Sisters on the Case

Not Just the Facts by Annette Meyers

They call it the High Line. It’s an elevated meadow that rises some thirty feet above the streets of Chelsea on the far west side of Manhattan. In the spring and summer the High Line is a rich blanket of green, dotted with wildflowers. When Francine Gold goes missing, it is here among the wildflowers on a sunny June afternoon that her body is found.

The High Line used to be a railroad route running from Gansevoort Street in the meatpacking district all the way to 34th Street, and the tracks are still visible cutting through the flora that has grown around them. People climbed the mound and strolled through the meadow, marveling that such a wonderful place existed in the city.

So the city, after much debate about tearing it down, actually listened to the protests, decided to convert the High Line into a public park, and closed it to the public, pending renovation. Now of course, as happens in New York, architects and landscape experts are being consulted without end, and there is no sign that any work will be done on the project in the near future.

This being the case, were it not for Chopper 6, the WNYS weather and traffic helicopter doing a sweep to report on sailboating traffic on the Hudson this summer morning, decomposition would have been more extensive.

‘‘What a sight! Let me tell you, it’s a great day for the tall ships,’’ chopper pilot Phil Vigiani reports. ‘‘Just enough wind to fill those beautiful sails. Boy oh boy, wouldn’t you like to be tacking the mainsheet right now? I would.’’ He smiles at the photo of Jen and the twins propped next to the one of him and Dwayne and Fred in their gear in front of Dwayne’s Apache. Fred, poor bastard, comes all the way through Desert Storm, then, drunk as a skunk, tops a hundred into a concrete barrier outside of South Bend. Phil pushes it from his mind. What’s the fucking point?

‘‘Water looks a little choppy there, Phil,’’ Wanda Spears comments from the studio.

‘‘Maybe a little. But there’s not a cloud in the sky. What a day.’’ He pauses, adjusts his goggles. ‘‘I’m looking down on the High Line now, Wanda. From up here she looks like a wide green carpet. Hey!’’ Engine surges.

‘‘Phil?’’

‘‘Holy sh-’’

Wanda doesn’t like where this is going and cuts him off before they’re all in trouble with the FCC.

Phil calls 911 on his cell. ‘‘Phil Vigiani, Chopper 6. I’m low over the High Line and I see what looks like a body lying in the grass. Not moving.’’

‘‘Hold on, sir.’’

‘‘Listen, babe, don’t put me on hold. I’m in a chopper. Get some medics and cops to the High Line, around 18th or 19th Street. What I’m seeing down there hasn’t moved though I made two low passes over it.’’

Doris Mooney doesn’t like being called babe, but she’s a pro. She’s been taking 911 calls for five years now. Before that she spent twenty-five years teaching fourth grade. Ask her which she likes better, she says right away, being a 911 operator.

‘‘Sir, I’m routing you through to the police and the fire department.’’

‘‘Tell them Phil Vigiani, Chopper 6. They’ll get it.’’

His name and phone number appear on her screen. ‘‘Stay on the line, Mr. Vigiani.’’ Doris hears the excitement in his voice. It’s like a drug, this adrenaline thing. She wonders if that’s really a body up there on the High Line.

Doris knows the High Line because she lives in a tiny one-bedroom apartment on 8th and 25th, part of the Penn South Houses, a middle-income housing development. She and Walter, her nine-year-old calico she realizes she loves more than she did her late husband, for whom the cat was named.

The High Line is very much part of the neighborhood. She’d buy a rotisserie chicken, make biscuits and potato salad, Walter would pick up a bottle of wine, and they’d have a nice picnic up there in the tall grass. It was like being in another world. But that was a long time ago. Walter was gone and she was no spring chicken anymore, though she still had her wits about her and the new copper color she’d washed into her hair looked really nice. If it was a body up there, how had it gotten there? The High Line was closed off till the city got around to renovating it. Heck, it’s New York. Anyone who wants to get somewhere bad enough finds a way.

She hears and sees on her screen that Phil Vigiani is connected to the 10th Precinct on West 20th. In short order, the area’s going to be crawling with cops, firemen, and EMTs. Doris disconnects, freeing the line for another call.

