My first single apartment in New York was in a nice brownstone off Central Park West.
The real estate agent who found it for me was a late-30-something good-looking woman who it turned out happened to live three flights above me in the same building. I only bumped into her once or twice over the next few years, but one time she was walking in dressed for an evening that, well, let's just say didn't look like she'd just returned home from a
cotillion.
Months later, I was awakened at 4:00 in the morning by a huge thump. I lived on the parlour floor, meaning that there was a basement apartment with a step-up ground-level back terrace below me. I looked out and there she was with her head through a pointed wrought iron fence in the back like a watermelon. It turned out that she'd discovered that she'd contracted AIDS through all her late night adventures, and she'd decided to off herself.
This being the mid-1990s, her apartment rented in about five minutes after the police tape went down.