SEVENTY-NINE

TEN rainy minutes later, we arrived at Tessa’s hundred-room boutique hotel. Her latest addition to the Gypsy chain was located near the East River, but it wasn’t part of the glittering new Long Island City skyline. Instead, Tessa had converted a century-old paper factory.

The blocky ten-story structure was dwarfed by the soaring skyscrapers around it. But I preferred this funky industrial building—a creative tribute to saving a piece of the old neighborhood’s history from the wrecking ball.

Now that night had fallen, the brick-and-glass façade was bathed in a pretty blue glow, sparkling with laser stars. Quinn pulled into the hotel’s adjacent parking lot, and we entered the lobby.

This vast ground-floor space was taken up by a line of trendy shops facing the street and a large ballroom that opened up onto the lobby. The hotel’s public areas were loud and crowded, filled mostly with the under-thirty set, boisterous and casually dressed.

As I stripped off my wet rain poncho and brushed droplets off my blond wig, I admired the décor, a combination of bohemian shabby chic and rust-belt retro with reclaimed factory equipment converted into functional furniture and eye-catching sculptures.

The ceilings in the hotel were well over twelve feet, a preserved feature of the old paper factory’s design. It allowed plenty of room for the colorful murals on the lobby walls, including a free-spirited rendering of the Gypsy logo—a laughing barefoot girl riding a bird.

Quinn tapped my shoulder. “It’s almost time to meet Mr. Dante.”

“Almost,” I said, and pointed to a touch-screen display, much larger than the phone screens I’d seen everyone using.

Creatively framed like an antique mirror, this screen was freestanding near the reception desk and displayed information about the hotel and its amenities. Curious, I scrolled through the list: room service, “hot” yoga (?), a “detox” spa, tour “guidance,” a rooftop bar with something called “artisanal cocktails,” and—

“What the heck is a complimentary Wi-Fi?” I asked Quinn.

He raised a Spock eyebrow. “What do you think it is?”

“A trendy new energy drink?”

“Nope.”

“Japanese therapeutic massage?”

“Three’s a charm.”

“I’ve got it—a futuristic form of hi-fi?”

“Close,” Quinn said when his phone buzzed. Pulling it out of his jacket, he checked the screen. His amused expression vanished.

“It’s a text from Lori Soles.” He glanced around. “I need to find a quiet spot to call her back, or the Fish Squad may get suspicious.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be okay.”

Before parting, he bent down and almost gave me a peck on the cheek—habit, I guess. But he quickly thought better of it and backed off. Then he gestured to the wide-open double doors across the lobby.

“I’ll meet you and Dante at the bar, as soon as this call is over. Shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

“No problem. Take your time.”