NEW YORK CITY
Present Day
CHAPTER ONE
Tess
The city had many nicknames: Gotham. Metropolis. The Shining Starr. The Big Apple. The City That Never Sleeps. These nicknames were not always accurate. For example, why would anyone refer to a city as an overlarge piece of fruit? Also, the city did sleep, but it slept the way a cat does, eyes half open, watchful, ready to spring at the first sign of fun, or danger.
That morning, a very different kind of cat was getting ready to spring. The cat in question lived in the Biedermann family’s cluttered apartment at 354 W. 73rd Street and kept her sock collection underneath the Biedermanns’ coffee table. This was not normally a problem for the Biedermann family, except when they had guests or when their feet were cold.
Today, they were having guests. They were also having a problem.
The cat—a large spotted animal that would have looked more at home on a South African savanna than in the living room on the Upper West Side—had the business end of a striped sock gripped firmly in her teeth. She was growling. The lanky girl sitting on the floor gripping the other end of the sock growled right back.
“Seriously, Tess?” said Mrs. Biedermann.
“This . . . is . . . my . . . favorite . . . sock . . . ,” Tess said, her dark braid whipping like a tail against her olive skin. The cat’s striped tail lashed in kind.
Tess’s twin brother, Theo, who was standing at the kitchen counter, poking at his favorite alphabet cereal with the back of a spoon, said, “The cat’s winning.”
Tess said, “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t need to clean up the stupid socks if those people weren’t coming to see your stupid tower.”
Mrs. Biedermann rifled through a briefcase the size of a suitcase. “It’s not a stupid tower. And stop saying things are stupid.”
“It’s the wrong tower,” Tess said.
Theo Biedermann had built a scale model of the Tower of London—a model that took up the Biedermanns’ entire dining room—for a national Lego contest (he won). Now, a week into summer vacation, school officials were finally coming to interview Theo, to congratulate him for his prize (even more Legos) and to photograph the tower for the school website. Mrs. Biedermann thought they should clean up the cat’s sock collection before the people arrived, but the cat, Nine, had other ideas. So did Tess.
Theo still didn’t look up from his cereal. “You don’t have to wear your favorite socks, Tess. No one’s going to interview you.”
“You should have built the Morningstarr Tower,” Tess insisted, bending her legs and putting her weight on her heels for leverage.
Theo looked up from his cereal. “Hey! I spelled Fibonacci! Oh, hold on, the i is floating away.”
Nine—who, oddly enough, didn’t seem much interested in the names of mathematicians spelled out in wheat products—flattened her striped ears and nearly yanked the sock out of Tess’s hands. Tess held fast. Behind them, the morning news hosts on the TV blah-blah-blahed about new parking regulations, about Great Britain negotiating with China for more all-weather solar panels after an especially rainy spring, about new water pipelines, about the best work-to-evening outfits for women, about a new guacamole recipe with peas.
“Peas,” said Tess to the cat, “do not belong in guacamole.”
“Mrrow,” said Nine, pulling harder.
“Next up on the program,” yapped the TV host, “we’ll be headed to a surprise press conference with philanthropist and real estate developer Darnell Slant. A man with a plan to move New York City into the twenty-first century!”
“We’re already in the twenty-first century, duh,” Theo said.
“Darnell Slant has been linked to some of the world’s most beautiful women, including performance artist Lora Yoshida, pop star Cath Tastic, and supermodel and entrepreneur Mink. But just last week, things took a more serious turn in his life. He pledged a hundred million dollars to biological research that could lead to cures for cancer and numerous other diseases. And that, he says, is only the beginning. In a recent interview with Channel 8 news, Mr. Slant talked about the importance of progress over stagnation, especially when it comes to the continued development of our city. ‘The Morningstarrs were geniuses, the earliest architects of New York,’ he said. ‘But the world in which they lived is gone. There is a point at which preservation becomes fossilization. We can love our heroes too much.’”
