It turned out that getting the landlady up the stairs took about as much effort as throwing her over a shoulder and carrying her to the third floor. However, ten minutes of question deflection later, they were finally at the door.
“You know,” the landlady said as she put her keys to work and unlocked things, “you should think about—”
“Thanks so much for all your help,” Grier said as she slipped inside and shut the woman out in the hall.
Leaning against the wood panels, she took a deep breath and listened to the grousing fade on its way downstairs.
And then she turned around…Oh, God.
The barren room was as wilted and lonely as an old man, proving that poverty, like age, was a great equalizer—she could have been in any tenement or drug house or condemned building in any city in any country: The old pine floors had all the gloss of a sheet of sandpaper, and the ceiling had water stains in the corners that were the color of urine. No furniture in sight, not one table or chair or TV. Just a sleeping bag, a pair of combat boots and some clothes in precisely folded piles.
Isaac Rothe‟s pillow was nothing but a sweatshirt.
As she stood just inside the apartment, all she could think of was the last place her brother had stayed. At least her client‟s was clean and there weren‟t hypodermic needles and dirty spoons everywhere: This sparseness did not appear to be the result of an addict‟s slanted priorities.
But good Lord, it was still a shocker to remember where Daniel had ended up. The filth…the cockroaches…the rotting food…
Forcing herself to get a move on, she went into the kitchen and wasn‟t surprised to find all the cupboards and the drawers and the refrigerator empty. Bathroom had a razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, and
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