The 10th Precinct is an old-fashioned lime-and-brownstone precinct building on West 20th Street between7th and 8th avenues. You can’t miss it because of the large number of unmarked and radio cars, plus SUVs slant-parked on the sidewalk in front of the House, which pisses off some of the environmentally conscious locals. Not so much the parking all over the sidewalk so you can’t walk, but all those gas-guzzling SUVs with no thought to global warming.

The precinct covers a wide area from Chelsea into Hell’s Kitchen, combining both a large commercial industrial area and varying socioeconomic, multiethnic residential communities, including three housing projects: Fulton Houses, Chelsea-Elliot Houses, and Penn South Houses.

The precinct house’s claim to fame is that it was featured in the 1948 film The Naked City.

Officers Mirabel Castro, a twenty-eight-year-old redheaded Latina with a nice nose job, a booming voice, and a deceptively relaxed manner, and Anthony Warbren, thirty-four, former Little League pitching champ, who got as far as a Yankee farm team and is still recognized with a lot of Yo, Tonys around Fort Greene in Brooklyn, have just come off cooling a couple of hot tempers in a parking dispute in front of Loehmann’s.

They are already on 18th and 7th, three long blocks from the area where the body was sighted.

‘‘So whadja say then?’’ Tony said, making tracks. He intends being First Officer on the scene.

‘‘Said, Felipe, you gotta respect my career.’’ Mirabel’s sweating like a fool in this heat, taking three steps for his every one to keep up. Felipe’s her live-in boyfriend. He has a good job with Home Depot in the Bronx and’s been bugging her about kids. ‘‘Tell the truth, Tony, you see me wiping asses?’’

Tony laughs. ‘‘You already dealing with crap on the Job.’’ He’s crossing 9th Avenue, leaving her behind. What’s she got to bitch about? All these women on the Job get special attention and it burns a lot of guys. But he has no complaints. He’s gay and out and no one at the 10th says boo to him about it. He and Larry, a dental surgeon, have been together for nine years. They’re in the process of adopting a multiracial kid.

They get beat to the scene by the fire department. An EMT fire department bus, lights swirling, is pulled up next to the red fire emergency vehicle in a parking lot below the thirty-foot rise. Metal stairs lead up from the lot to the High Line. Two EMTs are taking the stairs fast. An FDNY fire marshal is on the top of the rise, waving the medics up. He sees Tony first and draws his hand across his throat, like he’s slicing.

‘‘See that?’’ Tony says. ‘‘I’m calling it in.’’ He talks into his cell. ‘‘Yeah, looks like something. FDNY beat us to it. Better get someone from Crime Scene over before they fuck it up.’’

‘‘Hey, up there,’’ Mirabel yells. ‘‘Don’t mess up our crime scene.’’ Her voice is so loud they all turn.

On his cell, Tony says, ‘‘Gotcha, Sarge. Everyone stays till the detectives get here, and no one else goes up there.’’ He clicks off. ‘‘You heard?’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ Mirabel folds her arms across her chest.

Pigeon crap coats everything, including the staircase, which is fenced off at entry by a gate with a padlock. It wouldn’t be easy to get to the top of the rise without climbing over the fence, unless someone has a key to the padlock of the gate. The padlock hangs loose now, either broken by the perp or by the FDNY.

The EMTs come back down the stairs, hauling their kits. First, black woman, her curves almost, but not quite, hidden under the regulation uniform. Simone Norwood, Corporal, National Guard, served two tours in Iraq as a medic and could be called back any day now, which doesn’t make her happy, her being a single mother with two kids under ten and her own mother whining all the time about taking care of kids again at her age. Simone’s wire-rimmed glasses have slid down her nose on beads of sweat. She pushes them up and gives her gear to the probie Ryan Moore to load into the bus.

‘‘You gotta hang out till the detectives get here,’’ Mirabel says. She has her notepad out.

‘‘Yeah.’’ Simone leans against the bus and gives Mirabel her name, serial number, time of arrival, time of pronouncement of death, then motions for Ryan to do the same. Boy, she’d like a cigarette, except she’s trying to quit. Pack she carries in her pocket is burning a hole in her Windbreaker.