Tess dropped her end of the sock, surprising Nine. “Turn up the TV, Mom.”
“Why? What’s on?” said Mrs. Biedermann.
“‘Maybe some of you are thinking that all these old buildings in and around our city hold clues to the Old York Cipher. But I want you to focus on the word old instead of the word cipher. The old must make way for the new.’ And now, let’s turn to our own Amber Amberson, who is live at the Slant press conference.”
As soon as Darnell Slant’s boyish face popped up on the screen, American flags flying behind, Mrs. Biedermann pressed a button and the TV went black. “I wish they’d stop giving that guy a microphone. He’s not smart. He only seems smart.”
Nine brushed up against Tess’s leg before slinking under the coffee table with her prize. “I wanted to watch that,” Tess said.
“I can’t even look at his nasty mug,” said Mrs. Biedermann.
“Why can you say things are nasty and I can’t say things are stupid?”
“Because they’re not the same thing. Plus, I am a grown woman and I can say whatever I want. It’s one of the few perks of adulthood.” Mrs. Biedermann shoved the briefcase aside. “Has anyone seen my keys?”
Tess hauled herself off the floor, scooped a set of keys from the seat of the tattered recliner her dad refused to donate to Goodwill. She dangled the keys in front of her mother. “I don’t know how you keep losing stuff anyway,” Tess said as her mother took them. “You call yourself—”
“A detective, yes,” said Mrs. Biedermann, flashing her badge. “Everybody does.”
“Not everybody,” said Theo. “We call you Mom.”
“And we call you Mr. Literal,” Tess snapped.
“Okay, Tess, what’s bugging you?” said Mrs. Biedermann.
Tess bit her lip, considered not saying it. But, in the end, it just popped out, the way many things popped out of her mouth even when Tess didn’t want them to. “It’s just that Slant is on the TV again and I’m worried that . . .”
As soon as she started talking, as soon as she said the word worried, she could almost feel her brother’s eyes rolling as he scooped up his cereal bowl and dumped Fibonacci and the rest of his alphabet friends down the drain.
“I thought they were talking about the money he donated to cancer research,” said Mrs. Biedermann.
“And then they said, ‘And that is only the beginning.’ What if it is only the beginning, Mom? He’s a real estate developer. He buys real estate.”
Mrs. Biedermann took a deep breath. “Tess, Darnell Slant has been trying to buy up every building in this city since I was a little girl.”
“No, he isn’t—just the important buildings. The Morningstarr Tower. The Starr Hotel. Our building. He won’t stop talking about it. There are all these interviews all the time and—”
“Technically,” said Theo, “it’s not our building. The city owns it.”
“Not everything is technical, you robot,” said Tess. Their mother’s family had lived at 354 W. 73rd Street for more than a hundred years. A hundred years! Her grandfather, Benjamin, had the apartment on the top floor and had taught Tess and Theo everything he knew about the structure, and about the Morningstarrs who had built it. He had even talked her parents into naming them “Theresa” and “Theodore.” It was completely unfair that anyone else could lay claim to her home, even the city both she and the Morningstarrs had loved. Especially not Slant, a man who bought beautiful old buildings and replaced them with shiny cracker boxes no one could afford. A man who only dated supermodels and actresses from reality shows.
&n
bsp; “Slant doesn’t want our building, Tess. It’s a decent enough building with a bit of history, but it’s hardly the Morningstarr Tower. And what did I say about calling your brother a robot?” said Mrs. Biedermann.
“If he doesn’t want to be called a robot, he should stop acting like one,” said Tess. “Humans have feelings.”
“Spoken like a crybaby,” Theo said.
“A crybaby who can beat you in an arm-wrestling match.”
“Your arms are longer,” said Theo.
“And a running race,” Tess added.
“Your legs are shorter.”
“And a climbing contest.”
“In summation, you’re built like a gibbon.”
“And tug-of-war.”
“You can’t even beat the cat.”
