Hell Gate by Linda Fairstein Page B

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.