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.’’
THE INTERVIEWS (PART V)
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.’’
THE SUSPECTS
‘‘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.’’
THE AUTOPSY & THE DETERMINATION
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.
Ninjettes
by Kate Flora
I was threading my way between cars in the dark garage when a man coming toward me said, ‘‘Hey, looks like you dropped something.’’ I stopped to see what I’d dropped before I recognized this as a classic attacker approach.
He was beefy and unshaven, out of place in this upscale mall lot, and his expression was an ugly mix of smirk and lust. I checked out escape routes, transferred my packages to one hand, and got my keys ready. He was close enough for me to smell tobacco and Old Spice as I clicked the lock and tossed in my packages, keeping the car between us.
‘‘Don’t come any closer. You’re making me uncomfortable,’’ I said.
He grinned and flexed his fingers like a strangler warming up. I jumped in my car, stabbing the door lock as I jammed it into reverse. He was right behind me, fist raised, his face demonic in the red and yellow glare of the lights. I hit the gas, and he became a dark blur as he dove out of my way.
As I braked and shifted, I glanced back. He crouched there like some malevolent animal, shaking his shaggy head. I reminded myself to breathe, my self-defense instructor’s words in my head: Don’t worry about whether he’s hurt. What’s important is your own safety. Keep moving. Get yourself out of there. If you’re breathing you can react.
I shook all the way home, a post-adrenaline chill that went right to my bones. Inside, I dumped my packages on the table and undid my coat with shaking hands, then snapped on the oven and pulled out a rotisserie chicken and salad stuff for dinner. From behind his science magazine, Karl made an incomprehensible sound.
I thought I was fine until I stopped in Cassie’s room. She lasered my face with her sharp adolescent eyes. ‘‘Mom, what happened?’’
‘‘Nothing, honey. There was just this creepy guy in the parking garage who . . .’’
‘‘Are you okay?’’ I nodded. ‘‘Did you tell Dad?’’ I shook my head.
Cassie pulled the iPod buds from her ears. ‘‘You need tea.’’
Blessed are those who have daughters.
Later, as I hurried past Karl, snug as a bear in his new recliner, he glanced over his copy of Nature. ‘‘Off to your ninjettes class?’’
‘‘Sure am, sweetie,’’ I said. ‘‘Tonight we’re practicing plucking people’s heads off.’’
Karl would have to help Bobby, our fifteen-year-old who often got stuck on geometry, and Cassie, who was struggling with college essays. As both required hands-on assistance, he’d have to leave his chair and go act like a parent.
Communication is my specialty. Five days a week, I visit schools and community groups around the state, helping parents and teenagers learn to communicate more effectively. I’m good at helping people talk to each other. You’d think I could make it happen at home, but Karl’s developed an invisible shield that deflects my words like armor. His conversation these days is mostly demands or complaints, as though as his body gets wider, his mind gets narrower.
They say women tend to marry their fathers. My mother used to roll her eyes at my father’s constant demands and mutter, ‘‘Maybe it would be different if he were Winston Churchill.’’ Sometimes, studying the back of Karl’s magazine, I wondered if Mrs. Churchill was lonely, too.
I probably sound bitter. I’m not. It’s just frustrating to have good communication skills and be such a failure at home. Lately I’ve been feeling desperately fragile. Between Karl, the house, two teenagers, and a job, I’m stretched so far I feel like I’m teetering on a window ledge.
It was good to get out for something besides errands and work. I punched the ON button and got Seeger and Springsteen. The last song I played was a Cher song about Jesse James. The idea of a woman like me sending some arrogant studlet down in flames always left me smiling.
My ‘‘ninjettes class,’’ as Karl called it, was actually a RAD, or Rape Aggression Defense, class offered by our local police department. It was as much common sense and safety precaution as martial arts and self-defense. My friend Katie talked me into it, saying she didn’t want to make an ass of herself alone. But Katie’s a tough lawyer who’s good on her feet and looks like you wouldn’t want to mess with her, so I wondered if she’d done it for me. She always says I should get out more.
It was a sensible step for me. Increasingly, I found myself in far-flung parts of the state crossing scary parking lots at night. When I was standing in a gym with a bunch of nervous suburban ladies, our training had seemed distant and theoretical, but today at the mall, it had been just what I’d needed. Tonight we were practicing everything we’d learned. Police officers in their Aggressor suits were going to mug us and we were going to fight them off.
In the female officers’ locker room, my classmates clustered around Natalie Burke. Natalie was a big-eyed, slender brunette, the kind of woman you think you won’t like because she’s too damned attractive. She had perky implants while we were scooping up our saggy middle-aged breasts and repackaging them with underwire and padding, a sculpted body with visible muscles, and a frightening amount of energy. While we dragged our sorry asses into the gym each week, mumbling our responses like a gaggle of middle schoolers, Natalie hit the floor with singeing intensity.
She wiped away tears and streaks of mascara while two women stroked her back and murmured comfort. As I joined them, Katie whispered, ‘‘Her husband just left her for a twenty-five-year-old.’’
I felt the instinctive anger I always felt at these stories. Karl, still attractive despite the spread, was unlikely ever to leave me. It’s hard to get entangled with young honeys if you spend your life in your lab, your car, and your chair. There were young lab assistants, but anyone expecting half-decent treatment soon left unless they were as obsessed with lipids as Karl was. He looked to be the exception, though. Lately a lot of husbands were trading in their wives for younger models.
I could imagine someone youth-obsessed leavi
ng me. My mind’s nice and tight, but from shoulder to knee I’m soft as the Pillsbury Doughgirl. Natalie, though, was fit and gorgeous. Nor did the timing make sense. They’d just moved into a new house, I knew, because every week she related another construction disaster.
‘‘He just . . .’’ Natalie’s husky voice quivered. ‘‘. . . came home one day and said he was moving on. Standing in the kitchen, right in front of the children, he says he’s finally found someone who truly understands him. Who makes him feel young again.’’
She drew a shuddering breath. ‘‘Who wouldn’t feel younger if they didn’t have to worry about homework, sports schedules, teacher conferences, plumbers, investments, and finding a retirement community for his cranky mother?’’
Her workout shoes slapped the dingy tile. ‘‘I’ve been understanding him for twenty-five years. Twenty-five years of bullying the cleaner about his shirts. Of running in from T-ball games and showering off baby spit after moving heaven and earth to get a sitter so I could meet him for dinner in Boston looking glamorous. A quarter century of dancing to his damned piper and he dumps me. It’s just not fair.’’
She jerked off her wedding band and threw it across the room. ‘‘Twenty years as a gym fanatic because he noticed every ounce I gained. Well, fuck him.’’
The shiny gold spun like a dancer on the tile, then disappeared between two lockers. The room was so quiet I could hear the small clang of metal on stone as it fell.
Natalie snatched a headband from her bag, tied back her hair, and pushed up her sleeves. ‘‘Those cops better watch out because I am mad as hell and I have got to take it out on somebody.’’
Sisters On the Case Page 20
