Hell Gate by Linda Fairstein Page A

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.”

TEN
    “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