The tall, narrow, Victorian row house dressed in dark brown stone loomed behind a low, wrought-iron fence. Each floor had its own large bay window. A tiny patch of lawn sat on either side of the short slate walk leading to the front steps.

Wouldn’t mind living here, she thought as she climbed the steps and rang the doorbell. Back in the seventies, when NYC was on the on the verge of default, these things could be had for a song. Now they went for millions.

A long-haired twenty-something wearing jeans and a red T emblazoned with i > u opened the door. He’d affected that three-millimeter facial stubble that guys in his generation thought so cool. Hari wrote it off to clueless trendiness.

“Don’t tell me you’re Arthur Palaez,” she said.

He grinned. “No way. I’m Donny Tuite, his assistant.”

“‘Tweet’? As in what you do on Twitter?”

“Not even close.” He spelled it for her.

She stuck out her hand. “Hari Tate. Your boss and I have a ten o’clock appointment.”

“Really? Oh, man. When Art said a Harry Tate would be stopping by—”

“—you expected a guy.”

“Right.”

He wasn’t a good liar. In her line of work Hari ran into lots of really good liars—accountants who cooked books for a living numbered among the best—and she’d developed a feel for falsehoods. Donny had known her gender. Why pretend he hadn’t?

She forced a smile. “You’re not the first. Are you going to ask me in or are we just going to stand here flapping our gums?”

“Oh, yeah, no, come on in.”

Another set of oak doors, these adorned with frosted glass designs, divided the tiny vestibule from the rest of the house. She followed Donny through to the oak paneled foyer. A long narrow staircase ran up along the wall to her right. An ornate chandelier, festooned with heavy red glass grapes, hung overhead. Far to the rear, daylight filtered in through tall windows overlooking a courtyard.

“I should be wearing your T-shirt,” Hari said.

His gaze dropped to her breasts and lingered. She’d been working on dropping some weight and was actually getting her waist back, but still had a ways to go. The good thing was her bust hadn’t shrunk.

“I don’t know if it would fit.”

“Maybe not, but I think it might be more accurate.”

He grinned—he had a nice smile. “I think I like you.”

“You’ll get over it.”

He pressed a button on an intercom/alarm panel to the left and said, “Ms. Tate is here.”

“Be right down.”

Donny turned to her. “He’ll be right down.”

“No kidding? Right down? Thanks for telling me. I never would have known.”

She wanted to pull the words back. Dial it down a bit, Hari. Her ex had told her she needed anger-management training. She didn’t think so. She just needed fewer people saying dumb things.

Also, she was low on caffeine.

But he just laughed. “You’re a tough one, but I guess that was—what would you call it?”