Linda Fairstein - Hell Gate

“Giuliano,” Mike called out to Primola’s owner. “Mercer’s sticking to sparkling water but we might need to go intravenous Dewar’s on the princess here. Rapido.”

“I called the precinct and they’ve got a man stationed at both doors to the apartment,” Mercer said. “We went in the front one and there’s also a service entrance off the kitchen.”

Another feature of upscale apartments was the rear service door, so that garbage and deliveries-and the servants who managed those duties-were kept out of the carpeted common hallways.

“Kitchen? Bathrooms?”

“Not there. I didn’t go into her closets, Mike,” Mercer said. “She’s not in the apartment.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“That’s why we came back to get you,” I said, smiling at him. “CSU responds more quickly when you call.”

“Crime Scene wouldn’t come out for you?” he asked, mopping the dish with a piece of garlic bread. “I’m supposed to be perplexed by that? You still got nothing, kid.”

Adolfo, the head captain, placed a steaming hot bowl of stracciatella in front of me, serving Mercer the same hearty pasta that Mike had eaten.

“I’ve made the mistake of thinking that way before.” Just months earlier, I had delayed my follow-up on a woman who had been reluctant to report a rape. Her decision to pull away from the police investigation was a deadly one. “I called Battaglia and Commissioner Scully on the way back here. We’ve got the same dilemma. No missing persons report for forty-eight hours.”

Most police departments had a firm policy on adults who disappeared without evidence of foul play. They were presumed to have removed themselves from their homes or businesses, and no professional wild goose chases would be launched in the absence of evidence of related criminal conduct.

“You check with her sister?”

“She’s fine,” Mercer said. “Just a little surprised that Salma isn’t home. The baby’s okay too.”

“Chow down, Coop,” Mike said, clicking his martini glass against my scotch. “What did the wide-awake doorman have to say?”

“He never saw Salma leave. Swears it. One of the porters covered him for his dinner break and didn’t see her either.”

“How many doors?”

“Front and rear. And the garage. But that’s attended day and night, and nobody there saw any sign of her. Rear door gets locked at six o’clock.”

“There must have been deliveries after six,” Mike said.

I spooned the hot soup while Mercer answered all of Mike’s questions.

“Yeah. Guys come to the front door. Fitz sends them around to the rear entrance and buzzes them in.”

“Has he got a list of tonight’s action?”

“Nothing written down, but he says it was the usual. Supermarkets, florists, liquor. They were still coming till close to ten o’clock.” That was routine in a city where stores stayed open throughout the night and people were willing to pay for-and tip for-every kind of convenience to suit their busy lives.

“Fancy building like that must have a security system. They video the entrances or elevators?”

“Nothing recorded. Fitz has four monitors of the door, the basement corridors, and the laundry room. But that’s only when he remembers to watch them.”

“You think he could have missed her if she walked out the front door?”

“It’s possible,” I said. “If she had a coat on with a hood up against the cold or a scarf bundled around her I guess he could have mistaken her for someone else. Even if his back was turned for a minute. I can’t say that she didn’t walk out. It just doesn’t feel right.”

“Don’t go getting all spooky on me, Coop,” Mike said, reaching out and clasping my hand. “That last one wasn’t your fault. Just work with the facts.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do. The facts suggest Salma should be home in her bed, sound asleep. She can’t go to Leighton’s place-”

“Look, it’s still early and she’s still erratic. Who’s the man that showed up? Maybe she went to hook up with him. Maybe she’ll get to her sister’s before the night is over.”

“Please? Just do this for me tonight? I’ll owe you, Mike. Anything you want. Scully will put a team on this instead of waiting forty-eight hours if we can just give him a scintilla of evidence. Anything, Mike.”

“You heard her, Mercer. Now, how do I collect on this one? Do what, blondie?”

“Call Hal Sherman. Ask him to bring a crew to process the apartment.”

Mike stood up and downed his martini, then sucked the olive into his mouth and chewed on it. “Tell you what, let’s go over and poke around. If I find anything of interest, I’ll call CSU. But if Salma walks in on the middle of it, I’m going with your excellent circumstances legal argument. And I’m already drawing up a monster list of what you owe me.”

I pushed away from the table. “Mercer’s parked right across the street.”

When we reached East End Avenue, Mercer left the car near Gracie Mansion and threw his police identification placard on the dashboard.

“Pretty swell digs,” Mike said, looking up at the sleek residential tower. “Maybe there is something to being kept after all. You check out the rear entrance?”

“Nope,” Mercer said. “It’s a good place to start.”

We crossed the avenue and followed the sidewalk past the garage entrance and around to the rear of the building. The pavement was bordered by the building on one side, and the solid dark brick wall of an older apartment on the other.

The walk was well-maintained and lighted. The security camera was visible above the door, but appeared to be raised too high to capture visitors in its lens. Several grocery shopping carts were stacked inside each other, like luggage carts at an airport awaiting the arrival of the incoming flights.

Mercer pulled on the door but it didn’t give. Next to it was a bell marked RING FOR ENTRY. When he pressed the buzzer, several seconds elapsed before we heard the crackle of the intercom.

“Yeah? Who’s that?”

“Fitz?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Mercer Wallace here. I’m at the back door, Fitz. Can you see me?”

“Where?”

“At the back door of the building. Check the monitor.”

“I’ll buzz you in.”

“But can you see me, Fitz?”

“I recognize your voice, Wallace. When you hear the buzzer, come on in.”

Mercer, standing on his toes to extend his six-foot-six-inch height, reached up and pulled the neck of the camera back into proper aim.

“High-tech security,” Mike said. “The Fitzpatrick try-not-to-bother-me-while-I’m-on-duty voice-identification system. Follow me.”

Small signs with arrows pointing east and west indicated the service elevator, the laundry room, the passenger elevator to the lobby and apartments, and the staircase.

Mercer had given me latex gloves while we were in the car. We each put on a pair and I watched as Mike lifted the lids of the four supersize trash containers on wheels that were lined up adjacent to the service elevator.

He led us up the stairwell to the lobby, and Mercer introduced him to Harry Fitzpatrick.

“Ten-C has already complained to the super,” Fitz said, taking off his hat and mopping his bald head. “I’m going off at midnight. You back to make more trouble?”

“We’re going up to Ms. Zunega’s apartment,” Mercer said. “She comes along-or anyone else asking for her-you buzz up immediately.”

Each of us had our hands in our jacket or pants pockets. The latex gloves would have puzzled most of the residents.

The uniformed cop sitting on a folding chair outside Salma’s apartment door stood up when he saw us get off the elevator. He assured Mercer that nothing had occurred in the forty-five or so minutes we were gone.