‘‘What’s the word?’’ Tony says. He’s unrolling the yellow crime scene tape around the staircase area.

‘‘Not a pretty sight.’’

Fire Marshal Richard Fergussen comes clanking down the stairs. He ducks under the tape. He’s done. He hates this kind of call, dead girl, beaten to hell and back. Nothing he can do for her. Makes him worry about his Anna Marie, who’s going off to Boston College in August. Wouldn’t listen about Fordham and living at home. At least he could protect her from some of the bad stuff out there. She’s such a sweet, trusting kid. The ulcer starts grinding his gut. He’s got his bottle of Maalox in the car. He can’t hold back the shudder, can’t shake the image of that poor girl up there, something he can’t do a goddam thing about. His job is saving lives. Now it’s up to the NYPD.

An unmarked screeches to a stop next to the FDNY bus. A radio car follows.

Fire Marshal Fergussen joins the patrol officers.

‘‘Homicide?’’ Officer Castro asks.

‘‘Possible,’’ Fire Marshal Fergussen replies.

‘‘What do we have?’’ Detective First Grade Molly Rosen, wearing a white shirt, black linen pants, climbs out of the passenger side of the unmarked, while her partner, Greg Noriega, pops the trunk and collects camera and booties. She’s sweating right through the shirt she paid too much for at Banana Republic, even though it was on sale.

‘‘First Officer?’’ she says.

‘‘Foot Patrol Officer Anthony Warbren.’’

Rosen tilts her Mets cap upward. She takes in the scene. The EMTs, the fire marshal, the staircase to the High Line, the loosened padlock. The sun like a fucking ball of fire overhead. The parking lot with scattered vehicles. ‘‘Okay,’’ she says. ‘‘Let’s have it.’’

Tony Warbren reads from his notepad. ‘‘Call came in at nine twenty. Chopper 6 reported what looked like a body on the High Line, around 19th Street. Castro and I were three blocks away and arrived on the scene at nine forty-two. Two FDNY EMTs, Norwood and Moore, running up the stairs.’’ He nods to Norwood and Moore, who lean against the bus. ‘‘Fire Marshal-’’

‘‘Richard Fergussen,’’ the fire marshal says. ‘‘Got here first. Dead woman. Face down. Didn’t touch anything except her wrist for a pulse. EMTs turned her on her back.’’ He blinks as Noriega begins taking photos.

‘‘I want the scene extended,’’ Molly Rosen tells the two uniforms from the radio car. She points. ‘‘There. There. There.’’ Barriers are set up and the taped area is widened. ‘‘The plates on every car. Get me a printout.’’

‘‘The padlock was hanging loose,’’ Warbren continues.

‘‘Like it was when I got here,’’ Fire Marshal Fergussen says.

‘‘In order to preserve the integrity, Castro and I didn’t climb the stairs or enter the crime scene,’’ says Warbren.

‘‘Good. Warbren, you stay here. Castro, canvass these buildings.’’ She nods at the commercial buildings and a tenement across 10th, facing the High Line. ‘‘See if you can round up a few witnesses.’’ She eyes the gathering group of the curious held back by the wooden horses and yellow tape strung around by the patrol officers. ‘‘Let’s get some additional personnel here to make nice with the crowd and maybe come up with something valuable.’’

Molly Rosen slides the latex gloves on heat-swollen hands and ties the booties over the black pumps, which have begun to pinch. She opens the gate and climbs the rattling stairs. She’s sweating buckets. Doesn’t like that she has to stop at the top to catch her breath, for chrissakes, and to quiet her stomach. Her mouth tastes like raw fish. She is forty-one, a fifteen-year veteran NYPD, gold shield eight years. Anyone would tell you, she’s tough, knows her stuff. Worked her way up butting heads with the good old boys in the department. Has great kids-Josie three, Del Jr. five, and Mary eight. Great kids thanks to Del, who quit his teaching job to be a stay-at-home dad. It was a case of who wanted what more.

Noriega’s flash goes off. Rosen wobbles. ‘‘You okay?’’ he says. Rosen doesn’t look okay. She’s got this pasty look on her face. She’s tough as nails with this rep of chewing up rookie homicide detectives and spitting them back to narcotics, and he for sure doesn’t want to go back there.

