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I guess it’s because I’m still hoping Natalie will come back to it someday soon.
Down the hall, the elevator pings and four guys in white overalls get off. They’re bearing all sorts of construction equipment, ladders and toolboxes.
“Mr. Zane,” says the leader of the crew, a barrel of a man named Dennis. He’s one of those guys who looks and sounds like the most stereotypical of New York blue-collar dudes. Then you talk to him a little and find out the guy’s more well-read than some librarians. He’s also better at the stock market than I am. There are bankers who have less impressive second homes than Dennis.
He’s been my go-to guy for nearly a decade now. I know I can trust him and his crew to be discreet.
“Dennis,” I say warmly, shaking his bear of a hand.
He grips my hand tightly and pulls me in close. He grins as he says, “How come I got the feeling we’re not just here to repair a hole in the wall?”
“Because you’re a clever man, despite the rumors,” I kid.
He holds a finger to the side of his nose. “Don’t let it get out.” He lets go of the joking manner and gives me a serious look. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Give me a minute to confirm something, and I’ll let you know.”
“Sure. What is it you gotta confirm?” he asks, not following.
“A hunch.”
I open the door and let him in.
As the guys mill about, I open the large manila envelope I’m holding. Inside are print outs of all the photos that have been circulating of Natalie and me in her apartment. I’ve been studying them a little more closely the past few days. I was finally able to put aside the embarrassment and anger and really observe them. That’s when I started having that nagging feeling.
See, these pictures aren’t just some long-lens shots taken from a building across the street. This isn’t the work of some low-life paparazzo like Weasel and his ilk. There’s something more going on here.
While Dennis and his team set their equipment down and size up the place, I move from room to room like a professional sleuth. In each space, I rifle through the photos I’ve got until I find one that’s of us in that room. Then I hold it up, trying to get a sense of the angles.
These apartments are top-notch construction. I’m not one of those guys – like Jared Barron – who charges a shit-ton for shoddy work. My apartments are worth every penny. There’s not a hole here or a poorly done bit of drywall there. No floorboard creaks nor do you find a loose tile. I know my stuff when it comes to building a home, and I maintain the highest of standards.
When I was fourteen, I worked for a summer doing construction on low-income housing. I didn’t have to, but I wanted to learn the business literally from the ground up, while doing some good.
I call on those old skills now as I examine the apartment in greater detail. I snoop around the place like I’m Columbo. Like I’m searching for that one, just barely noticeable clue, that will break the case wide open.
In what used to be the bedroom, I squat, and turn slowly on my heels. My eyes scan every inch of the room, lingering in corners, inspecting the floorboards near the walk-in closet.
I go up to walls and tap them. I listen for any sounds that seem out of the ordinary. I put my face flat against them and look for any bump or bulge or warp in the paint. I do everything but dust for fucking fingerprints.
And so on, one room at a time. It takes about twenty minutes, but Dennis and his team wait patiently.
After my initial search, there’s nothing that really causes my alarms to go off. But I also didn’t really expect to find anything. Whoever’s behind this – especially if it’s Natalie’s smarmy ex – is likely, a pro. They would have done some topnotch work.
But that’s why I called Dennis.
Returning to the front of the apartment, I find his men lounging by the windowsills and leaning against the walls. Except Dennis. He’s standing in the middle of the living room, eyeing it professionally. I make my way over to him. He senses the seriousness in my attitude and matches it with his own solemn tone.
“All right, Mr. Zane” he says. “What’s the job? Say the word, and my boys and I are on it.”
“Strip it to the studs,” I tell him. “I want to see every brick.”
I lean against the front door. Dennis and his people get to work quickly. Soon, the apartment is covered in a fog of plaster dust and echoes with the cacophony of walls coming down.
