“It’s night.”
“Still.”
“And indoors.”
“Even so.” I gestured down to my still-zipped navy coat. “Is it okay that I’m dressed like this? And not like Kelly McGillis?”
“It might be more concerning if you were, actually.”
The door opened, revealing a harassed-looking woman in her twenties, dressed all in black with an earpiece in. “Maverick Cleaners,” Cary said, holding up the bag.
“Oh, thank god, come in,” she said, swiping down at the iPad she was carrying. “We have no napkins or towels left—it was going to be a disaster.…”
Cary followed her through the apartment, and I trailed behind him, trying to take in everything. I’d never been in a penthouse before. This almost could have been a hotel—the rooms looked pristine and matching, no personal touches anywhere—and it was huge. It wasn’t until we were almost to the kitchen that I stopped short.
In what was probably supposed to be the living or dining room, a poker table had been set up. The room was filled—waiters walked around pouring drinks, there was a dealer at the head—and every seat at the table was full. I realized with a shock that I recognized a lot of the players. There was one of the Yankees, a singer who was a judge on a singing show, an actor who’d been in a bunch of action movies about ten years ago… and was that the mayor?
“Kat,” Cary hissed, and I turned my focus away from the room and hurried to join him. He was in the kitchen, taking out what I could see now were linens and towels from the black bag.
“Thanks so much,” the woman said, still looking stressed. “Tonight’s been a disaster, and it really needs to go right.”
“So it’s… high stakes?” I asked, my expression innocent. Cary bit his bottom lip like he was trying not to laugh and shot me a look. The woman, however, just nodded.
“Yeah,” she said as she took the napkins from Cary and hustled out. “Thanks a lot! Water in the fridge if you want it.”
When she left, I widened my eyes at Cary. “That’s an…” I nodded toward the other room, then mouthed, Underground poker game.
“Not really underground,” Cary said, like he was thinking the matter over. “We’re in the penthouse.” He headed out, taking the empty black bag with him, and I followed, not quite able to resist one last peek at the poker table, where someone I was pretty sure I’d seen on Shark Tank was angrily throwing down his cards. For just a moment, I thought about asking the mayor if she had the contact number for her employee Flora… but then immediately decided against it.
It wasn’t until we were back in the elevator and heading down to the lobby that I felt like I could speak at a normal volume again. “Oh my god!” I said, turning to Cary, who laughed. “That was very exciting.”
“This job has its moments. I’m just glad you’re not bored. I know this isn’t a very exciting way to spend your night.”
“Are you kidding?” I shook my head. Teri would be so impressed when I told her about the celebrities I’d just seen. I couldn’t wait to tell Stevie.…
A second later, reality brought me up short—like running full speed into a brick wall.
Stevie.
She had no idea any of this was happening. Would I even be able to tell her about this, about riding around New York with Cary, my arms clasped around his waist? And where was she right now? Had she already dropped Brad off and gotten her stuff? Was she halfway home by now—or maybe even back at Teri’s? Was she thinking about me at all, wondering if I was okay? Or had she totally forgotten about me the second the B train had pulled out of the station?
“You okay?” Cary’s eyes were on me, his expression worried.
“I’m good,” I assured him, trying to shake it off. “We’re okay on time, right?”
“More than,” he said. “But if you want to leave…”
“No way,” I said as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. “Let’s keep going.”
* * *
I knocked on the door and looked at Cary. We were in another walk-up, this one on Sixty-Seventh. “Maverick Cleaners,” I called. Cary gave me tiny golf claps. Nicely done, he mouthed.
The door was flung open, and a woman in her thirties was standing there, wearing a black dress and a fur stole. “And who are you claiming to be?” she asked, arching an eyebrow, looking from me to Cary.
“Maverick… Cleaners?” I repeated, wondering if I hadn’t said it loud enough the first time.
“Right, totally,” she said with a wink. “Cleaners. Sure. So what can you tell me about the disappearance of Murgatroyd?”
“The… who?” I asked.
“Nothing,” a guy said, hurrying up behind her. He was wearing a suit, and a monocle on a chain. The monocle bounced out when he reached us, and he put it back. “They’re just dropping off the laundry, Diya.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, giving us a look like we were in on the joke. “Sure. Laundry. Clearly they have information, unless”—she drew in a sharp breath—“they’re also suspects!” Her eyes darted from me to Cary. “This changes everything.”
I glanced at Cary. “I don’t understand.”
“We’re doing a murder mystery night,” the guy explained to us as his monocle bounced out again. He’d opened the door a little wider, and I could see that there was a group of people, all dressed up, standing around in little clusters with drinks, and what appeared to be a dead body on the floor, lying in a pool of blood.
“That would explain the corpse,” Cary said, sounding relieved. He handed over the dry cleaning. “Laundry will be ready Monday.”
“Thanks so much.”
“Actually?” The corpse sat up and looked toward us. Someone had done what looked like a very realistic bullet hole in the center of her forehead. “Can you see if they can have it by tomorrow?”
“I’ll ask,” Cary called.
She gave him a cheerful thumbs-up, then lay down again, her eyes going glassy and head lolling to the side.
“Thanks a lot,” monocle guy said. He started to close the door.
“But he has to be part of this,” I heard Diya say as the door closed. “Who delivers laundry at night dressed like a fighter pilot?”
“It’s not an unreasonable question,” I pointed out, and Cary laughed.
The last building included an apartment with a silent DJ, everyone dancing to music only they could hear; a studio in which a man slipped Cary a twenty if he could wreck his husband’s sweater because he hated it and it was causing them to get into fights; and an apartment in which four children were running around and screaming and their parents, who looked like zombies, all the fight taken out of them, listlessly took their clothes from Cary and shuffled back inside. I’d shuddered as that door had closed. Why would you have four children if you lived in Manhattan? Or for that matter, period?
While we walked back to Maverick Cleaners, Cary texted his uncle for an update, but they were still stuck in Pennsylvania, and clearly not coming home anytime soon. Cary returned the cart and dropped off the laundry he’d picked up, and when I saw what part of the movie was playing, I averted my eyes from the TV before I had to see Goose’s death.