THE INTERVIEWS (PART I)
At 400 West 12th Street, Susan Kim sits on a high stool at the concierge desk sorting mail. The desk is actually a broad marble counter closed in above and on each side of the opening. She reaches up and right and left putting residents’ mail in their boxes. This is the most boring part of her job, which she has held for three years, but tips are frequent, and it is particularly nice at Christmas because the sixteen units of the condo are owned by very successful people and they are generous. Maybe more so because she knows all their secrets and she likes it that way. She has the title concierge, but basically, she runs the place. Vasili, the super, is an Albanian immigrant whose every response is ‘‘No problem.’’ But he’s a good worker and doesn’t get in her face like the last one, the superstud from Ecuador who thought he was God’s gift to women.
Vasili handles three condo buildings on the block and lives with his wife and two children in an apartment in the one across the street.
Susan Kim’s parents are immigrants. They’d like her to go back to teaching once she finishes her master’s, but why should she? She makes double, even triple as a concierge and while she’s living at home, she saves most of it. One of her residents owns a designer boutique in SoHo and is always giving her things, like last week, these black leather boots. She swings one slim leg out, flexes her foot. Elegant. The boutique guy’s wife works long hours as a neurologist. She’s a cold snoot, so Susan has no sympathy for her when the husband brings models to the apartment some days.
The outside door opens and a tall woman in a white shirt and black linen pants comes in. She’s practically dripping sweat in Susan’s nice cool lobby. The woman’s clothes need ironing and her hair is in a messy ponytail. Frumpy. Right behind the frump is a skinny Latino in a cheap suit. They don’t have to show Susan their IDs. She knows they’re cops by their attitude. Like they can walk in anywhere. She wanted to be a cop once so everybody would respect her, but that was before she knew how grubby the job is and that they don’t make any money.
‘‘Detective Molly Rosen.’’ The woman holds up her badge. ‘‘This is Detective Greg Noriega.’’
Susan congratulates herself. Right on the nose. ‘‘I’m the concierge, Susan Kim. What can I do for you?’’
‘‘You have a tenant named Francine Gold?’’
‘‘This is a condo. No tenants. Owners. The Golds are in 7W.’’
‘‘She’s married?’’
‘‘Yes. Adam Gold is an architect. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He designed one of the new buildings just below Chelsea Pier.’’
‘‘Where is his office?’’
‘‘He works out of the apartment.’’
‘‘So he’s at home now?’’
‘‘I believe so.’’
‘‘Is Francine at home?’’ Noriega says. Boy, does this babe love herself.
‘‘I don’t know. I didn’t see her leave this morning.’’ Susan saw her yesterday, though, with those big dark glasses on again.
Molly waits for Susan Kim to add what she’s thinking, but Susan presses her lips together so nothing else comes forth.
‘‘What does she do?’’
‘‘She’s a lawyer at Browning, Coleman. I have her office number here, if you want it.’’ Susan sifts through the contents of a small file box, finds Francine Gold’s business card, hands it to Molly.
‘‘Thank you. See if you can get hold of her, Greg,’’ Molly says. ‘‘I’ll go up and talk to Mr. Gold.’’ Greg steps outside to make the call.
‘‘I’ll ring him,’’ Susan Kim says.
‘‘No. Please don’t. This is police business.’’
Susan Kim doesn’t like to be spoken to like this, but she has a certain atavistic respect for law and order. ‘‘The elevator is straight ahead. All the W apartments are to the right when you get off the elevator.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
The minute the elevator doors close on Molly, Susan rings up Adam Gold. He’s promised her one of the few middle-income apartments in his new building.
THE INTERVIEWS (PART II)
Molly Rosen gets off the elevator on the seventh floor, fairly certain that Susan Kim made the call to Adam Gold. She recognizes Susan Kim. Susan will not jeopardize her self-interest.
‘‘Hold the elevator, please.’’ A woman, her gray hair long and swingy, and a small black poodle come down the hall from the left, the E apartments.
Molly tries to catch the door but it’s too late. ‘‘I’m so sorry.’’
‘‘Not a problem. Those doors close too fast. We complain, but hell, who can we complain to when we’re the owners?’’ She smiles, presses the DOWN button. ‘‘You’re not here to see me, are you?’’
‘‘Not unless you’re Francine Gold.’’ Molly holds up her badge.
