jeans and went back to my hands and knees. The metal was freezing. Suppressing a shiver, I crawled forward.
I could see that the window blinds were half open—enough to get a good look inside. Carefully, I peeked over the ledge and saw the corner of a cherry wood end table. On its glossy surface sat an expensive-looking man’s watch, a black leather wallet, a thick ring of keys, some loose change, and what looked like a photo ID badge on a cord. Beyond that, I saw a hardwood floor and designer showroom-esque leather furniture. A halogen floor lamp, mimicking fusion as bright as the sun, reflected off the polished coffee table, where several glossy little shopping bags were lined up in a row.
Hardly daring to breathe, I pulled out the tiny pair of opera binoculars I’d brought along. A few years back, Madame had given me and Joy the pair as a memento of the night she took us to see Cosi fan tutte (one of Mozart’s lesser-known works). I peered through them now to make out the writing on the glossy bags: Tiffany, Tourneau, Saks—all elite uptown stores. More shopping bags were labeled with the names of high-end boutiques located here in the West Village.
Looks like someone’s already doing the holiday shopping, I noted, very pricey holiday shopping.
Adjusting the magnification on the opera glasses, I moved my focus to the end table. Next to the black leather wallet sat a Rolex watch as well as a security ID badge for a place called Studio 19. Under the studio’s logo, I saw the photo of a handsome black man in his midthirties. The name on the badge was James Young. There was smaller writing on the card, but I couldn’t read it.
When I tried readjusting the magnification level again, the light streaming through the window flickered—as if someone were passing in front of the floor lamp. I looked up to see a man’s figure moving swiftly out of the room.
Had I been spotted? Probably.
“Uh-oh . . .”
I crawled away from the window and descended the fire escape stairs as quickly as I dared, which wasn’t all that fast because the structure was still icy. Then between the second-and third-floor balconies I heard a loud clang!
I stilled, realizing the building’s steel back door had opened and closed again. It was too dark to see what was going on below me, and with Esther now sitting in the White Horse Tavern, all I could do was cling to the handrail and wait.
A moment later, I heard the grinding squeak of that big, metal Dumpster lid, the one next to the blue recycling bins. With an exhale, I relaxed. Someone’s just emptying their trash again, I decided.
I let another few minutes tick by. Except for the winter wind, the courtyard fell silent. I waited for the sound of a steel door opening and closing again, but it never came, so I decided the person emptying the garbage must have departed by way of the alley, just like Esther, and I continued my descent.
A sharp gust of wind blew off my hood, but I didn’t pause to flip it up again. As soon as I reached the second-floor landing, I scrambled onto the ladder. Almost there. Rung by rung, I moved south. Just a few feet from those blue plastic recycling bins, I thought I was home free.
“Got ya, bitch!”
Two bruising hands closed on my upper arms.
“Ahhhhhh!” I shouted. “Let me go!”
The jerk who grabbed me didn’t. He ripped me from the ladder, literally tossing me into the air. I felt myself falling, yelling all the way, until I hit a low pile of plastic garbage bags at the bottom of the metal Dumpster. The lid had been left open, and the bin swallowed me up like a fetid, black monster. I’d barely hit the garbage bags before I heard a clang above my head.
That jerk closed the lid on me!
I scrambled up so fast I banged my head against the freezing metal.
“Crap!”
Crouching down again, I glanced around the smelly box, but the darkness was absolute. I reached for my flashlight and couldn’t find it. The thing was gone, most likely lost among the garbage bags under my feet, so my hands became my eyes. I reached up to feel the lid above me. The metal was colder than the shelves of a deep freezer, but the temperature did little to diminish the stench of rotting food and God knew what else. Nearly retching,