Codella showed her shield to the first floor security guards in the Bank of New Amsterdam main lobby. One of the guards made a call. Then he walked her to a private elevator, swiped a card, and sent her express to the top floor. When the doors opened, a well-dressed, mature woman was waiting to receive her. “I’m Roberta Ruffalo,” she said. “Mr. Merchant’s executive assistant.”
Ruffalo had a short haircut that made her look younger than she probably was. She stared appraisingly through horn-rimmed Prada eyeglasses. Codella shook her hand and gave her an NYPD card.
“I wish you had called before coming all this way, Detective.” Ruffalo smiled with cool cordiality. “I could have saved you the trip. Mr. Merchant is not in the building. He’s been in meetings all afternoon. Is there something I can do for you?”
Codella smiled back. “You can call him for me, Ms. Ruffalo. You can tell him I’m here and that I need to speak with him in person. Tell him it’s very important.”
Ruffalo frowned. “His schedule is incredibly tight, Detective—as you can imagine.”
Codella nodded. “Which is why I didn’t ask him to come all the way uptown to my office. But I need to speak to him.”
Ruffalo stared at her silver wristwatch. “I’m not even sure I can get in touch with him. He may be on an investor call right now.”
“Why don’t you try?” Codella smiled again. “Tell him I’m here and that I’ll wait for him.”
“If I do get him, he’ll want to know what this is in reference to.”
“It’s about his wife.”
“Then maybe I can help you. I’m handling all the arrangements.”
“This has nothing to do with arrangements, Ms. Ruffalo. Call him, please. Now.”
The woman still didn’t oblige. “If he’s with clients, it could be hours before he’s able to return.”
Codella stepped past the woman into the sleek and spacious waiting room outside Merchant’s office. The wall across from the elevator was floor-to-ceiling glass and provided a dramatic view of Lower Manhattan and New York Harbor. The rich and powerful of New York City saw a very different skyline than the average soul on the street, she reflected. She turned to face Ruffalo. “I hope you’re wrong.” She sat on a couch. “Because NYPD detectives don’t like to be kept waiting any more than bank chairmen do, and I don’t intend to leave this office until I speak to him face to face.”