Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

‘‘You come back and I’ll throw you in the river,’’ Zachary screams, laying punches on Shane. He drops the purse.

Shane covers it with his mangy body. ‘‘I got it, I got it. Finders keepers.’’

‘‘Get up. Let’s see what you got there.’’ Patrol Officer Gary Ponzecki pokes Shane with his baton.

‘‘Fuck!’’ Zachary screams. ‘‘It’s mine. He’s stealing it.’’

Shane gets up, smirking, swings his scrawny hips. ‘‘Oh, so Mister Tough Nuts is carrying a purse now. Everybody knows it’s my purse.’’

‘‘Back off,’’ Ponzecki says. He’s testy, having had a fight with Ellie again this morning. Her asshole father’s forever with the negative comments about the Job. And he can see Ellie’s beginning to go along. Ponzecki always wanted to be a cop. Loves the patrol. Really loves it. He’s not going to give it up and work for the old fart in his grocery store. He sees Rosen coming fast down 10th Avenue. ‘‘You heard me. Both of you. Back off. Don’t touch the purse.’’

‘‘I’ll take it from here,’’ Molly Rosen says. She points to the purse. ‘‘Bag it.’’

‘‘Not fair! Not fair. I found it.’’ Zachary is dancing around, fists clenched, like he’s prizefighting. ‘‘She don’t need it no more.’’

‘‘No! No! It’s mine.’’

Ponzecki says, ‘‘This one calls himself Shane. The ballet dancer is Zachary.’’

‘‘I ain’t no faggot,’’ Zachary screams. ‘‘I was in the ring.’’

‘‘This purse is evidence in a murder investigation. Maybe you both want to go to Rikers for a little vacation.’’ Molly flips through pages in her notepad till she finds a clean one.

‘‘She stepped on a mine,’’ Zachary says. ‘‘She don’t need it no more.’’ He’s got the shakes, doesn’t like that they brought him into the precinct house and he’s not sitting in front of the Chelsea in his place. Though the lady cop in the Mets cap promised they’d drive him there if he told them everything he knew. Even though he don’t know nothing. And they let that prick-face liar Shane go and he’s probably on his mattress again.

‘‘What time was it?’’ Rosen puts a cardboard container of coffee on the table in front of Zachary.

‘‘I don’t got a watch.’’ He likes the smell of coffee, but not the taste. At least there’s plenty of milk. ‘‘You put five sugars in like I told you?’’

‘‘Yes. Drink up. The sooner you tell me everything you know, the sooner you’ll get back to your place in front of the Chelsea. What time did you go up on the High Line?’’

‘‘It was dark. That’s all I know. I sleep up there when it’s hot. The grass smells good. But not last night.’’

‘‘What was different?’’

‘‘Smelled like in-country. She was took out. Almost got me.’’ He grimaces, takes a big gulp of coffee.

‘‘Whoever killed her tried to kill you?’’

‘‘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?’’