The ground floor was zoned commercial, and CitiSpace had a lease for all of it, which meant she had tons of space. Oskar had given Ally's dad, Arthur, a ten‑year lease, which was now a fraction of the going rate. They both knew that, and she'd more than once offered to renegotiate or move, but he said he didn't need any more income and, besides, he liked having her as a tenant because she reminded him of her father. It was a generosity perfectly in keeping with his philosophy that excess money corrupted the spirit.
She'd done the place as a sort of Spanish desert flower, with burnt‑orange tile floors and all the natural materials she could cram in. A lot of her clients wanted the hard‑edge industrial look in their lofts, which was fine by her, but she found it too cold for a daily working environment. The front was unassuming, with small lettering on the window. CitiSpace was not a walk‑in business. And she had no metal gates over the windows. What's to protect?
When she marched through the door, everybody looked up from their coffee and computers, and Jennifer led the applause. Winston Bartlett. Had they finally made the A‑list? This could be the start of something big.
Chapter 8
Monday, April 6
9:56 a.m.
Ally stepped out of the cab, holding the large leather‑bound portfolio, and checked the number on the card against the bronze plaque above the door. Winston Bartlett lived like a nineteenth‑century robber baron. The building had five stories and was adorned with Italian marble window lintels that glowed like mother‑of‑pearl.
Already she liked his sense of style. Bartlett was New Money, but this place had the solemn dignity of Old Money. The front door was eight feet tall and solid mahogany. The odd thing was, there were two doorbells. One read w. bartlett and the other read e. bartlett.