‘‘I’m Linda Reinhart.’’
‘‘The writer who just won the National Book Award?’’
‘‘Yes.’’ And about time, too. She’s been short-listed for years for so many different awards. Now everything’s terrific and she’s creaky and cranky, too old to really enjoy it all. She’s never going to do another goddam book tour either. The last one brought on an attack of asthma which she hasn’t had since she was a kid. Not to mention they’re badgering her for the next book and she’s totally blocked.
‘‘Detective Molly Rosen.’’ Molly shows her ID.
‘‘Well, at long last.’’ Only a week ago she found Francie in a fetal position outside the Gold apartment. The prick had punched Francie in the face and literally kicked her out of the apartment. Because the milk turned and he had to drink his coffee black.
Francie wouldn’t let Linda call an ambulance, so she went with her over to St. Vincent’s, but wouldn’t you know, that bastard figured out where they were, probably from that awful Susan Kim, and came for her.
Molly says, ‘‘What do you mean at long last?’’
‘‘I’m glad she finally filed a complaint. I hope you send that garbage to prison.’’
‘‘When did you see Francine last?’’ But now we have our first suspect: Adam Gold.
‘‘Yesterday morning, a little after eight, maybe closer to eight thirty. In a big hurry, too. Almost banged into Nickie and me as we came back from our walk. She had those big dark glasses on again, so you can bet Adam was up to his old tricks. She said she was late for work.’’
‘‘If I have any more questions, I’d like to call you, Ms. Reinhart.’’ She hands Linda one of her cards.
‘‘Of course, Detective.’’ Linda fishes for a card in her handbag and hands it to Molly Rosen.
The elevator door opens and Greg Noriega steps out. Linda Reinhart and Nickie get on. She waves to Molly as the door closes.
‘‘Francine Gold didn’t come in to work this morning,’’ Noriega says. ‘‘The partner she works with, Norman Mosca, is pretty upset. I didn’t talk to him. The receptionist whispered it to me.’’
THE INTERVIEWS (PART III)
A plump young woman in a lavender smock answers the door to 7W. ‘‘Yes?’’
‘‘Detectives Molly Rosen and Greg Noriega.’’ Molly holds up her ID, as does Greg. ‘‘Are you Francine Gold?’’
‘‘No. I’m Vicky Wallaby, Mr. Gold’s assistant.’’
‘‘We’d like to speak to Francine.’’ The air wafting from the apartment is more than frigid.
‘‘I haven’t seen her today.’’ Vicky stands in the doorway like a roadblock, quite aware that she fills most of the width. He said to keep them out, that he’s too busy to speak with cops about things that have nothing to do with him.
‘‘Then perhaps you can get Mr. Gold.’’
‘‘I can’t disturb him. Please.’’ If she can’t get rid of them, he will deliver sharp pinches to her soft flesh when she least expects it, when she relaxes her vigil, and all the time he’s smiling like nothing is happening.
‘‘I don’t think he’s too busy to talk to us about his wife,’’ Molly s
ays, in her most reasonable voice, but she’s not beyond the hint of aggression in her body language. She moves in on Vicky and Vicky instinctively gives her some space.
‘‘Please,’’ Vicky says. ‘‘I can’t let you in. He’ll . . . I—’’ She covers her mouth. It’s the nasty pinches, the Indian burns, the less-than-friendly pressure on her neck. She got her architectural degree at Pratt and then landed this great apprenticeship with Adam Gold, working on designs for the conversion of the High Line to a public park. Or what she thought would be a great apprenticeship. Adam Gold is a sadist. She knows that now, but she needs the job for her résumé.
‘‘Tell Mr. Gold Detectives Molly Rosen and Greg Noriega are waiting to speak to him, and that it would be wise for him to talk with us now.’’
‘‘I’ll take it from here, Vicky.’’ Adam Gold’s voice is thin and high. ‘‘Go back to the office and finish the layout, there’s a good girl.’’
Vicky flees.
The detectives exchange glances. Adam Gold has ruddy skin and small dark blue eyes. With his wrestler’s build and shaved head, were it not for the expensive suit and blue striped shirt, he could pass for a member of the Aryan Nation.
‘‘Won’t you come in, Detectives.’’ Adam works at keeping his anger contained. That crazy bitch. All she does is fuck up his life. Turn on the old charm, Adam boy. ‘‘What is this about?’’
