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Authors: Tori Carrington
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It couldn’t possibly be . . .
I shook my head and then looked down at my notes, figuring I had a good two hours before my, um, date.
‘So sad about little Miss Jolie,’ the Hispanic nanny said to me a while later at Abramopoulos’ apartment in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where the towering residential buildings had a hard time keeping up with the modern-day titans who’d built and lived in them.
I’d already inspected the underground garage and possible access points to get an idea how two of Abramopoulos’ nanny’s tires had been tampered with. The place was more secure than Kennedy airport. OK, maybe I was exaggerating a little, but not much. You needed key-card access at two points, both with three security cameras pointed at the driver and any passengers’ direction following any and all movement, along with two two-man security details, one between gates, the other inside the garage itself.
Yes, while one flat tire could have been a coincidence – a huge one considering what happened that day – two of them? Definite wrongdoing.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I hoped to find out about the nanny and what she might or might not know. What I was really after was a good look inside Abramopoulos’ private quarters. I was more than a little surprised when I was given instant access. I figured Abramopoulos’ guys had already questioned everyone immediately involved and would have blocked my and the others’ access to them.
Of course, I hadn’t exactly contacted anyone and asked for permission. I’d called the house directly, asked for the nanny and gotten her.
The sixtyish Latina looked nothing like how I imagined she might. Weren’t nannies typically college-aged English exchange students with cool accents, large breasts and double-zero-sized wardrobes? The Argentinean-born Mrs Garcia looked more like a housekeeper with questionable resident status than a nanny. Then again, she could be pulling double duty. If that was the case, I hoped she was getting paid double for it. Although I doubted it.
The apartment itself was as amazing as I expected, the penthouse spanning at least two very large floors in a building named after the owner and built to order. While there wasn’t anything ostentatious like gold leaf covering the ceiling as The Donald had (Eugene Waters talked about it often . . . along with his latest plan to get inside so he could chisel it off and sell it), everything was very expensive and very uncomfortable looking. And there wasn’t a TV on display anywhere, although I knew there was probably a button somewhere that would open a full wall to reveal ten of them.
Give me an overstuffed couch, the remote to one workable television, takeout from my favorite souvlaki stand and a Seinfeld DVD and I was a happy camper.
Of course, outside professionally shot and framed photos on a large fireplace mantle decorated for the holidays, there was no evidence a seven-year-old girl lived there.
Probably she had her own private wing.
The difference between this place and the apartment I found Sara in earlier contrasted so profoundly my brain was almost incapable of the comparison.
Had she lived here? Had she been the woman of the house being waited on hand and foot? Morning brunches with the girls and afternoon spa appointments, with nights out at Lincoln Center and the opera?
I couldn’t even imagine the woman I’d seen earlier gaining access to this apartment, much less living there.
Then again, I’d gotten in.
While I hated to admit it, just being there cast Sara in a darker light. How did you go from this . . . to that? And what would you do to recapture even a bit of it?
Then again, Abramopoulos himself wasn’t looking too good either. What kind of man did something like that to the mother of his child? I’m thinking it would have been less cruel to throw her from the thirty-story window.
The nanny surprised me by leaning in closer where we were sitting together on a red-velvet
I shook my head and then looked down at my notes, figuring I had a good two hours before my, um, date.
‘So sad about little Miss Jolie,’ the Hispanic nanny said to me a while later at Abramopoulos’ apartment in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where the towering residential buildings had a hard time keeping up with the modern-day titans who’d built and lived in them.
I’d already inspected the underground garage and possible access points to get an idea how two of Abramopoulos’ nanny’s tires had been tampered with. The place was more secure than Kennedy airport. OK, maybe I was exaggerating a little, but not much. You needed key-card access at two points, both with three security cameras pointed at the driver and any passengers’ direction following any and all movement, along with two two-man security details, one between gates, the other inside the garage itself.
Yes, while one flat tire could have been a coincidence – a huge one considering what happened that day – two of them? Definite wrongdoing.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I hoped to find out about the nanny and what she might or might not know. What I was really after was a good look inside Abramopoulos’ private quarters. I was more than a little surprised when I was given instant access. I figured Abramopoulos’ guys had already questioned everyone immediately involved and would have blocked my and the others’ access to them.
Of course, I hadn’t exactly contacted anyone and asked for permission. I’d called the house directly, asked for the nanny and gotten her.
The sixtyish Latina looked nothing like how I imagined she might. Weren’t nannies typically college-aged English exchange students with cool accents, large breasts and double-zero-sized wardrobes? The Argentinean-born Mrs Garcia looked more like a housekeeper with questionable resident status than a nanny. Then again, she could be pulling double duty. If that was the case, I hoped she was getting paid double for it. Although I doubted it.
The apartment itself was as amazing as I expected, the penthouse spanning at least two very large floors in a building named after the owner and built to order. While there wasn’t anything ostentatious like gold leaf covering the ceiling as The Donald had (Eugene Waters talked about it often . . . along with his latest plan to get inside so he could chisel it off and sell it), everything was very expensive and very uncomfortable looking. And there wasn’t a TV on display anywhere, although I knew there was probably a button somewhere that would open a full wall to reveal ten of them.
Give me an overstuffed couch, the remote to one workable television, takeout from my favorite souvlaki stand and a Seinfeld DVD and I was a happy camper.
Of course, outside professionally shot and framed photos on a large fireplace mantle decorated for the holidays, there was no evidence a seven-year-old girl lived there.
Probably she had her own private wing.
The difference between this place and the apartment I found Sara in earlier contrasted so profoundly my brain was almost incapable of the comparison.
Had she lived here? Had she been the woman of the house being waited on hand and foot? Morning brunches with the girls and afternoon spa appointments, with nights out at Lincoln Center and the opera?
I couldn’t even imagine the woman I’d seen earlier gaining access to this apartment, much less living there.
Then again, I’d gotten in.
While I hated to admit it, just being there cast Sara in a darker light. How did you go from this . . . to that? And what would you do to recapture even a bit of it?
Then again, Abramopoulos himself wasn’t looking too good either. What kind of man did something like that to the mother of his child? I’m thinking it would have been less cruel to throw her from the thirty-story window.
The nanny surprised me by leaning in closer where we were sitting together on a red-velvet
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