Flo Ott entered the building and ascended the staircase, letting herself into 2-D, a loft apartment centered on a large rectangular living room with wall-to-wall white carpeting. The furniture consisted of seven bloated armchairs in pale cream leather and two matching sofas, and in the middle, a tan glass-top coffee table ran for at least four yards. On a couch stretched a fleshy blonde in a black silk dressing gown, sobbing for air, while in an armchair close to her, perched as if set to leap up at the blink of an eye, a snap of two fingers, sat an overweight patrolman, cap on head, hands on knees, fingers drumming a fast lemme-the-hell-outta-here tempo. Flo Ott stood quietly in the apartment vestibule, where she could observe Celestina Lo Belle without being seen. Although it was warm in the apartment, the blonde’s black silk dressing gown sported a sable fur collar thick enough to ward off the windiest of midwinter blasts. Her long blond hair—Flo noted as Celestina Lo Belle reached over to the table for a glass of juice—was so carefully cut it fell perfectly into place with each movement.
