The Address(17)

“Ex-junkie. Nice enough girl, just got herself in over her head. I make a point of staying in once it gets dark. Luckily, my fear of needles keeps me from falling down the rabbit hole of smack.” Melinda’s look of disdain was too much to bear. “How about you? How’s the Dakota?”

“Ugh. It’s falling apart. But now that the trust fund is coming due, I’m having it all redone. Tony and I are staying in the Hamptons, and I drive in every couple of weeks to check on things.”

“Who’s doing the work?”

A sheepish look passed over her face. “Tristan. He has some girl called Wanda in charge. I can’t stand her.” Melinda let out a squawk that startled a passing waiter. “I know! You can take over. I trust you more than him any day, and you can stay there and keep an eye on things. It’s perfect. And it’ll get you out of Alphabet City.”

“But it’s under renovation.”

“You can hole up in the maid’s room. It’ll be great and you can oversee the work and I’ll pay you.” She paused. “As soon as the trust fund comes due.”

A paycheck. A place to stay. Melinda’s offer would solve a number of Bailey’s short-term problems. Even if it came with a heavy dose of drama.

“You turn thirty in October, right?”

“You betcha. At which point I’ll pay you in full and you’ll be able to start your own business. Fuck Tristan.”

Bailey had so far squandered all of her chances, and here was Melinda coming to the rescue. She reached over and hugged her across the table, breathing in the scent of Fracas perfume. This wasn’t exactly how Bailey had figured her post-rehab life would play out. But maybe Melinda was right.

Maybe this was just the fresh start she was looking for.



Bailey smiled at the doorman as they entered the Dakota—if she was going to be working here, she would need the staff on her side—but he didn’t respond. During her visits with her parents, she remembered the man stationed outside chattering away with them, handing out lollipops from a basket just inside the porter’s office. But then again, so much had changed.

Across the street, a gaggle of tourists aimed their cameras toward the Dakota. They hadn’t done that before Lennon’s murder, when the building was grand and mysterious but not marred by tragedy. Or at least a world-famous tragedy, she amended, recalling the murder of Melinda’s great-grandfather in the very apartment she’d be staying in.

“God, I hate this neighborhood,” Melinda said as they crossed the courtyard. Bailey wanted to stop, take a look up, and relish all the cornices, finials, and gargoyles. It was like walking through a time portal and ending up in 1800s Europe, but Melinda moved at a fast clip.

“Why? What’s wrong with the neighborhood?”

“It’s a wasteland. All crappy little bodegas and run-down brownstones. Walking down Amsterdam Avenue is like trudging through a pigsty. Last week, when I came out of the deli, a guy standing outside spit right in front of me. Gross.”

“That is gross.”

“I’d rather live on the Upper East Side. I absolutely hate having to say I live in the Dakota. Never mind the buses of tourists gaping into the windows.”

“You could move.”

“I figure I’ll sit it out for another few years, then sell. At least that’s what Fred advises. He says it’ll be worth a mint by then.”

“Fred’s still going strong?” Fred, the family’s advisor on all things financial and legal, had steered the trust for the past twenty years, after taking over from his father and grandfather.

“Still telling me what to do, just like he told my mother what to do. Old fart.” They exited the courtyard into the northeast corner foyer and waited for the elevator.

Bailey walked over to the stairway and ran her hand over the elaborately carved banister. “Gorgeous.”

“I guess so. Everything’s so heavy in here, it’s like a mausoleum.”

“But there’s so much history.”

“Whatever.” Suddenly, Melinda let out a string of curses. “Quick, follow me.”

Bailey looked outside into the courtyard to see a man with shaggy blond hair approaching. “Who’s that?”

“The super. He’s a total jerk. We’ve got to hide.”

Melinda pulled her down the hallway and around a corner, out of sight from the foyer. They heard the man enter and then start up the stairs. Once his footsteps faded away, Melinda exhaled.

“Why do you have to hide from the super?”

“He’s an ass. Hates me. I have no idea why. I give him a big tip every Christmas, but I think he wants more money, now that I’m renovating. You know how it is in New York. Everyone has their hand out.”

Not a good sign. Getting the super on your side was crucial to working in the city. Without his support, the job would fall apart. The super could revoke access to freight elevators, harass the workers over minor infractions, and make life generally miserable for everyone involved.

The door to the apartment was unlocked. From the foyer, Bailey could see directly into the library, which had been stripped of all furniture, the barrenness emphasizing the enormous windows that looked right out on the park.

“Hello? Anyone home?” Melinda called out.

The response was a thundering bang from down the hall.