The Address(69)

Renzo’s office door was wide open, the light on.

She poked her head in and dropped off one of the donuts, wrapped in a paper napkin, on his desk. Pathetic, really, the way Renzo’s kindness last night had turned her into a puppy, eager for attention. Awareness was key, they’d said in rehab. In the past, she would have been blind to her tendency to glom on to anyone who showed her attention. Sure, she was glomming. But she was aware she was glomming. Progress, perhaps. In any case, the cardinal rule of AA—no relationships until one year clean—was one she was more than happy to obey. Life was confusing enough in the harsh light of sobriety.

“In return for feeding me last night.”

Renzo looked up and smiled. “Fantastic. I was just thinking I needed to eat.”

She stood there, awkward as a teenager at a dance. “Okay if the guys start loading in some of the treasures?”

“Go right ahead. Let me know if you need any help.”

She watched as they stacked up the wood before covering it with packing blankets. Not much else could be done, unfortunately. If there was a flood or fire, it would all be ruined. But at least it hadn’t been tossed into the back of a garbage truck and dumped in a landfill.

After the guys went back upstairs, she turned to the trunks. The bottom one’s lock was tricky, even though she’d brought down a paper clip that she figured might finagle it. Renzo walked past as she struggled, trying to find the point of release.

“You need help?”

“You know how to break and enter?”

He studied the lock, retrieved his toolbox from his office, and knelt down with a small screwdriver in hand. “Let’s see if this works. Is this another Sara Smythe trunk?”

“No. I think it’s Theodore Camden’s.” Bailey watched as he fiddled with the lock. “I’ve been doing some research at the library into his life. He was way ahead of his time.”

“Too bad he died so young, then.” Renzo sprayed some WD-40 into the lock.

“Right. Like Lennon.” She paused, unsure how to continue and unable to read his face. “Melinda said your dad was here when he was shot.”

“He was. It tore him up that he didn’t prevent it from happening. After John and Yoko moved in, there were so many fans trying to get access to him. Leaving letters, trying to call upstairs, sneaking in. He wished he’d hired more security, done something more.”

“Why do you think Yoko stayed on?”

“A way of keeping his memory alive, I guess. Lauren Bacall’s still here, even though Bogie died in the late fifties. It’s a tough place to leave. I guess I’m a prime example.”

“I’m sorry your dad felt responsible. I mean, think of all the celebrities who live in Manhattan. There’s no way to protect them all the time, especially when people are so crazy. Like, really crazy.”

“True. In any event, before then, my old man and I had fallen out of touch. We didn’t have much contact and then he died.”

“I’m sorry.”

She knew all about how a loved one’s sudden death could eat away at you, with so much left unsaid. As a form of penance, maybe, Renzo had taken over as super, fighting a losing battle against pipes and fixtures that were falling to pieces. His way of keeping his dad’s building or, more likely, his memory, intact.

The lock clicked open.

Inside, dozens of leather tubes lay stacked one on top of another. She lifted one out and carefully pulled off the top. A roll of cream-colored linen slid out easily.

Renzo laid it out. “Architectural plans.”

The drawings were gorgeous, a feast for the eyes, the elevations exquisitely rendered and detailed. At the bottom of each page was written Theo. Camden, Architect. The exact signature that she’d seen on the cottage drawing.

“Beautiful,” Bailey said. “Maybe I’ll frame them and have them line the gallery upstairs. What a find.”

Together, they looked through each one. The tubes had preserved the linen and ink, so they looked like they’d been drawn a week ago, the lines sharp and dark.

Bailey pulled out another. “This one isn’t in the best condition. Looks like something messed it up.”

The drawings were stained with what looked like Rorschach blots. Underneath them was the design for a twenty-story building that stuck to strict neoclassical proportions with a solid base, each floor of windows bordered by fluted columns. But the ornate details so popular in the late eighteen hundreds had been replaced with a cleaner, more stripped-down facade. It announced a new, modern century on the horizon.

Renzo pointed to the description at the bottom right. “American Insurance Company, Albany, New York. It’s dated November 1885.”

“What is this stuff on it?” She ran her finger lightly over several dark and crusty stains. “Guess these can’t be framed. Too bad. I like how it’s different from the others.”

She picked up the tube and heard a rattle. When she turned it over, a piece of metal dropped out, along with some kind of stick.

“What on earth?”

Bailey picked up the metal and held it to the light. About five inches in length, it was covered partly in the same dark substance the drawings were. But the clean half glinted in the light. A dragon’s face or maybe an alligator had been shaped in gold and silver with a delicate crosshatching.