against it, then did a quick jig. “I got the part.” Letting out a whoop, she raced to the table to throw her arms around Mikhail’s neck. “I got it.” She gave him a loud, smacking kiss on one cheek. “I got it.” Then the other.
“I told you you would.” He reached back to ruffle her short cap of dusty blond hair. “Get a beer. We’ll celebrate.”
“Oh, Mik.” She crossed to the tiny refrigerator on long, slim legs left stunningly revealed by a pair of neon green shorts. “I was so nervous before the audition I got the hiccups, then I drank a gallon of water and sloshed my way through the reading.” She tossed the cap into the trash before toasting herself. “And I still got it. A movie of the week. I’ll probably only get like sixth or seventh billing, but I don’t get murdered till the third act.” She took a sip, then let out a long, bloodcurdling scream. “That’s what I have to do when the serial killer corners me in the alley. I really think my scream turned the tide.”
“No doubt.” As always, her quick, nervous speech amused him. She was twenty-three, with an appealing coltish body, lively green eyes and a heart as wide as the Grand Canyon. If Mikhail hadn’t felt so much like her brother right from the beginning of their relationship, he would have long since attempted to talk her into bed.
Keely took a sip of beer. “Hey, do you want to order some Chinese or pizza or something? I’ve got a frozen pizza, but my oven is on the blink again.”
The simple statement made his eyes flash and his lips purse. “I went today to see Hayward.”
The bottle paused on the way to her lips. “In person? You mean like, face-to-face?”
“Yes.” Mikhail set aside his carving tools, afraid he would gouge the wood.
Impressed, Keely walked over to sit on the windowsill. “Wow. So, what’s he like?”
“He’s dead.”
She choked on the beer, watching him wide-eyed as she pounded on her chest. “Dead? You didn’t…”
“Kill him?” This time Mikhail smiled. Another thing he enjoyed about Keely was her innate flare for the dramatic. “No, but I considered killing the new Hayward—his granddaughter.”
“The new landlord’s a woman? What’s she like?”
“Very beautiful, very cold.” He was frowning as he skimmed his fingertips over the wood grain. “She has red hair and white skin. Blue eyes like frost on a lake. When she speaks, icicles form.”
Keely grimaced and sipped. “Rich people,” she said, “can afford to be cold.”
“I told her she has two days before I go to the building commissioner.”
This time Keely smiled. As much as she admired Mikhail, she felt he was naive in a lot of ways. “Good luck. Maybe we should take Mrs. Bayford’s idea about a rent strike. Of course, then we risk eviction, but…hey.” She leaned out the open window. “You should see this car. It’s like a Lincoln or something—with a driver. There’s a woman getting out of the back.” More fascinated than envious, she let out a long, appreciative breath. “Harper’s Bazaar’s version of the executive woman.” Grinning, she shot a glance over her shoulder. “I think your ice princess has come slumming.”
Outside, Sydney studied the building. It was really quite lovely, she thought. Like an old woman who had maintained her dignity and a shadow of her youthful beauty. The red brick had faded to a soft pink, smudged here and there by soot and exhaust. The trimming paint was peeling and cracked, but that could be easily remedied. Taking out a legal pad, she began to take notes.
She was aware that the men sitting out on the stoop were watching her, but she ignored them. It was a noisy place, she noted. Most of the windows were open and there was a variety of sound—televisions, radios, babies crying, someone singing “The Desert Song” in a warbling soprano. There were useless little balconies crowded with potted flowers, bicycles, clothes drying in the still, hot air.
Shading her eyes, she let her gaze travel up. Most of the railings were badly rusted and many had spokes missing. She frowned, then spotted Mikhail, leaning out of a window on the top floor, nearly cheek to cheek with a stunning blonde. Since he was bare chested and the blonde was wearing the tiniest excuse for a tank top, Sydney imagined she’d interrupted them. She acknowledged him with a frigid nod, then went back to her notes.
When she started toward the entrance, the men shifted to make a path for her. The small lobby was dim and oppressively hot. On this level the windows were apparently painted shut. The old parquet floor was scarred and scraped, and there was a smell, a very definite smell, of mold. She studied the elevator dubiously. Someone had hand-lettered a sign above the button that read Abandon Hope Ye Who Enter Here.
Curious, Sydney punched the up button and listened to the grinding rattles and wheezes. On an impatient breath, she made more notes. It was deplorable, she thought. The unit should have been inspected, and Hayward should have been slapped with a citation. Well, she was Hayward now.
The doors squeaked open, and Mikhail stepped out.
“Did you come to look over your empire?” he asked her.
Very deliberately she finished her notes before she met his gaze. At least he had pulled on a shirt—if you could call it that. The thin white T-shirt was ripped at the sleeves and mangled at the hem.
“I believe I told you I’d look over the file. Once I did, I thought it best to inspect the building myself.” She glanced at the elevator, then back at him. “You’re either very brave or very stupid, Mr. Stanislaski.”
“A realist,” he corrected with a slow shrug. “What happens, happens.”
“Perhaps. But I’d prefer that no one use this elevator until it’s repaired or replaced.”
He slipped his hands into his pockets. “And will it be?”
“Yes, as quickly as possible. I believe you mentioned in your letter that some of the stair railings were broken.”
“I’ve replaced the worst of them.”
Her brow lifted. “You?”
“There are children and old people in this building.”
The simplicity of his answer made her ashamed. “I see. Since you’ve taken it on yourself to represent the tenants, perhaps you’d take me through and show me the worst of the problems.”
As they started up the stairs, she noted that the railing was obviously new, an unstained line of wood that was sturdy under her hand. She made a note that it had been replaced by a tenant.
He knocked on apartment doors. People greeted him enthusiastically, her warily. There were smells of cooking—meals just finished, meals yet to be eaten. She was offered strudel, brownies, goulash, chicken wings. Some of the complaints were bitter, some were nervous. But Sydney saw for herself that Mikhail’s letters hadn’t exaggerated.
By the time they reached the third floor, the heat was making her dizzy. On the fourth, she refused the offer of spaghetti and meatballs—wondering how anyone could bear to cook in all this heat—and accepted a glass of water. Dutifully she noted down how the pipes rattled and thumped. When they reached the fifth floor, she was wishing desperately