‘‘Yeah, why wouldn’t I be okay?’’ She wipes the oily sweat off her face with a tissue. Okay if being fucking pregnant again is okay.

‘‘Looks like all that’s missing are the cows,’’ Noriega says. He snaps what may or may not be the path to the vic made by the perp and/or the fire marshal and the EMTs.

Dr. Larry Vander Roon from the ME’s office appears on the stairs. He’s overweight and only months from retirement, but everyone else is busy. He could do without this, but they can’t do without him. They don’t have enough on staff. Cutbacks all the time, now they’re talking about his retirement as attrition. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t retire. It’s Joanne who wants it. She’s got her eye on a condo in Fort Myers. What the hell would he do there, sit by a pool and listen to the jabber? Not him.

When he gets to the top of the stairs, the sun bakes right down on him. It’s an oven up here. The body is going to stink something awful, the corruption difficult. Give him a winter body anytime.

The meadow is green, almost lush in the late morning heat. The sun is high and there are no clouds to offset the glare. A faint breeze barely moves the blades of tall grass and the wildflowers. The footfalls of the fire marshal and the two EMTs are unmistakable, marking a passage of approximately twenty feet from the top of the stairs to the body. It is understood that this may have obscured the path left by the killer, should this prove to be a homicide.

Because of this probability, the body has been left uncovered.

Scattered along the way from the top of the stairs to the body are various articles of clothing. A black T-shirt lying on a clump of daisy-like wildflowers, black pants and a stained white blazer closer to the body. A lacy black bra and black bikini panties, tossed to the right and to the left. Noriega marks each spot.

The vic is female, late twenties, early thirties, slim, long blond hair. Her eyes half-open slits, one side of her face obscured by dried brown blood, purple bruising. She is naked, brutally beaten. Rigor has set in.

Noriega snaps dozens of pictures of the vic from all angles, then circles around taking care where he steps, taking more photos of the area. He narrowly misses tripping over an empty wine bottle. ‘‘Wine bottle. Empty.’’

‘‘Mark it.’’

He drops a marker, slings his camera over his shoulder, and sketches out the scene in his notepad. The air reeks with decomposing body smells.

Molly Rosen steps aside so Larry Vander Roon can get to the body. She calls down to the patrol officers. ‘‘I want the body isolated and this whole area of the High Line around the body, a block both ways, uptown and downtown, cordoned off.’’

‘‘She was spotted by Chopper 6 at nine twenty this morning,’’ Rosen says. ‘‘The fire marshal got here first, then the EMTs, who pronounced her. They flipped her over on her back.’’

‘‘I can see that. Lividity’s on her butt.’’ Vander Roon is old-school. Gloves on, he crouches beside the body, nostrils twitching. ‘‘Poor little thing.’’ He takes his thermometer from his bag, rolls the body onto her side.

‘‘We’ve got her clothes, tossed around like someone was having a good time.’’

Vander Roon grunts. ‘‘Value judgment?’’ He checks the vic’s eyes for hemorrhages.

‘‘Not me, Larry. Just an observation.’’

He squints up at her. ‘‘You look a little green around the gills, Rosen. You-?’’

‘‘Larry, just deal with the vic.’’ Regrets the snappish tone. ‘‘Sorry. Can you estimate time of death?’’

Vander Roon shifts his weight. His bad knees will have him limping when he gets up. ‘‘Some of this is old stuff.’’

‘‘Antemortem?’’

‘‘That and ante antemortem. I gotta get her on the table.’’ He checks the reading on the thermometer. ‘‘Given loss of body heat, even taking into account roasting up here, the stage of rigor, lividity, I’d say twelve to fourteen hours.’’

‘‘Gunshot wound? Asphyxial? What? Beating? That head wound looks bad.’’

‘‘Even minor head wounds bleed a lot. Like this one.’’

‘‘Can you tell if she died here or was dumped?’’

‘‘She died here.’’

‘‘Found something,’’ Noriega says. ‘‘Looks like what’s left of a pill. You want to see it up close?’’

