The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(67)

Najwa looked around as she walked down the entrance corridor. The building was not quite as grand as it seemed from the outside. The cream walls were covered with numerous scuff marks and needed repainting. The black granite floor was chipped and worn, spotted with gray and white patches. There was a faint but noticeable smell of disinfectant. CCTV cameras covered the entrance, the corridor, and the lobby.

A second, older doorman stood behind a tall wooden desk that reached up to his chest. He had small, suspicious eyes set in a broad, fleshy face. The sports section of the New York Post was open on the lectern.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked, looking Najwa up and down, clearly assessing her curves.

She smiled. “I hope so. I’m here to see Francine de la Court.”

The doorman scowled and returned to his newspaper. “You’re outta luck. She’s out,” he said in a strong Queens accent.

Najwa glanced at the row of television monitors by the side of the desk. They were all blank apart from the words “Source fault.” On the contrary, she was very much in luck. “That’s a shame. I’d like to go up anyway. She has a book of mine. She said if she had to go out she would leave it with a neighbor. He’s waiting for me to pick it up.”

The doorman looked up. “Who?”

“Joel Greenberg. Could you call him?”

“Mr. Greenberg don’t like to be disturbed by unexpected visitors. Try later.”

“Please? I am here now, I cannot come back later,” she said, dropping a fifty-dollar bill onto the newspaper. The doorman did not lift his eyes, merely gestured backward with his head to indicate she could go ahead.

Francine lived on the sixth floor, in apartment 6F. Najwa stepped out of the elevator and walked down the hallway. The floor was lined with a brown runner, held in place by brass rails, but the brass was dull and mottled and the edges of the long, stained carpet were fraying. Apartment 6F was just two doors down from the elevator. It was an old and noisy contraption, and she could feel the floor vibrate as it descended back to the lobby.

The door of 6F was painted light green. She knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again. Still no answer. This was not unexpected. Najwa had called several times over the past couple of days, and nobody had picked up the phone. The bad-tempered doorman was correct. She moved on to knock on the door of apartment 6E, which she had already established was occupied by Joel Greenberg.

A voice shouted, “Hold on, I’m coming,” echoing down the corridor. A few seconds later the door opened to reveal an elderly man. He wore a pressed light-blue denim shirt that matched his lively blue eyes, and was trim and well groomed. He looked at Najwa, clearly pleased to have such a visitor. “Hello. How can I help you, my dear?”

She gave him her most dazzling smile. “I’m Najwa, a friend of Francine’s from the UN.”

“Joel Greenberg, pleased to meet you.”

They shook hands. Greenberg’s palm was cool, his grip firm.

“I’m worried about her,” Najwa said. “She doesn’t answer any of her phones. I’ve left several messages. She hasn’t called back.”

Greenberg frowned. “I thought it was terrible what they did to her. First her boss dies, then they sack her, just like that after all those years of service. I told her to get a lawyer but she didn’t want to know. I used to be a lawyer, did a lot of labor work, for the unions as well, and I told her, she would have a very good case for—”

She sensed he was about to launch into a monologue and cut in quickly. “I completely agree, Joel.” She paused. “May I call you Joel?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Greenberg nodded. “Of course.”

Najwa continued talking. “We all said she should fight it. Even the UN staff union wanted to take it up. But she didn’t want to … do you know where she is now?”

“She said she was going away for a while, to stay with friends. Didn’t say where. We were good friends, you know. Then she just disappears like that …”

“The thing is, Joel,” Najwa leaned forward conspiratorially. She could hear the NPR midday news playing in the background. “I lent her a book and I really need it back.” She stepped back, paused. “No, no, it’s too much to ask.”

“What? Ask already.”

“I couldn’t …”

“Ask.”

“A key. Did she leave you a key? It would be for a couple of minutes, just till I find the book.”

Greenberg gave Najwa a piercing look as if to say, I may be old, but I know when I am being played. “A friend of hers from the UN, you say?”

“That’s me. We spent a lot of time together.” Mostly trying to get past her to get to Henrik Schneidermann, Najwa thought, but there was no need to go into that.

He paused for a moment. “Then you must know her daughter. A beautiful girl.”

“Francine doesn’t have a daughter. Not as far as I know. She does have a son, Luc. He goes to Brooklyn Community College.”

Greenberg stared at Najwa, taking his time. She held his gaze, feeling the familiar, confident excitement that things were going her way.

“Hold on,” the old man said. He stepped inside his apartment. Najwa watched him walk into a well-equipped kitchen, heard him rummage in a drawer for several seconds before he returned. He held a key in his thumb and forefinger. “OK. I’m trusting you with this. Five minutes.”