Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

‘‘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.’’

‘‘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.