She had a bag hanging off both shoulders, plus she had an armload of binders. When she suggested they drop off the stuff at her apartment, he couldn’t agree fast enough. Of course she lived in a walk-up. Parker was impressed that, even though she was carrying what he thought had to be thirty pounds, she jogged up the stairs to the third-floor of a pre-war brownstone that had been parsed into six apartments. Hers was on the top floor, where she fit her key into the door and flung it open. He liked fit women. Kelly’s apartment was small, but it had twelve-foot ceilings, floor-to-ceiling bay windows that overlooked the community garden between buildings, and hardwood floors. She had an overstuffed brocade couch and giant chair in the middle of her living room—the only room in the place, save the bedroom—and a fireplace that had been bricked off but still had a very cool brass mantel. The kitchen was small but larger than what was typical in New York, and she had new appliances. “Make yourself at home, and I’ll be right with you!”