Noriega has never seen a place like this except maybe in the movies. The room is huge, one wall all glass, the furnishings an impression of leather, glass, and steel. An open kitchen fit for a restaurant is on the left. The window wall would have held the view of the Twin Towers were they still standing.
‘‘Do you know where your wife is, Mr. Gold?’’ Molly sees scum dressed up fancy.
‘‘At work, of course.’’
‘‘According to her office, she never came in. Did you see her this morning?’’
‘‘I worked through the night, then dozed off at my desk. So no, I didn’t see her. I suggest you tell me why you’re here.’’
‘‘Did you have dinner with your wife last night?’’
Adam’s patience is wearing thin. ‘‘No. I repeat. I worked through the night. I think Francie told me she was meeting a friend.’’ That should cover him. Last time he saw her was yesterday morning when she did it again, didn’t pick up his shirts from the cleaners. Like she doesn’t know she’ll get punished for it. It’s always her fault, making him mad. She asks for it, so he gives her what she wants.
‘‘You were alone, then, last night?’’
‘‘No, Vicky was here until about three; then I sent her home because I needed her here early this morning.’’
‘‘It might be a good thing if we sat down, Mr. Gold,’’ Molly says. She always says this when she’s about to break bad news. But somehow, she doesn’t think it will make any difference to Adam Gold whether he’s sitting or standing when he hears that his wife is dead.
‘‘Just say it.’’ Oops, careful.
‘‘The body of a woman answering to your wife’s description was discovered on the High Line this morning. Your wife’s purse was found by a homeless man not far from the body.’’
‘‘Oh, God.’’ It’s not what he thought. Not at all what he thought. Relieved, he sags. The spic cop grabs him. Then it hits him. Francie? Dead? ‘‘No, not Francie.’’ He shakes himself. Jesus Christ. ‘‘Did you say the High Line? I’m working on a design—’’
‘‘Does that mean you might have a key to the gate on 18th Street?’’ Noriega asks.
‘‘Vicky! Get the key to the High Line gate. It’s in the bowl on my desk.’’ Adam pours himself a shot of Jack Daniels, drinks it down. The wait is unnerving. ‘‘Vicky!’’
‘‘It’s not here, Adam,’’ Vicky says.
Molly is not surprised. ‘‘We’d like you to come to the morgue now to see if you can identify the body.’’
THE INTERVIEWS (PART IV)
After Adam Gold, in near collapse, identifies the body of the woman found on the High Line as that of his wife, Francine, Detectives Molly Rosen and Greg Noriegahead for the offices of Browning, Coleman, where Francine Gold worked.
Noriega’s hungry so they stop at a food cart on Broad Street. The heat is oppressive, though the sun keeps disappearing behind storm clouds. Molly gets a ginger ale, trying to relieve her nausea, which builds with the humidity, while Noriega works on a hot dog piled with every fixing. Funny thing, the morgue didn’t nauseate her one bit but the smell of the hot dog is doing her in.
Molly holds the cold can up to her cheeks and forehead. Her swollen breasts push against her bra. Goddamit. She doesn’t want this kid. What is she going to do? ‘‘Your gut feeling?’’ she asks Greg.
‘‘About the husband?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘He didn’t do it.’’
‘‘Agree.’’ She tosses the can into a trash basket. ‘‘Finish that and let’s see what her boss has to say.’’ They are standing in front of the glass and steel tower that is 110 Liberty Street. They show their IDs at the security desk. ‘‘Don’t announce us,’’ she tells the guard, who doesn’t blink. He won’t. What he doesn’t say is that there are some law enforcement people up there already.
Detectives Molly Rosen and Greg Noriega ride up to the thirtieth floor in an elevator reserved only for Browning, Coleman employees, clients, and visitors.
The elevator opens onto a reception area. Two men and a woman, in business suits, are waiting. The reception area is crowded now. The trio take a long speculative look at Rosen and Noriega, who return the scrutiny. All are easy to recognize as law enforcement of some level.
‘‘Manhattan DA’s office,’’ Molly says sotto voce. ‘‘Fraud unit.’’