“And—”
“Tess!” said Mrs. Biedermann. “You know he only says those things to wind you up. So, who’s the robot?”
“But—”
“I think it’s time for you and Nine to take a walk. Go to the post office and pick up Grandpa’s mail for him. And you, Theo, need to get ready for your interview.”
“What do you mean?” Theo said. “I am ready.”
Mrs. Biedermann shook her head. “You are most certainly not ready. I should have gotten you a haircut. How about wetting it so it doesn’t look so . . . large.”
Theo fingered his dense curls. Tess said, “You know it will only dry bigger.”
“Okaaay,” said Mrs. Biedermann, drawing out the word, as if the riotous dark hair of her children was too tangled a mystery to solve. “How about changing your shirt?”
“What’s wrong with my shirt? It’s new!”
“It says ‘Schrödinger’s cat is dead.’”
“I know.”
“It has a cartoon of a dead cat.”
“It’s a thought experiment demonstrating what Schrödinger saw as a problem with certain interpretations of quantum mechanics when—”
Mrs. Biedermann held up one palm. “Now that you’ve cleared that up.”
“Not really,” said Tess. “Turn around, Theo.” He did. The back of the T-shirt said “Schrödinger’s cat is ALIIIIIVE” and had a picture of a zombie cat.
Mrs. Biedermann threw up both hands. “Look, Theo, ‘Schrödinger’s’ sounds like some sort of medical condition to me. Plus, the front of your shirt still has a dead cat on it.”
Theo said, “Technically, so does the back.”
“People will see it, and they’re going to think you’re weird.”
“Too—” said Theo.
“—late,” finished Tess.
Mrs. Biedermann gave Tess a flat mom stare. “I thought you were going to the post office.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” Tess said. She grabbed Nine’s leash from a hook on the wall, and Nine bounded over like any dog might have. Tess hooked the leash to Nine’s harness. She checked her back pocket for her keys, slung a messenger bag over her shoulder, and then walked to the door. Paused. What she did not do, would not do, was turn and glance around the spacious, sunny apartment as if it were the last time she’d ever see it. She would not make a comment about rent control, or about how they’d never be able to afford another apartment this size or any size in Manhattan or any other borough, or how they’d be banished to the wilds of New Jersey or maybe even Idaho if Slant got his way. She didn’t say a word about her mother being forced to commute two or three or seventeen hours on a train to get to her job as a New York City detective, or complain that they would never see her and therefore forget what she looked like. And Tess did not worry aloud that her dad might be unable to find a new job as a school counselor in the suburbs of Idaho and would likely dissolve into a morass of self-pity during which he wandered around their ugly split-level, wearing the same pair of Cheeto-stained sweatpants for weeks on end, his hair getting larger and larger until they were forced to shear it and knit scarves for cash.
Because if she turned and glanced around the apartment and voiced any of her fears, Theo would roll his eyes again, and call her a girl—as if that were a bad thing to be—and her mother would take her by the shoulders and tell her she had nothing to be anxious about, and her dad, who had gone on a coffee run and was due home any minute, might tell her she was “catastrophizing.”
Well, maybe she was catastrophizing. But catastrophes happened every day, didn’t they? A person ought to be prepared. And to be prepared you had to imagine all the possibilities. Tess was very good at imagining the possibilities.
Nine nudged her hand. Tess stuck her tongue at her brother, and then she and Nine slipped out of the apartment and into the hallway. Mrs. Cruz, the building manager, worked hard at maintenance, but the building was showing its age: the plaster crumbling a bit in the corners; the decorative tiles with their distinctive star patterns chipping; the solar glass in the hall windows wavy enough to shatter the sunlight into rainbows; most of the Morningstarr seals, plaster medallions stamped with a star within a sun, missing from the window moldings.
But even with its flaws, this was not just any building. This was one of the five original buildings built by Theresa and Theodore Morningstarr, and therefore it was like no other building in the world (the Tower of London included). It contained all sorts of memories, all sorts of stories. She pressed her ear against the plaster as if to hear them.
