CHAPTER ONE
It was on a blustery day in late April when she found it. Located in an up-and-coming neighborhood with new highrise apartments going up almost daily, it joined countless other tower suites in becoming new members of the most elite club of all, the Manhattan Skyline.
Juan was paranoid, as usual. Of course, it was the end of the line, as far as one could go before entering No-Man's Land. One could see Spanish Harlem itself from the tall windows which wrapped around the living room of their plush corner penthouse. His binoculars followed the curve of the windowsill, back across the treetops of Central Park, beyond the Upper West Side to the Palisades and finally left, to glimpse the highlights of midtown, high above the bustle and the crowd, an escape from commotion.
He supposed it would be inaccessible enough to suit his purposes. And he could always slip the doorman a fifty to deter uninvited guests.
Across town, not far away, Lori LaCosta and Debbie O'Donnell stood surveying the burnt exterior of the pre-war building that was to be their new home for the next three months. Boarded up windows overlooked charred marble balconies. Some windows lay empty, with nothing but soot to show for a more romantic era. To say that the locale hardly met their expectations of a post-college apartment would be pushing it. The chance to live rent-free until they found a job and a permanent home, here in the Big Apple!
"Just three months," Lori's sister had said. "Three months you can apartment-sit for me when I go on sabbatical. After that, I'll be back with Jim and you've got to be out."
Lori had informed Debbie of the tragic fire which had ripped through the building nearly a year ago. A coke dealer downstairs had gotten into trouble. Now his troubles were over forever, with one strike of a match. All the other tenants had escaped the pyromaniac's wrath, but their apartments had not. Only a handful had been salvaged. Nicki had come home from art class to see her security building in flames. She and her boyfriend Jim had worked hard to salvage the sixth floor studio that drained both of their savings month after month, their home. Now they could live here for free.
Crouching among the ashes in the basement of 606 Avenue A, the junkie peered through the hanging slats as the slender pair of legs, dainty in red patent leather pumps, walked by, followed by another pair of more shapely legs, padding past in small gold penny loafers. The two girls approached the cracked stone slab steps and opened the glass door upon which an urgent sign was posted: "PLEASE CLOSE DOOR TIGHTLY BEHIND YOU!"
