Hell Gate

NINE

“Get in the car, Coop.”

“It’s fine for you to disagree with me, Mike. I can just head home.”

“What’s your point?”

“Look, maybe Salma’s unhinged at the moment. How could she not be with what’s going on around her?”

“I’m getting unhinged myself. The combination of cold and hungry kills all my good instincts. It’s twenty-six degrees out here with a wind chill that makes it feel like minus five. It’s right behind that gray SUV. Get in.”

“Since when did you become Doppler Mike, the weather maven? The woman is scared enough to phone the police repeatedly-”

“Salma denied making the calls,” Mike said, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.

“They came from her landline. There’s no question about that,” I said. “The cops respond a few times, and when they get fed up, they tell her they’re not coming back under any circumstances.”

“That’s what she wants. She threatened to make a civilian complaint for harassing her.”

“Well, I’m not comfortable with it, okay? Salma has absolutely no lifeline to the police right now. You two go on to the restaurant. I’d like to go up to her apartment and have a talk with her. I can’t figure what Lem and Ethan were up to, but it stinks.”

“It’s almost ten thirty, Alex. What makes you think she’ll let you in?” Mercer asked.

I stepped off the curb to try to hail a cab.

“That stubborn streak is going to get her hurt someday,” Mike said, reaching for my hand to pull me back. “Coop thinks the sensitive-broad-to-sensitive-broad approach is always going to work for her. Thinks it’s better for crazy people than twenty-four hours in Central Booking. Meanwhile, all she really wants to do is get up close and personal with Salma before Lem Howell shuts her down.”

“You guys go have a drink and start eating. I don’t like the idea that this woman is all alone tonight, her life coming apart on national television, her baby sent off with a relative-”

“Her choice,” Mike said.

“She probably has no idea what she wants right now. Another man shows up at her door staking out rights to the kid, and bottom line? In case anything really does go wrong tonight-like Ethan Leighton deciding to try his hand at calming her down-the police have already told her they’re off-limits to her. Can you imagine? Who’s she going to call if there really is a problem?”

“I’ll take you back there, Alex,” Mercer said, stepping between Mike and me. “Ride up with me.”

“Sweet Jesus. Now you’re walking down Coop’s path? Drinking her Kool-Aid? Tell you what. I got no piece of your action, guys, okay? I’m assigned to the Ukrainian flotilla ’cause I handle real cases like murder. You got a drunken congressman who’s a John Edwards wannabe, go stroke the broad for an hour. Where’s the crime?”

Mike was parked at the corner. He walked over and got in, gunning the gas as he took off up First Avenue before we reached Mercer’s car halfway up the block on Thirtieth Street.

There was no traffic. We cruised up First, catching most of the lights to reach Salma’s building in twelve minutes.

Mercer parked his car across the street, in front of the tall wrought-iron gates that surrounded Gracie Mansion. Christmas decorations and lights still covered the outside of the building and the park around it, but the interior of the old house was dark.

The glass tower high-rise sparkled against the sky, a glitzy new addition to the classic prewar apartments that lined this quiet street that bordered the East River. Harry Fitzpatrick recognized Mercer as we approached and opened the door to admit us to the lobby of Salma’s building.

“Evening, sir. I didn’t mean to get you up here again, Mr. Wallace. All’s quiet now. The man hasn’t come back,” Fitz said, swinging his arms across each other like an umpire announcing a player safe on base. “Haven’t heard from Miss Salma. It’s good.”

“I’d like you to ring up to her for me.”

The doorman, built like a linebacker, tried to refuse politely. “Can’t do that, sir. She’s a tough cookie.”

“I’m Alexandra Cooper, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I’m an assistant district attorney in Manhattan. We need to talk to Salma Zunega. Now.”

“I-uh-I can’t do it, ma’am. It’s after ten thirty. I’m sure she’s resting.”

“Is it the hundred dollars the last guy gave you, Mr. Fitzpatrick? ’Cause you’re not going to get that from me, and I don’t think she’d like to hear you got it from him.”

“I just can’t. I don’t want to lose my job.”

I walked past Fitzpatrick and down the three marble steps that led into the opulent lobby. “Which elevator bank, Mercer?”

“To the right. Ten-A.”

I held open the door for Mercer, then pressed the button. Fitzpatrick didn’t seem to know whether to leave his post and follow us or break his word and call upstairs.

We got out on the tenth floor and I followed Mercer into the corridor. There were only three apartment doors, one on each end of the hallway and one right opposite the elevator. We walked the long hall on thick beige carpeting that muffled the sound of our steps.

There was a brass knocker on the door and a peephole below it, but no name in the small plate that identified most residents.

Mercer struck three times with the knocker.

“You hear anything?” I asked after several seconds.

He shook his head, then knocked again.

“Maybe she can’t hear it if she’s in the bedroom with her door closed.”

“This thing is big enough to make noise in the Bronx,” Mercer said, rapping with the knuckles of his huge hand.

The door at the other end of the corridor opened and a man emerged, pulling the leash of a black Lab that came out slowly behind him. “What’s all the banging about at this hour?”

“Sorry if we’ve disturbed you,” I said.

“Take your business inside, why don’t you?” he said, yanking on the leash again as he and his charge disappeared into the elevator.

“Call her phone, Mercer. Maybe she took something to help her sleep.”

He dialed her landline-we could hear it ringing-but she didn’t pick up after six rings, so he hung up.

“You want to try the door?”

“What are you thinking, Alex?”

“I don’t like this whole thing. I don’t want to leave her stranded from everyone who could help her. Just try it.”

People in New York’s toniest buildings, coddled by doormen and valets and concierges, often left their doors unlocked. There was a false sense of security that the high cost of rent or maintenance and the abundance of uniformed staff guaranteed in many of the city’s finest addresses.

Mercer put his hand on the shiny brass doorknob and turned it to the right. I heard it click and saw the look of surprise on his face as he pushed it open.

“Salma? Salma, it’s Mercer Wallace. I’m one of the detectives who was here today. You okay?”

The lights in the hallway were on and the living room beyond it was brightly lit.

There was no sound from anywhere in the apartment. Mercer took a couple of steps in and I followed him. He called her name out again, then extended his arm to stop me from going farther.

“Let’s back it up, Alex. You’re right. Maybe she knocked herself out with some pills and needs a good night’s sleep.”

“See the coffee table?”

The living room facing the river was glass windows from floor to ceiling on two sides. There was a striking vista of the river, with the lights of the bridges and highways glittering in the distance.

“Yeah. A bottle of red wine.”

“And two glasses. Not exactly the plan she announced to you.”

Mercer motioned to me to stay in place as he walked to the table, then returned.

“The bottle’s unopened.”

“Which way is the master bedroom?”

“Alex-”

“What if she tried to hurt herself?”

“You’re playing with dynamite here. Be ready to duck if she throws something,” Mercer said, pointing to the archway behind me. “Over there.”

I started down the narrow corridor, passing the child’s bedroom first. I peeked in and could see from the moonlight pouring through the window that the crib was empty and the room was neatly arranged.

I kept walking to the end of the hall, with Mercer on my heels.

The door was ajar and even without lamplight the tall windows fronting on the open panorama of the bright city sky revealed the emptiness of the room.

“Salma’s not here, Mercer.” My heart was racing as I tried to guess at where she might have gone and what prompted her to flee. “I’d better call Battaglia right now. Looks like Salma Zunega’s on the run.”