Laura places her thumb on 233 Broadway and spins the map. She draws an invisible circle with her index finger about three inches in diameter. “We’re likely looking in this circle for our apartment building.”
She glances back at the painting. “This angle—it’s high. And there are no other buildings obstructing the view. So if this apartment were in, say, the Astor House…” Laura points to the building immediately south of the Woolworth Building, but says, “No. It’s too close. That hotel is only five stories tall. You wouldn’t see the spire of the Woolworth from that angle.”
Laura clicks her tongue, and Kiyoko smiles at her.
“When you look at the Woolworth Building from the east, facing west, toward Broadway and the Hudson…”
Spirit flashes me the image of an owl.
“The two buildings to the immediate east of the Woolworth, over Broadway, are the post office and city hall.” Laura taps both on the map. “And if you were in one of these buildings…” She drifts her finger to a row of buildings another block east, on Park Row. “… on one of the upper floors, you would have an unobstructed view of the Woolworth. Because the post office, lovely as it is, is a squatty little thing. Rather like the postmaster himself.”
Kiyoko snorts a laugh. I lean over the map. “So let’s see,” I say. “The residential buildings in that block are the Park Row Building, the Vanderbilt Building, the Potter Building…”
Laura snaps her fingers and beams, and it’s like watching parched earth crack open; it’s obviously been a long time since she smiled so naturally. “It’s the Potter Building. I should’ve known. My aunt Carole lives in that building, but on a lower floor. Straight-on view of the Broadway-facing side of the Woolworth, right over the roof of the post office.”
“Can you help us find blueprints for the building?” Kiyoko asks.
“Not here,” Laura says. “All approved blueprints are kept at city hall.” She taps the building on the map, coincidentally just across from the Potter Building. “You could go there and request them, but… hmm. I wouldn’t recommend it. So much red tape. It’ll be months before you have them.”
All of us think but don’t say,And we don’t have months. Spirit offers me a ticking timepiece. As if I don’t know how tight the timeline is. Spirit is taunting me, trying to talk me out of this plan.
Aye, that’s exactly what we’ve been saying, my love.
It’s us or it, doncha know.
I don’t believe that for one second, I scowl at Spirit.
Laura crosses her arms, cradles her chin with her right hand. “Blueprints. The architect would be your best bet. You find him, you find the blueprints.”
“And you can help us find his name?” Kiyoko asks.
“Sure,” Laura says with a nonchalant shrug. Her eyes gleam with mischief. She takes off her thin, elegant wristwatch and hands it to Nirav. “Time me. I bet I can have a name for you in less than ten minutes.”
Nirav points at the door,Go!Laura calmly saunters out of the study room.
Kiyoko smiles at me. “I like her.”
Too bad our Stella is corrupting her.
Stop it!I tell Spirit. Surprisingly, they settle. But their words leave me pacing the room, gnawing at my thumbnail. Am I always corrupting others?
Eight minutes and forty-two seconds later, Laura returns to the study room. She carries a thick, leather-bound book titledThe Architecture Union of New York City. And it’s open to not only a name, Norris G. Starkweather, but a photo. The four of us study his face; he has a distinct handlebar mustache.
“Well, hello, Norris G. Starkweather,” I say. “It will be lovely to meet you soon.”
“One more thing,” Kiyoko says to Laura after we’ve committed Starkweather’s statistics to memory. “Any books on the Hope Diamond?”
Laura’s face flickers amusement. “One moment.” She returns minutes later with a book titledHopeless: A History of the Hope Diamond.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” Laura says, and she leaves us to study.
Study we do. The history of this gem is stunningly awful.
Upon our departure, we pass a room packed with patrons: A homeless gentleman, resting his head on a desk. Children in a single-file line, while their teacher intones, “Story time, friends!” A young woman, poring over a book of medical illustrations. An older gentleman, leaning on a cane, studying a painting of George Washington.
“I’ve always loved the library,” Kiyoko says wistfully, trailing her fingertip on the wall above a water fountain featuring a brass lion’s head. “The library is where you go when you have nowhere else to go.”
An excerpt from
