‘‘Yeah. Whole place was mined.’’
‘‘Did you see anyone besides the dead woman?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Where did you find the purse?’’
‘‘Fell on it.’’
‘‘They took her away. Crime Scene is finished,’’ Greg Noriega says, coming into the interview room. ‘‘Jeez, what a stink.’’
‘‘The EDP.’’ Rosen comes up behind him with a spray can and sprays the room. There’s an intense flowery smell. She looks at the label. ‘‘Magnolia is better than EDP.’’ She puts on gloves and removes the purse that Ponzecki bagged. It is peach nylon fabric with leather handles, zipper closure. She empties its contents on the scarred and dented table. ‘‘Let’s see what we got.’’
Noriega, gloves on, begins separating the items. He takes out his notepad and writes each item down. ‘‘Black wallet. Lipstick.’’ With the back of his pen, he pushes the cylinder to Rosen. ‘‘Glasses case. No glasses. Kleenex. Cell phone. Postal receipt: priority mail, twenty-one dollars and fifteen cents. Five thirty p.m. yesterday.’’
‘‘Francine Gold,’’ Rosen says. She holds up a driver’s license. ‘‘Thirty-one. Five two, blue eyes. Could be our vic. Address: 400 West 12th Street.’’
‘‘Those new loft conversions.’’
‘‘See if anyone reported her missing.’’
Noriega takes a printout from his back pocket. ‘‘Manhattan missing persons. No one fitting her description. No one named Francine Gold.’’
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.
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.’’