Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

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?’’

‘‘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?’’