‘‘Let’s have a look,’’ Vander Roon says. He removes his gloves and drops them into a container in his bag. ‘‘Give me a hand, will you, Rosen?’’

Molly takes his elbow and he leans into her. The old guy weighs a ton. Good thing she’s a big girl. ‘‘Mark the place and bring it here,’’ she tells Noriega. ‘‘Then see if anyone even vaguely of her description’s been reported missing.’’

Vander Roon looks at the mashed remains of a pill in Molly’s palm. ‘‘If it’s hers, and it’s important, we’ll find it in the tox screen.’’

Molly’s cell rings. ‘‘Rosen.’’ She sees Crime Scene unloading their gear in the parking lot. ‘‘Crime Scene just got here.’’

‘‘I’ll stick around,’’ Vander Roon says. ‘‘When they’re through, my people will take her away.’’

‘‘Noriega, you, too. When the body is removed, get pictures of the area around and under where she was.’’ Molly’s distracted, phone to her ear. ‘‘What? Where? Okay, I’m on my way.’’ She pockets the cell. ‘‘Patrol found two EDPs on 14th under the viaduct fighting over a woman’s purse.’’

Emotionally Disturbed Persons.

Zachary lives in a cardboard box under the viaduct. He’s been on the street in New York since he left the VA hospital in Baltimore. Tossed the pills they gave him for the voices the minute he got out. Can’t rememberhow he ended up in New York, but what the fuck difference does it make anyway? He’s got a home here, fixed up real nice, with a mattress he found outside a brownstone on 20th. He sits all day in front of the Chelsea Hotel on 23rd. That’s his place. People put money in his bowl, which says Purina. He gets real mean if someone tries to move in on him.

Sometimes when it’s real hot, he climbs the fence to the High Line and sleeps in the grass. The grass is sweet. But then it’s not. He smells it. He goes looking for it, though he doesn’t want to. He never leaves his platoon, even when it’s real bad. He isn’t going to run now. It’s a girl. Not a gook neither. They took her out. She smells like Nam. Rotting dog meat. Nothing he can do. He backs away and falls on his ass. Lays still a long time, waiting for the blast. Nothing happens. He sits up and there it is. A purse. He grabs it up and takes off.

When he gets to his crib, there’s filthy bare feet sticking out of it, laying on his mattress. He goes nuts. It’s that acidhead been hanging out under the viaduct.

‘‘Hey!’’ He kicks the feet hard. ‘‘Get the fuck outa my crib.’’

The feet pull back. Otherwise, nothing. Zachary reaches into his box and grabs one skinny ankle and pulls the piece of shit outa his crib. ‘‘What the fuck you doing?’’

‘‘You wasn’t using it,’’ the acidhead screams, scrambles to his feet. He calls himself Shane. Mooches from the moochers. He’s twelve when his mother remarries. Every time his stepfather gets him alone, the slug sucks his dick and more. First chance Shane gets, he cleans out all the cash in the house and leaves. He hangs in the Port Authority the first winter turning tricks. Hash, acid, even coke, easy to come by. A rap-per faggot drops some acid on him once outside a Village club. The AIDS killed that life, but he’s managing. Finds plenty to eat out of the trash baskets, still turns a trick now and then.

‘‘You come back and I’ll throw you in the river,’’ Zachary screams, laying punches on Shane. He drops the purse.

Shane covers it with his mangy body. ‘‘I got it, I got it. Finders keepers.’’

‘‘Get up. Let’s see what you got there.’’ Patrol Officer Gary Ponzecki pokes Shane with his baton.

‘‘Fuck!’’ Zachary screams. ‘‘It’s mine. He’s stealing it.’’

Shane gets up, smirking, swings his scrawny hips. ‘‘Oh, so Mister Tough Nuts is carrying a purse now. Everybody knows it’s my purse.’’

‘‘Back off,’’ Ponzecki says. He’s testy, having had a fight with Ellie again this morning. Her asshole father’s forever with the negative comments about the Job. And he can see Ellie’s beginning to go along. Ponzecki always wanted to be a cop. Loves the patrol. Really loves it. He’s not going to give it up and work for the old fart in his grocery store. He sees Rosen coming fast down 10th Avenue. ‘‘You heard me. Both of you. Back off. Don’t touch the purse.’’

