apartment, without the watchful eye of a broker, but last year a couple posing as buyers made off with a hundred thousand dollars of jewelry and collectibles at various open houses across Manhattan. Now Katie kept one eye on her clients, even while she read her e-mail.
She could have used some good news. Instead, the incoming messages brought her more headaches with no corresponding revenue. The purchaser of a Tribeca studio under contract was bickering over a hundred-dollar difference in the negotiations over a built-in wall unit. Katie used her thumbs to type her most comforting words, even as she rolled her eyes in frustration.
Another e-mail delivered far worse news on the business front: a client who had been on the fence about making an offer for a West Village one-bedroom had climbed down on the wrong side. That he delivered the news to her electronically was not a good sign. On the phone, she had a chance of persuading him otherwise, or at least lining up the next showings. A terse e-mail like this one told her that the guy had written off not only this particular apartment, but his commitment to purchasing anything at all.
The message she received from Marj Mason, a caretaker at Glen Forrest Communities, was even more upsetting. Katie had seen the assisted living center’s telephone number pop up on her vibrating BlackBerry as she had stepped into the elevator with the Jennings. As Katie had requested a few months earlier, Marj had followed up with an e-mail. It was easier for her to check written messages than voice mails when she was with clients.
Katie’s mother had fallen again. According to Marj, there were no breaks this time—only bruises, and of course even more fear now of walking on her own. There was no way around it: Katie was going to have to increase the intensity of her mother’s care.
And then there was the final message: a text message that Katiehad noticed first on her BlackBerry, but read last. She felt a knot form in her stomach as she took in the abrupt instructions.
As she replaced her BlackBerry in her red Coach purse, she prayed her mother would never find out about that final message, or what Katie would be doing the following night because of it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
3:45 P.M.
R ogan was waiting for Ellie at his desk when she emerged from the locker room, freshly showered, hair still damp.
“We cool with the Lou?”
“Icy. Did you get hold of our guy in Narcotics?”
“Yep. He wasn’t real happy about sticking around for a five o’clock arrival. I told him we’d do our best.”
Ellie looked at her watch. It was nearing four. “Our best will be five o’clock.”
“Are you going to bother telling me why?”
“We’ll have to work our way through traffic going uptown.”
“ Uptown? The Fifth Precinct’s in Chinatown.”
“We’re making a pit stop. You’ll see.”
Twenty minutes later, Rogan peered through a glass storefront window on Eighty-ninth and Madison and flinched.
“Is that woman doing what I think she’s doing?”
“Um, that would depend on what exactly your imagination might be doing with the input being processed by your visual cortex.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I think if mybrain’s doing anything, it’s trying to forget what I just saw. That shit should be illegal.”
“It’s called threading,” Ellie said.
They watched as an Indian woman with smooth dark skin and burgundy-stained lips moved her head back and forth, using the grip of her teeth and the movement of her head to maneuver a thread across the face of a young blond woman seated on the other side of the glass window.
“She’s using a thread to pull that woman’s eyebrows out?”
“It’s called threading,” Ellie repeated.
“Should be called torture. What the fuck are we doing here?”
“You could use a little tidying up around there,” Ellie said, reaching for his brow line.
Rogan swatted her hand away.
“This is Perfect Arches,”
She could have used some good news. Instead, the incoming messages brought her more headaches with no corresponding revenue. The purchaser of a Tribeca studio under contract was bickering over a hundred-dollar difference in the negotiations over a built-in wall unit. Katie used her thumbs to type her most comforting words, even as she rolled her eyes in frustration.
Another e-mail delivered far worse news on the business front: a client who had been on the fence about making an offer for a West Village one-bedroom had climbed down on the wrong side. That he delivered the news to her electronically was not a good sign. On the phone, she had a chance of persuading him otherwise, or at least lining up the next showings. A terse e-mail like this one told her that the guy had written off not only this particular apartment, but his commitment to purchasing anything at all.
The message she received from Marj Mason, a caretaker at Glen Forrest Communities, was even more upsetting. Katie had seen the assisted living center’s telephone number pop up on her vibrating BlackBerry as she had stepped into the elevator with the Jennings. As Katie had requested a few months earlier, Marj had followed up with an e-mail. It was easier for her to check written messages than voice mails when she was with clients.
Katie’s mother had fallen again. According to Marj, there were no breaks this time—only bruises, and of course even more fear now of walking on her own. There was no way around it: Katie was going to have to increase the intensity of her mother’s care.
And then there was the final message: a text message that Katiehad noticed first on her BlackBerry, but read last. She felt a knot form in her stomach as she took in the abrupt instructions.
As she replaced her BlackBerry in her red Coach purse, she prayed her mother would never find out about that final message, or what Katie would be doing the following night because of it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
3:45 P.M.
R ogan was waiting for Ellie at his desk when she emerged from the locker room, freshly showered, hair still damp.
“We cool with the Lou?”
“Icy. Did you get hold of our guy in Narcotics?”
“Yep. He wasn’t real happy about sticking around for a five o’clock arrival. I told him we’d do our best.”
Ellie looked at her watch. It was nearing four. “Our best will be five o’clock.”
“Are you going to bother telling me why?”
“We’ll have to work our way through traffic going uptown.”
“ Uptown? The Fifth Precinct’s in Chinatown.”
“We’re making a pit stop. You’ll see.”
Twenty minutes later, Rogan peered through a glass storefront window on Eighty-ninth and Madison and flinched.
“Is that woman doing what I think she’s doing?”
“Um, that would depend on what exactly your imagination might be doing with the input being processed by your visual cortex.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I think if mybrain’s doing anything, it’s trying to forget what I just saw. That shit should be illegal.”
“It’s called threading,” Ellie said.
They watched as an Indian woman with smooth dark skin and burgundy-stained lips moved her head back and forth, using the grip of her teeth and the movement of her head to maneuver a thread across the face of a young blond woman seated on the other side of the glass window.
“She’s using a thread to pull that woman’s eyebrows out?”
“It’s called threading,” Ellie repeated.
“Should be called torture. What the fuck are we doing here?”
“You could use a little tidying up around there,” Ellie said, reaching for his brow line.
Rogan swatted her hand away.
“This is Perfect Arches,”
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