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Zoe rolled her eyes at Izzie. “That leaves a lot open.” When they reached the sidewalk they saw Sasha sitting on her bike. Izzie nodded and made a gesture indicating Sasha could call it a day. They hailed a taxi and Izzie gave the driver the address. It was in the fashion district on Twenty-Ninth between Seventh and Eighth Avenues.
“Okay—where in the world are we going?” Zoe asked.
“To visit a Miss Louise Phillips.”
“We’re going where?” Zoe was shocked. “But why?” She was close to livid. “How could you do this?”
“Trust me on this. Please.” Izzie placed her hand on Zoe’s arm. “Really. You want to get to the bottom of this, right? So trust me.”
Zoe was almost hyperventilating. “I can’t believe you . . . we are doing this.”
“Relax.”
Zoe sat back and sulked. “How do you know she’ll be here?”
“I made an appointment.”
“You did what?”
“Please, Zoe. Take a few deep breaths. It’s going to be alright.”
“Yeah. Says you.”
“Exactly.”
The taxi made a turn off Seventh Avenue. The neighborhood looked much the same as it had almost a century ago, with old stone buildings, crowded streets, and racks of clothes being pushed by vendors down the sidewalk. The taxi stopped in front of one of the more tired-looking structures. The two climbed out of the cab and pushed a broken button over a worn nameplate that read EMPIRE STATE INVESTIGATION SERVICES. A garbled voice asked who it was and Izzie announced herself. A moment later the buzzer let them in the old wooden door.
They climbed an equally old set of steps to the second floor, where they found another old door with frosted glass and the name EMPIRE INVESTIGATIONS inscribed on it. Izzie rapped on the door.
“Come in!” a male voice called out.
Izzie cautiously opened the squeaky door. She blinked. It was as if she’d stepped into a time capsule circa 1930, in a Dashiell Hammett novel starring Sam Spade. She was expecting to see a man in a zoot suit wearing spats and a woman with a short, wavy bob, seamed stockings and a fox stole. And both would be smoking cigarettes. But the man was wearing a long-sleeve polo shirt, jeans, and Nike sneakers. The woman looked more the part in a shirt-waist polka dot dress.
“Hi. We’re here to see Louise Phillips,” Izzie announced with Zoe standing behind her.
“Sure. Come on in.” The man jerked his head toward the woman sitting in the corner. As Zoe passed his desk he asked, “Have we met before?”
“Met? No,” she replied dryly.
The woman at the desk stood, gasped, and began to stutter. “I . . . I . . .”
“Yes, you.” Izzie pointed to the woman’s chair. “You have some explaining to do.”
Zoe and Izzie sat down in the vintage wooden chairs across from the very nervous woman’s desk. They both folded their arms and glared at Ms. Phillips. “Explain yourself,” Izzie ordered.
Louise took a huge breath. “It’s not what you think. Thought.”
“How would you know what I am thinking?” Zoe snarled. “Or is it because you’ve been stalking me that you presume to know what I am thinking?”
“No! No. That’s not it. Really.” The young woman’s English accent was bleeding through her reinvented American accent.
“Then what. Is. It?” Izzie punctuated each word.
“It was for my Uncle Mason.”
“So he hired you to follow me?” Zoe fought valiantly to keep her cool.
“No! Not at all.” Louise’s eyes went wide. “He’s quite cross with me now.” She nervously shuffled some papers on her desk.