‘‘Detective Rosen, good to see you again,’’ Charlotte Pagan says. This is her case, and it’s a big one. For her. She’s up for a job in DC in the Attorney General’s office. The FBI is in the process of certifying her. What the fuck is the NYPD doing here? Easy, Charlotte, maybe it’s something totally different. She shakes hands with Molly, who introduces Greg. ‘‘Marty Goldberg and Joe O’Dwyer.’’ Handshakes all around.
‘‘Excuse me, excuse me.’’ An attractive black woman, until now obscured by the growing herd of law enforcement, rises from behind the reception desk. Connie Bullard is good at keeping the irritation from her voice, but she’s about to lose her cool. She has enough on her mind anyway trying to get Angie off to Barcelona for her junior year, and Angie practically hysterical about buying this, that, and the other, most of which she doesn’t need and Connie and Joe can’t afford. And now this crowd in her reception because of that cretin Norman Mosca. ‘‘Ms. Pagan, if you all will take a seat I can help our new visitors.’’
Molly Rosen steps forward, shows her ID; Greg does the same. ‘‘We’re here to see Norman Mosca.’’
‘‘I don’t have you in his appointment book.’’ Connie puts a polite and dumb smile on her face. Well, Norman is in deep doo-doo now with people from the DA’s office and the NYPD all here for his surly ass.
‘‘We want to speak to him about Francine Gold.’’
‘‘Francie?’’ Connie’s facade cracks. ‘‘Is she okay? She didn’t come in today. It’s upset some partners here.’’
‘‘Like Mr. Mosca?’’
‘‘I can’t say. But these people were here first.’’ She points to Charlotte Pagan and her crew, who have been listening to the exchange.
‘‘Okay,’’ Molly says. ‘‘We’ll have a little conference and see who goes first.’’ She leaves the desk, motioning Greg to wait.
Charlotte and Molly huddle. Charlotte says, ‘‘We’re investigating a possible fraud pertaining to a nonexistent escrow account set up by Norman Mosca. One point two mil of tenants’ money in a rent strike is supposed to be in that escrow account. Did you say you’re here about Francine Gold?’’
‘‘Yes. Her body was found this morning on the High Line.’’
‘‘Dead?’’ Charlotte explodes. ‘‘Damn it to hell!’’
‘‘Francie? She’s dead? Oh, my God.’’ Connie is on her feet again. ‘‘I told her—’’
Charlotte Pagan and her associates are all standing. ‘‘She’s our primary source.’’
Marty Goldberg says, ‘‘He killed her to keep her from talking.’’
Back at the reception desk, Molly says, ‘‘Greg, talk to this nice lady—’’
‘‘Connie. Connie Bullard.’’
‘‘—about Francine. Ms. Bullard, Connie, where is Mr. Mosca’s office?’’
Connie presses a buzzer. ‘‘Through that door, make a right and go down the hall to the last office. His is on the left.’’
Molly moves. But Charlotte Pagan and her people are on her heels.
‘‘Murder trumps fraud,’’ Molly says.
Charlotte counters: ‘‘Our search warrant covers Francine’s office and Mosca’s office.’’
‘‘You’ll keep me in the loop?’’
‘‘Of course.’’ Charlotte is wondering if, once she’s with the Justice Department, she should hold on to her great apartment on the Upper West Side, or sell it. If she holds it, she can always come back to New York. Once you sell you can never come back.
Molly, bucking one-way traffic of secretaries, clerks, and lawyers, carrying folders, files, briefcases, knows Charlotte will be stingy with information. It’s always like that.
A woman rushes from the office, last on the left. Through the open door a man’s voice bellows with rage. Molly stands in the woman’s path and holds up her ID. ‘‘Detective Molly Rosen.’’
‘‘Oh, thank God you’re here,’’ Jeannie Lapenga cries. ‘‘He’s going crazy. Francie took stuff and didn’t come in today. He’s gonna kill her.’’ Jeannie wants to hug the cop. All she can think about is getting away from Norman. He’s a lunatic. He was so nice at first when they assigned her to him. Bonus every month. A crisp hundred-dollar bill. She’s the only one he treats nice. Francie he treats like shit, poor thing with that abusive husband, though Francie will never admit it, always saying she bumped into a door or fell down in the subway. Only last week Jeannie tried to tell Norman that Francie has a hard life and what did Norman do but scream and yell at Jeannie and then go after Francie about how stupid and incompetent she is and how one day soon he’s going to talk to the Bar Association and they’ll take away her license.
Sisters On the Case Page 19