“Melanie Joan was denied bail,” he said.
“What?” Blake said.
“Oh, no,” I said.
Blake shook his head. “Crap.”
“On the plus side, she’s made some friends in prison. For instance, her cellmate thinks her Book Babe comment was iconic.” I could hear the cringe in Spike’s voice.
“We’re getting her out of there,” Blake said.
“We are,” I said. “And Edward Piro Senior is going to help us.”
“Good luck,” Spike said. “It would be nice for a change.”
We both thanked him. After we hung up, Blake threw open the car door and grabbed the pocketknife off the dashboard. He dropped it into my purse. I smiled at him. “What’s that for?”
“Luck.”
“The pocketknife your father gave you? Before he went to prison?”
“That’s not the knife’s fault.”
“True.” I told him I’d text him when I was done with Piro.
“Should we do, like, a code? So I know right away whether you’ve got answers or not?”
“Sure,” I said. “If I’ve got answers, I’ll say something literary.”
“Cool,” he said. “And if not?”
“I’ll say something about food.”
“Awesome,” Blake said. “We should do codes more often.”
“We should.” As I watched him get back into my car and drive away, I hoped for something literary.
Fifty-one
The lobby of Edward Piro’s apartment building was all pink marble, including and most notably the doorman’s station. It reminded me of a Greek palace, or a mausoleum, or a combination of the two.
The doorman was a slim, efficient-looking guy with close-cropped hair and wire-framed glasses. He wore a spotless navy-blue uniform with shiny gold buttons that looked better suited to winter. It might have been wool, though it could have been a heavy cotton. But either way, he was lucky the lobby was air-conditioned. I was wearing a featherlight Elie Saab T-shirt and a satin skirt, and I was still recovering from the two minutes I’d spent outside. I gave him my name, and he said Mr. Piro was expecting me. “Take the far elevator,” he said. “Floor twelve.”
I walked through the lobby, my heels tapping on the marble. I was the only one in the elevator, and so it took me straight up—an express trip.
When I reached the twelfth floor, the doors opened, and I was inside Piro’s apartment. The living room, to be exact. It was very mid-century modern. Or maybe just mid-century. There was a long wooden coffee table in front of a watermelon-colored couch that didn’t look very comfortable, matching chairs on either side. Wall-to-wall carpeting with a Frank Lloyd Wright–style pattern and a sleek credenza that housed a turntable, shelves of vinyl records, and, anachronistically, a flat-screen TV. There was another flat-screen against the left-facing wall—this one enormous, over a fully stocked wet bar with a tiki motif. If I didn’t know who lived here, I’d figure Edward Piro for either an especially pretentious young hipster or a meticulous old man who never got around to redecorating. Either way, he liked watching TV.
To my right there were swinging doors that probably led to a kitchen. A few windows, looking out on Park Avenue. A long hallway that stretched out from the far end of the room. “Hello?” I said. “Mr. Piro?”
There was no answer. I heard coughing coming from somewhere down the hallway. I wasn’t sure whether to follow the sound or wait. I spotted a manila folder on the coffee table, the nameTeddyhandwritten on the cover. Was that there to keep me busy while I waited, like a magazine in a doctor’s office? I walked over to the table and opened the folder and saw a mug shot of Teddy Piro from when he was seventeen. Under that,there was a small article about the Hamptons burglary in theNew York Post. I skimmed it. It didn’t name him, but it did include a quote from his father:As a family, we are devastated. We’d appreciate being left alone at this difficult time.Next was a stack of high school report cards, bound by a rubber band. I flipped through them. They were riddled with D’s and F’s, with a few C’s thrown in, in classes like woodworking and fire safety. I also saw a letter from the dean of a boarding school. At the top, it said:RE: The expulsion of Edward Piro Jr.I kept flipping through the pile—another mug shot, from when Teddy was a few years past high school, a full rap sheet that included arrests for DWI, reckless driving, operating a boat without a license, and assault. It was like a scrapbook of bad behavior. A typewritten note from Edward to his son that had been dated last year, detailing how deeply he’d disappointed him. It almost made me feel bad for Teddy Piro—having a father who kept a folder like this.
“Mr. Piro!” I called out.
There was more coughing.
“Are you okay?” I stood up and moved toward the hallway, following the sound.
“Mr. Piro?” I said again.
