‘‘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.’’
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 says, 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.’’
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.’’