Behind her, a small voice said, “You’re not talking to the walls again, are you?”
Tess turned. A little girl, about six years old, stared at her from her perch on her oversized tricycle. She had bronze skin and black pigtails that stuck out like antennae. Her mouth and chin were smeared with something purplish.
“Hi, Cricket. You’re not pretending your finger paints are lipstick again, are you?”
“Why would I do that?” said the girl.
“Well, why would I be talking to the walls?” Tess said.
“My mom says you act funny because nobody pays attention to you but that I should always be nice.”
“Okay.”
Cricket slid the heart charm on her necklace, zip-zip, zip-zip. “I do not enjoy being nice.” She flipped a switch on the handlebars and beep-beep-beeped the trike in reverse, all the way back down the hall till she disappeared around a corner.
“Who enjoys being nice?” Tess said to the now-empty hallway.
Nine chirped at Tess, then glanced at the elevator.
“Right. Sorry, Nine.” She stabbed the down button. The elevator opened, and Tess and Nine stepped into the car. She pressed the button for the first floor, the marking so worn you couldn’t read the number anymore. The elevator twitched slightly and then began to move. The building itself might be plain, but the elevator was anything but. It was an electromagnetic elevator, which meant it could go horizontally as well as vertically, and did. Every time she got on, the elevator took a different path to its destination, sometimes going straight up and down, sometimes taking a series of lefts and rights, sometimes zigzagging all over the place. Theo said the building was as big as it was simply to accommodate the strange paths of the elevator, a terrible waste of space, even if the elevator itself was cool. But Tess thought it was more than cool—it was magical. What if the doors opened onto a floor she had never seen? A world she had never seen? The elevator could go very, very fast, too, dropping straight down from the top floor to the first so quickly that the passengers experienced a moment of weightlessness, though this happened rarely, as if the elevator somehow understood that this wasn’t going to make everybody happy.
Tess braced herself just in case, but the elevator was in a leisurely mood and took only one left and two rights before dropping straight down and setting itself gently on the first floor. The calm ride settled her nerves, and she was smiling when she walked toward the double doors, happy to see the same inlaid tile floors and cameo walls that her mother had grown up with, and Grandpa Ben had grown up with, and so on.
And she smiled wider still when she stepped out into the summer su
nshine. Tess even smiled at the little clots of tourists taking pictures of the cornerstones and the address plaque, checking their guidebooks and maps, trying to figure out the Old York Cipher for themselves. They always came to one of the original buildings first, not that it would help them. No one had ever found a clue in one of the original buildings; that would be way too obvious, and the Morningstarrs were anything but obvious. But Grandpa Ben said that when he was a kid, you could barely get in and out of the building with all the tourists everywhere. Now there were just a few scattered groups, and most of them looked bored.
“It says here that the Old York Cipher was a gift to the city of New York from Theresa and Theodore Morningstarr, and that the first clue is at the Liberty Statue,” said a white woman in white pants and a terrifying Hawaiian-print shirt.
The portly, pasty man with her grunted. “Then why didn’t we go to the statue like I wanted to?”
“Because they already solved that clue. And a bunch after that. And then they got stuck.”
“I just wanted to see the darned statue. And who’s they?” said the man.
“People.”
“What people?”
“People! The Old York Puzzler and Cipherist Society.”
“Cyclist Society? I’m not getting on a bicycle. We just had breakfast.”
“Cipherist.”
“What’s a cipherist?”
“It’s someone who solves a cipher—what do you think?”
“Cipher,” said the man, mopping his pink brow with a napkin. “Why does everything have to be so fancy? Why don’t they just call it a code?”
“A cipher isn’t the same thing as a code,” Tess said. “It’s way more complex, substituting words or numbers or even symbols in a message. Like the book cipher that the Morningstarrs used for the first clue in the Old York Cipher.”