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.
Jeannie’s going to Italy on her vacation next Monday to stay with her grandparents, who have a farm in Cortona, in Tuscany. There’s a man there, a widower not even forty yet. He owns an olive oil business. She’s getting her June check today, which includes her vacation pay. She speaks good Italian. Maybe she just won’t come back.
Molly takes Jeannie’s name, address and phone number, then steps into Norman Mosca’s office. His back is to her as he shoves papers into the wide briefcase lawyers carry to court.
‘‘Mr. Mosca.’’
He turns with a snarl, but he has the face of a whippet, long thin nose, graying temples, and the corresponding build, long, lean, ready to run. His suit is charcoal gray and fits like it was made to order. White shirt, blue patterned silk tie. Black tasseled loafers. Molly gets a rush of sympathy for Francine Gold. The husband and the boss. How unlucky can a girl get?
Norman hates women with no style and this one who is just walking into his office like she owns the place is a dog of the first order. What the fuck is she holding up practically in his face?
‘‘Detective Molly Rosen. Mr. Norman Mosca?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘I’m here about Francine Gold.’’
‘‘Francie? What about her?’’ Fuck. That mealy-mouth cunt turned on him. He warned her if she said anything she was in deep shit. He’d set it up that way, dropped a hundred K into an account he opened in her name in the Caymans when he was there last spring. Good luck to you, Miss Goody-Fucking-Two-Shoes. They get me, they get you. Oh, wouldn’t your big-shot husband love to see that in the news.
‘‘Her body was found this morning on the High Line.’’
‘‘What?’’ Norman sits down at his desk. ‘‘What did you say?’’
‘‘Francine Gold. Her husband identified her body about two hours ago.’’
If she’s dead she can’t hurt me. It’ll all be on her. He’s saved. Oh, yes. ‘‘She’s dead?’’
‘‘Yes. Did you know Francine Gold’s husband physically abused her?’’
‘‘No. My God, no.’’ Adam just gave her what she was asking for, what Norman would have liked to do himself, but he doesn’t hit women. ‘‘If I’d known poor Francie had domestic problems, I would have been nicer to her.’’ Take off that look of disgust, bitch. No way should women be allowed on the police force. They’ve already got too much power.
‘‘Where were you between midnight and seven this morning, Mr. Mosca?’’
‘‘Jesus fucking Christ, you think I did it?’’
‘‘Just answer the question, Mr. Mosca. It’ll go faster.’’
He’d like to piss in her officious fucking face. ‘‘Well, I was in Atlantic City. The limo picked me up outside the office at eight o’clock last night. Got to the Taj Mahal at ten thirty and stayed in the casino all night, first blackjack, then craps. There’s heavy surveillance so I’m covered from here to eternity.’’ Put that in your twat, bitch. ‘‘Got in the limo at six this morning and was back at my apartment in the city at nine, in time to shower and shave.’’
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Mosca. It would be good if you didn’t leave town until our investigation is finished. I’ll be going now. There are some people from the District Attorney’s office waiting to talk with you. He’s all yours,’’ she tells Charlotte Pagan.
Greg’s interview with Connie Bullard:
‘‘A Robert Malkin came to the building last week demanding to see Norman and Francie,’’ Connie says. ‘‘He was pretty hostile so Security wouldn’t let him up. Norman was on vacation, but Francie was here.’’
‘‘Do you know who this Robert Malkin is?’’
‘‘No. But I think Francie did.’’
‘‘Why do you say that?’’