I turned off Seventh Street onto Brannan, then waited until the oncoming traffic cleared and the security gate in front of my building garage opened. I quickly turned in and parked my car.
I had less stuff to carry upstairs than I’d brought down with me. Naomi had given me a key to my classroom so I could leave some of my cheaper, less dangerous tools and supplies at BABA. I was determined to keep the more lethal and expensive ones in my possession at all times. Thanks to my recent misadventures in Scotland, I hesitated to leave hazardous tools in a place that might not be completely secure.
The block-long brick building I lived in had been built as a corset factory in the twenties and retained some of the old quirks from those days. One of my closets used to be a dumbwaiter with ropes and pulleys to move supplies up and down. It was sealed off now, of course, but it still had steel walls, so I used it to store important documents and the occasional rare book.
Most of the windows in my apartment were original as well, and reinforced with old-fashioned chicken wire. The heating ducts were exposed. Those touches, together with the interior brick walls, gave the large loft-style living space the look and feel of the old factory.
I loved my apartment, loved the South of Market location that was a mix of converted industrial lofts like mine, small ethnic restaurants and shops, and decorators’ outlets selling tiles and used brick and wrought iron gates. You could shop and dine in upscale luxury, then turn the corner and find a blighted, burned-out factory, waiting to be bought up and converted. The recession had slowed down some of the growth in the area, but I expected it to pop back any day now.
I stepped inside the service elevator and pushed the button for my floor. This lift was original, as well. It was wide enough to carry industrial-sized machinery, with a four-inch-thick wood plank floor and an iron gate that folded back to let passengers in and out.
As the elevator rumbled to life, I recalled again the angry words of the Asian man who’d left Layla’s office earlier that night. Did he have anything to do with the attack on Minka? I should’ve mentioned him to the police. What if he’d come back to threaten Layla and Minka had interrupted him? I didn’t know who he was, but Layla would know. And if she were his real target, I figured she’d be more than glad to give the police his name.
As the elevator stopped and the gate opened, I saw my neighbor Vinamra Patel peeking out her door. Everyone in the building could hear the old-fashioned industrial elevator when it was in motion, so we all kept an eye out for each other.
“Ah, Brooklyn,” Vinnie said, waving me over. She wore overalls and high-top Converse All Stars, and her glossy dark hair was braided down her back. “I was hoping it would be you.”
“It’s me,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“Guess who went out to dinner tonight?” she said seductively.
“Really?” My eyes must’ve lit up because she laughed and grabbed my arm.
“Yes. Come in. I have leftovers packed up and ready for you.”
I followed her like a puppy. “You guys don’t have to feed me every night, you know.”
Vinnie grinned. “But you’re always so pathetically grateful, it’s fun for us.”
“Hey, I like to eat,” I said in my own defense.
And my favorite neighbors knew it. Vinnie and her girlfriend, Suzie Stein, were wood sculptors. They worked at home, as I usually did, and their loft was filled with huge, oddly shaped hunks of wood and burl. Their sculpting tools of choice were chain saws, and a number of those were mounted on the walls. It was an artistic statement in itself.
Because of the sawdust and mess they made while working, they liked to dine out most nights. And they invariably brought home leftovers for their hungry neighbor. Me.
As I stared at their latest sculpture, a massive wooden pyramid with wings, two cats approached me, purring loudly as they rubbed up against my shins. I bent over to scratch their necks. “Hi, Pookie. Hi, Splinters.”
“They love you so much,” Vinnie said, smiling fondly at the cats. “You take such good care of them.”
My gaze met Pookie’s and she cocked her head as if to say, Aren’t you glad I can’t talk?
I sent her a telepathic message. Yes, ma’am. I am.
The last time Suzie and Vinnie left town, they’d left me in charge of their beloved pets. One morning, I walked out without feeding them. I remembered by the time I got to the garage and raced back upstairs to set out their food and water. But there had been a moment . . . okay, maybe five or six seconds, during which I’d actually debated whether or not it would make any difference if I waited until that night to feed them. In the end, my guilt got the best of me and I rushed back to meet their needs.
So yeah, I was eternally thankful that cats couldn’t talk, because these two would have spilled their guts about my lackadaisical caretaking skills. And Vinnie and Suzie, who loved their pets to distraction, would never give me another bag of leftovers again.