Hell Gate (11 page)

“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.”

“The woman vanishes and you call that excellent circumstances?” Mike said. “You take Mercer on a break-in into this broad’s love nest?”

“That’s not what I said. Exigent circumstances. That’s why Mercer and I went into her apartment. Perfectly legal.” I reached over and wiped the pasta sauce off the corner of Mike’s mouth with my napkin. “Can you possibly put your fork down for a minute and get serious?”

“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.

Mike turned the doorknob and followed us into the apartment. He adjusted the dimmer to brighten the hallway, then walked to one of the windows to take in the view.

“I’d say Salma landed on her feet, all right.”

“This place is too sterile, too impersonal, for my taste,” I said.

There was so much glass that there was little wall space in the living room to hang any art. But there were also no photographs—not even baby pictures—displayed on any of the tabletops or surfaces.

Mike looked at the wine bottle and two empty glasses.

“Can’t we take those for prints?” I asked.

“You’re always harping on me about getting a search warrant. You want to wake up some judge in the middle of the night and make your case, go for it. I don’t happen to have one in my back pocket.”