Wait a minute, she thought, there must be a garden at the rear of this building. There are windows in the front, so why aren't there any at the back?
She turned to examine the back wall. It was, in fact, clearly of recent origin, and there was a door at one side. She walked over to the door, which was locked with a thumb latch, and opened it.
And sure enough, behind the building was an unkempt space the width of the building that ran back for a good thirty or thirty‑five feet. When she stepped out into the late‑morning sunshine and looked at the back of the building, she realized there also was a row of windows facing the garden that had been bricked shut. What a travesty.
The whole design would depend on whether those windows could be reopened. But if Bartlett would allow it, then there were tremendous possibilities. With all this light, you could—
"Who the hell are you?" came a raspy, oversmoked voice from behind her. "Are you his new tart? We agreed he would never bring his whores here."
Ally turned to see a tall, willowy woman, who appeared to be in her mid‑sixties. She had shoulder‑length blond hair, clearly out of a bottle, and a layer of pancake makeup that looked as though it had been applied by a mortician.
"Perhaps it would be helpful if I introduced myself." She squeezed past the woman in the doorway and walked over to the counter, where she had left her bag. She extracted a business card and presented it.
The woman squinted at it, obviously having trouble making out the print.
"I work with the design firm CitiSpace, and I was asked by Mr. Bartlett to give him an estimate for some renovations." She had quickly acquired the sense that the less said to this woman, the better.
"I'm his wife and I still don't know who the hell you are." She squinted at Ally a moment, then glanced back at the card. "What is . . . CitiSpace?"