‘‘I’ll take it from here,’’ Molly Rosen says. She points to the purse. ‘‘Bag it.’’

‘‘Not fair! Not fair. I found it.’’ Zachary is dancing around, fists clenched, like he’s prizefighting. ‘‘She don’t need it no more.’’

‘‘No! No! It’s mine.’’

Ponzecki says, ‘‘This one calls himself Shane. The ballet dancer is Zachary.’’

‘‘I ain’t no faggot,’’ Zachary screams. ‘‘I was in the ring.’’

‘‘This purse is evidence in a murder investigation. Maybe you both want to go to Rikers for a little vacation.’’ Molly flips through pages in her notepad till she finds a clean one.

‘‘She stepped on a mine,’’ Zachary says. ‘‘She don’t need it no more.’’ He’s got the shakes, doesn’t like that they brought him into the precinct house and he’s not sitting in front of the Chelsea in his place. Though the lady cop in the Mets cap promised they’d drive him there if he told them everything he knew. Even though he don’t know nothing. And they let that prick-face liar Shane go and he’s probably on his mattress again.

‘‘What time was it?’’ Rosen puts a cardboard container of coffee on the table in front of Zachary.

‘‘I don’t got a watch.’’ He likes the smell of coffee, but not the taste. At least there’s plenty of milk. ‘‘You put five sugars in like I told you?’’

‘‘Yes. Drink up. The sooner you tell me everything you know, the sooner you’ll get back to your place in front of the Chelsea. What time did you go up on the High Line?’’

‘‘It was dark. That’s all I know. I sleep up there when it’s hot. The grass smells good. But not last night.’’

‘‘What was different?’’

‘‘Smelled like in-country. She was took out. Almost got me.’’ He grimaces, takes a big gulp of coffee.

‘‘Whoever killed her tried to kill you?’’

‘‘Yeah. Whole place was mined.’’

‘‘Did you see anyone besides the dead woman?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Where did you find the purse?’’

‘‘Fell on it.’’

‘‘They took her away. Crime Scene is finished,’’ Greg Noriega says, coming into the interview room. ‘‘Jeez, what a stink.’’

‘‘The EDP.’’ Rosen comes up behind him with a spray can and sprays the room. There’s an intense flowery smell. She looks at the label. ‘‘Magnolia is better than EDP.’’ She puts on gloves and removes the purse that Ponzecki bagged. It is peach nylon fabric with leather handles, zipper closure. She empties its contents on the scarred and dented table. ‘‘Let’s see what we got.’’

Noriega, gloves on, begins separating the items. He takes out his notepad and writes each item down. ‘‘Black wallet. Lipstick.’’ With the back of his pen, he pushes the cylinder to Rosen. ‘‘Glasses case. No glasses. Kleenex. Cell phone. Postal receipt: priority mail, twenty-one dollars and fifteen cents. Five thirty p.m. yesterday.’’

‘‘Francine Gold,’’ Rosen says. She holds up a driver’s license. ‘‘Thirty-one. Five two, blue eyes. Could be our vic. Address: 400 West 12th Street.’’

‘‘Those new loft conversions.’’

‘‘See if anyone reported her missing.’’

Noriega takes a printout from his back pocket. ‘‘Manhattan missing persons. No one fitting her description. No one named Francine Gold.’’

At 400 West 12th Street, Susan Kim sits on a high stool at the concierge desk sorting mail. The desk is actually a broad marble counter closed in above and on each side of the opening. She reaches up and right and left putting residents’ mail in their boxes. This is the most boring part of her job, which she has held for three years, but tips are frequent, and it is particularly nice at Christmas because the sixteen units of the condo are owned by very successful people and they are generous. Maybe more so because she knows all their secrets and she likes it that way. She has the title concierge, but basically, she runs the place. Vasili, the super, is an Albanian immigrant whose every response is ‘‘No problem.’’ But he’s a good worker and doesn’t get in her face like the last one, the superstud from Ecuador who thought he was God’s gift to women.

