Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

‘‘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.’’

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.