He got out and locked the car and walked up the steps. It was a perfect spring morning, cool and crisp, and this part of the Village was quiet and residential. He found himself envying the owners of these beautiful nineteenth‑century town houses. There was something so dignified and secure about them.
Then he saw a man emerge from the apartment below the stoop, just a few feet from where he was standing.
"Hi. How's Cindy?" he called down, hoping the social gesture would let the guy know he wasn't about to do a second‑ story number on Kristen's town house.
The man, who looked to be in his late twenties, was dressed in a black suit, with long blond hair tied back in a ponytail, and carried a shoulder bag that appeared to be serving as a briefcase. He stared at Stone with a puzzled look.
"Who?"
"I was here yesterday and . . . a woman named Cindy, friend of Kristen's, said she was leasing the garden apartment. I was just wondering—"
"I'm sorry. Maybe you have the wrong address. I've had this place for almost a year and a half now." He was moving on down the street as he called back over his shoulder. "Good luck."
What the hell is going on?
He looked up and checked the number. Yep, it's 217. Cindy had definitely gone into that apartment yesterday and talked convincingly about living there and working at the E! station. She even had keys to Kristen's place.
So who the hell was that guy? He looked back, but now he had disappeared.