Vasili handles three condo buildings on the block and lives with his wife and two children in an apartment in the one across the street.

Susan Kim’s parents are immigrants. They’d like her to go back to teaching once she finishes her master’s, but why should she? She makes double, even triple as a concierge and while she’s living at home, she saves most of it. One of her residents owns a designer boutique in SoHo and is always giving her things, like last week, these black leather boots. She swings one slim leg out, flexes her foot. Elegant. The boutique guy’s wife works long hours as a neurologist. She’s a cold snoot, so Susan has no sympathy for her when the husband brings models to the apartment some days.

The outside door opens and a tall woman in a white shirt and black linen pants comes in. She’s practically dripping sweat in Susan’s nice cool lobby. The woman’s clothes need ironing and her hair is in a messy ponytail. Frumpy. Right behind the frump is a skinny Latino in a cheap suit. They don’t have to show Susan their IDs. She knows they’re cops by their attitude. Like they can walk in anywhere. She wanted to be a cop once so everybody would respect her, but that was before she knew how grubby the job is and that they don’t make any money.

‘‘Detective Molly Rosen.’’ The woman holds up her badge. ‘‘This is Detective Greg Noriega.’’

Susan congratulates herself. Right on the nose. ‘‘I’m the concierge, Susan Kim. What can I do for you?’’

‘‘You have a tenant named Francine Gold?’’

‘‘This is a condo. No tenants. Owners. The Golds are in 7W.’’

‘‘She’s married?’’

‘‘Yes. Adam Gold is an architect. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He designed one of the new buildings just below Chelsea Pier.’’

‘‘Where is his office?’’

‘‘He works out of the apartment.’’

‘‘So he’s at home now?’’

‘‘I believe so.’’

‘‘Is Francine at home?’’ Noriega says. Boy, does this babe love herself.

‘‘I don’t know. I didn’t see her leave this morning.’’ Susan saw her yesterday, though, with those big dark glasses on again.

Molly waits for Susan Kim to add what she’s thinking, but Susan presses her lips together so nothing else comes forth.

‘‘What does she do?’’

‘‘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.

‘‘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.

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?’’

‘‘One of the uniforms turned up a clerk in a liquor store on 23rd Street. A woman answering to Francine’s description bought two bottles of a Côtes du Rhône around eight o’clock that night. She paid cash.’’

Molly’s phone rings. ‘‘Detective Rosen.’’ It’s Larry Vander Roon. ‘‘Oh, yes, Larry.’’ She listens, frowning, makes circles with her hand to get Vander Roon to move faster. ‘‘Really? You’re sure? Yes, an empty wine bottle.’’ She thumbs through the list of evidence turned up by the Crime Scene Unit. ‘‘Two empty wine bottles. And a clerk who identified the vic as purchasing them around eight that night. Well, fax me your report.’’ She hangs up. ‘‘The tox screen came back. She had enough Seconal in her to kill three people.’’

‘‘And let’s not forget the wine.’’

‘‘He’s calling it a suicide.’’

‘‘What about the beating?’’

‘‘She had plenty of old healed fractures. The contusions were recent, but not recent enough or lethal enough to kill her.’’

‘‘She took off her own clothes?’’ Noriega answers the phone when it rings again.

‘‘It was an unbearably hot night.’’

‘‘It’s Charlotte Pagan.’’ Noriega hands Molly the phone.

‘‘Charlotte, we just got some interesting news from the ME’s office.’’ Molly listens. ‘‘Yes. That’s the story. Thanks.’’ Replaces the phone. She has the sudden strange feeling she may cry. The walls seem to close in on her. ‘‘Come on, Greg, let’s get some air.’’

They go downstairs. The humidity is gone and the dry heat feels good on Molly’s face. They hit the food wagon down the street. Molly’s hungry. Noriega’s always hungry.

‘‘They found an empty prescription bottle for Seconal in Francine’s desk.’’

‘‘So there it is,’’ Noriega says, taking a big bite from his hot dog. He loves the delicious spurt on his tongue.

‘‘Yes. They also found a paperback called Final Exit.’’ Molly covers her pretzel with mustard and takes a bite. Aces. She’s got her appetite back.