‘‘Because Francie went down to speak to him. She came back very upset. Sort of went crazy going through Norman’s files. When Norman got back from vacation, they had a real blowout fight. Boy, was Norman yelling. Francie went to her cubicle and then came out with her briefcase, kissed me on the cheek, and left.’’ Connie begins to cry. ‘‘Like she was saying good-bye.’’
Detectives Molly Rosen and Greg Noriega arrive at 600 East 71st Street in the midst of crashing thunder and violent flashes of lightning. Just as they enter the building, rain comes down in big splats.
They show the doorman their IDs. ‘‘Detectives Molly Rosen and Greg Noriega. Here to see Mr. Robert Malkin,’’ Greg says. ‘‘Apartment 6B. He’s expecting us.’’
Robert Malkin is a pear-shaped man in his seven-ties, an Einstein look-alike with shiny pate and kinky gray hair puffing above his ears. ‘‘Come in, come in. I’m sorry the place is such a mess. The painters just left for the day. Bella’s in the kitchen. We can talk there. I tell you, I knew something was wrong with the whole escrow business.’’ He’s not normally a paranoid person and Norman has such a nice way about him. But with only their social security and his pension from Saks and Bella’s from teaching, he and Bella don’t have much extra. And their Dina now a widow with Jason and Judy only nine and in private school, they have to help out.
Molly edges around the canvas-draped furniture, Greg following. ‘‘We’re not with the District Attorney’s office, Mr. Malkin.’’
‘‘You’re not? Then I don’t understand-Bella, they’re not working on our case.’’
The kitchen is large and hot, in spite of the air-conditioning. The smell of butter and sugar makes Molly’s stomach turn. Bella is taking a sheet of rugalach from the oven. She is a small woman with a beehive of white hair and a pleasant smile.
‘‘Not our case?’’ She inspects Molly, then Greg, Molly again. ‘‘Have one, Detective. I’ll bet you haven’t eaten all day.’’ Don’t ask how she knows, but she can tell when a girl is pregnant like this one is. She remembers when she was pregnant with Dina. She would look in the mirror and see what she sees on the face of the woman detective. ‘‘Sit down, Detective. You have to keep food in your stomach.’’
‘‘We’re investigating the death of Francine Gold,’’ Molly says. Somehow the woman knows that Molly’s pregnant. How the hell?
‘‘Francine Gold is dead? Did you hear that, Bella?’’
‘‘What did you and Francine Gold talk about last week, Mr. Malkin?’’
‘‘Why, the fraud. She said she didn’t know anything about it. She just collected the checks and gave them to Norman for the escrow account.’’
‘‘You’re not explaining it right, Robby,’’ Bella says. She slides the rugalach onto a metal rack. ‘‘Norman lives in this building. We’re having so much trouble with the plumbing here, leaky pipes, and the landlord does nothing no matter how much we complain. So Norman suggested a rent strike. For a year we’ve done it. Norman set up an escrow account and we all give our rent checks to Ms. Gold. Now the landlord wants to sell the building. He’ll make all the repairs if we pay him the back rent. His lawyer drew up the papers and if the landlord doesn’t keep his end of the bargain by a certain date, he will have to pay us a lot of money. So we asked Norman for the money in the escrow account and he’s been putting us off for three months. The fact is, we are pretty sure now there never was an escrow account.’’
‘‘Ms. Gold was very upset,’’ Malkin says. ‘‘She said she would find our money, but I didn’t wait. I notified the District Attorney’s office.’’
‘‘Adam Gold’s alibi sticks,’’ Detective Molly Rosen says. She’s still got the morning sickness, but saltines are helping. It is three days since Francine Gold’s body was found on the High Line. ‘‘Vicky Wallaby backs him up.’’
‘‘We haven’t found the key,’’ Noriega says. ‘‘He and Vicky could have done it together.’’
‘‘True. Do you like them for it?’’
Noriega shakes his head. ‘‘And that toad Norman Mosca. His alibi covers him, too. So what do we have?’’
‘‘One of the uniforms turned up a clerk in a liquor store on 23rd Street. A woman answering to Francine’s description bought two bottles of a Côtes du Rhône around eight o’clock that night. She paid cash.’’
Molly’s phone rings. ‘‘Detective Rosen.’’ It’s Larry Vander Roon. ‘‘Oh, yes, Larry.’’ She listens, frowning, makes circles with her hand to get Vander Roon to move faster. ‘‘Really? You’re sure? Yes, an empty wine bottle.’’ She thumbs through the list of evidence turned up by the Crime Scene Unit. ‘‘Two empty wine bottles. And a clerk who identified the vic as purchasing them around eight that night. Well, fax me your report.’’ She hangs up. ‘‘The tox screen came back. She had enough Seconal in her to kill three people.’’
‘‘And let’s not forget the wine.’’
‘‘He’s calling it a suicide.’’
‘‘What about the beating?’’
‘‘She had plenty of old healed fractures. The contusions were recent, but not recent enough or lethal enough to kill her.’’
‘‘She took off her own clothes?’’ Noriega answers the phone when it rings again.
‘‘It was an unbearably hot night.’’
‘‘It’s Charlotte Pagan.’’ Noriega hands Molly the phone.
‘‘Charlotte, we just got some interesting news from the ME’s office.’’ Molly listens. ‘‘Yes. That’s the story. Thanks.’’ Replaces the phone. She has the sudden strange feeling she may cry. The walls seem to close in on her. ‘‘Come on, Greg, let’s get some air.’’
They go downstairs. The humidity is gone and the dry heat feels good on Molly’s face. They hit the food wagon down the street. Molly’s hungry. Noriega’s always hungry.
‘‘They found an empty prescription bottle for Seconal in Francine’s desk.’’
‘‘So there it is,’’ Noriega says, taking a big bite from his hot dog. He loves the delicious spurt on his tongue.
‘‘Yes. They also found a paperback called Final Exit.’’ Molly covers her pretzel with mustard and takes a bite. Aces. She’s got her appetite back.
Ninjettes by Kate Flora
I was threading my way between cars in the dark garage when a man coming toward me said, ‘‘Hey, looks like you dropped something.’’ I stopped to see what I’d dropped before I recognized this as a classic attacker approach.
He was beefy and unshaven, out of place in this upscale mall lot, and his expression was an ugly mix of smirk and lust. I checked out escape routes, transferred my packages to one hand, and got my keys ready. He was close enough for me to smell tobacco and Old Spice as I clicked the lock and tossed in my packages, keeping the car between us.
‘‘Don’t come any closer. You’re making me uncomfortable,’’ I said.
He grinned and flexed his fingers like a strangler warming up. I jumped in my car, stabbing the door lock as I jammed it into reverse. He was right behind me, fist raised, his face demonic in the red and yellow glare of the lights. I hit the gas, and he became a dark blur as he dove out of my way.
As I braked and shifted, I glanced back. He crouched there like some malevolent animal, shaking his shaggy head. I reminded myself to breathe, my self-defense instructor’s words in my head: Don’t worry about whether he’s hurt. What’s important is your own safety. Keep moving. Get yourself out of there. If you’re breathing you can react.
I shook all the way home, a post-adrenaline chill that went right to my bones. Inside, I dumped my packages on the table and undid my coat with shaking hands, then snapped on the oven and pulled out a rotisserie chicken and salad stuff for dinner. From behind his science magazine, Karl made an incomprehensible sound.