CHAPTER SEVEN
Remi had never liked New York City. She had found it too enclosed, too busy. It lacked the wide boulevards and ornate architecture of Paris.
And then there was that horrible accent—nasal, brash, even worse than the usual American accent.
But she couldn’t deny there was a certain energy to this place that many other American cities lacked. The people here, instead of being sealed in their cars, were crammed together on bustling sidewalks. The smell of cooking and the shouts of street hustlers filled her senses. A black man in a Tupac t-shirt started rapping at them while waving his homemade CDs over his head, hoping for a sale.
They were in lower Manhattan, a place of giant high rises and giant fortunes. Their first stop in the city was to see Frederick Mitchell, who had s
