Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Crime Fiction
They were only nine blocks from Cafe 58, a small French restaurant just off Second Avenue, so they walked up Second Avenue. It was a glorious spring day.
They often ate at Cafe 58 because the food was good, the service even better. There was something rather homey about it—its attempt at East Side chic, thwarted by the inapt red-and-black houndstooth upholstery on the banquettes and chairs, probably left over from a previous incarnation at the same address.
They were greeted effusively when they arrived, Smith leading the way. The sharp contrast from the bright sunlight of the street to the muted lighting within made Wetzon dizzy, and she rested her hand on the warm, smooth wood of the bar to steady herself.
“Good afternoon, mesdames.” The maître d’ bowed. “Table for three today ... how is that in the corner?” He knew that was where they preferred to sit, so it was like playing a charade, but they always went along with it.
“Perfection, as always,” Smith said.
He led them to their table. “I would like a Lillet,” Smith announced, after she was settled.
“And you, madam?”
“Diet Coke.”
“Oh, really, Wetzon,” Smith said, “don’t you think you should have a light drink to help you relax?”
“No, I don’t want to relax that much. I’d rather have the caffeine until we get Silvestri over with,” Wetzon said testily. She hated it when Smith tried to take over her life, too, but she was usually less vulnerable and thus able to sidestep before Smith started on her.
Smith, who had been watching her closely, patted her on the arm. “Whatever you want, sugar.”
“What did you see in the cards today?” Wetzon asked as their drinks were set in front of them.
“I didn’t spend as much time with them as I would have liked,” Smith replied evasively, not meeting her eyes.
“Now, come on, Smith, tell me.”
“A strong, dark man has entered my life.” Smith smiled.
“Silvestri, I guess,” Wetzon said. “The cards are right again. And what else? What about me?”
Smith was busy studying the menu.
“Smith, you know that menu by heart, and you always have the cold poached salmon, so tell me. What did they say about me?”
“Danger for you, I’m afraid, my sweet.” Smith seemed reluctant to elaborate. “Oh, good, there’s Leon.”
“Well, girls.” Leon folded his lanky body in his standard baggy suit into a chair and peered at them through thick hornrimmed glasses. As usual, his glasses caught the wisps of hair around his ears and threw them every which way.
“Ladies,” Smith and Wetzon corrected in unison. Leon shook his head solemnly. It was their long-standing joke that Leon could never get used to the difference between girls and women and ladies, what he called “the language of lib.”
The maître d’ brought Leon scotch on the rocks so quickly that he must have asked for it when he walked in the door. They watched him do his scotch ritual. He took a small swallow of the drink and held it in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. “Aaaaah,” he said, not disappointing them. “Wetzon, what’s a nice girl like you doing involved in a murder?”
“Leon, it was about an hour after we—”
Leon put up his hand. “Just tell me what actually happened,” he said sharply. “The rest will keep.”
Smith’s eyes widened and she frowned at him. He shifted awkwardly in his seat as he caught Smith’s reproof.
“Forgive me, Wetzon, business pressures.... Please continue.” He moved his hand toward her, palm up, motioning her to begin. And he listened. Leon was the best listener. He scratched his head vigorously. Wetzon spoke; Smith interrupted a few times. Leon rubbed his forehead, scratched his nose. When Wetzon finished, he was silent for a few moments. He took off his glasses, cleaned them with his napkin, and put them on again. “Where is the key?” he asked.
“Here.” Smith produced it.
“Looks like a safe deposit key. Except they’re usually heavier than this.” He handed the key back to Smith. “Of course ... you have to give it to the police. What time is your appointment?”
“Around four,” Smith answered.
The waiter was hovering. A busboy using tongs placed a fresh, crisp baguette on each bread plate.
“I’ll have the poached salmon,” Smith said, “and a salad with vinaigrette dressing.”
“Same for me,” Wetzon said.
“The liver,” Leon said. “And the salad.”
Wetzon broke her baguette into pieces, buttering each. She was starving. She realized she’d had almost nothing to eat in the last twenty-four hours, just the chocolate croissant that Carlos had brought her. And she could hardly remember eating it.
“I’d like to go with you, but I think you can handle it yourselves,” Leon said, looking at Smith. “Unless, Wetzon, there’s something you haven’t told us ...”
Wetzon shook her head.
“Just tell them what you know. They don’t have reason to suspect you, do they, Wetzon?” His eyes, behind the thick glasses, were solemn.
“Leon, for godsakes,” Smith said.
“That’s all right, Smith,” Wetzon cut in. “It bears asking, I think. No, Leon, I don’t believe so.”
“You’ll do fine. I have a rather important meeting this afternoon, otherwise I would go with you.”
“Jake Donahue?” Smith’s voice was coy.
Leon poked at the slivers of ice in his glass with his index finger. “There’s no harm in telling you now, because it went out over the wire about an hour ago. Donahue had a relationship with Kaplan, Moran ... you know about that firm?”
“Yes,” Wetzon said, eyes wide, her mind working.
“Kaplan, Moran?” Smith repeated, trying to place it.
“Yes, the Atlanta bond house that went belly up because of repos. They were closed down yesterday,” Wetzon explained.
“There’s an investigation going on now. The SEC is involved.” Leon’s tone was noncommittal, but his face was grim.
“How serious?” Wetzon asked.
“Serious.”
“You know, don’t you, that Barry Stark worked for Jake Donahue?” she said.
The luncheon plates were put in front of them.
“Another Lillet, please,” Smith said.
No one picked up a fork or even looked at his plate.
“I know,” Leon said. “Speaking for my client, Mr. Jacob Donahue, we would be very interested in what that little key unlocks.” He looked from Smith to Wetzon, cutting a slice of liver and placing it in his mouth. He chewed very slowly and swallowed, enjoying the rapt attention of both women. “Because, my dears, and this is for your ears only, there is suddenly a great deal of money unaccounted for at my client’s firm.”
They sat at the table dawdling over coffee after Leon left. Wetzon felt the caffeine begin to revive her. Sometimes one needed a little artificial lift, she rationalized to herself, because she tried to stay away from most chemicals. This thought reminded her of the pills the doctor had given her. What had she done with them?
“Interesting,” she said, wiping crumbs around distractedly. The little bits of bread bounced about on the white linen tablecloth as she moved her coffee spoon back and forth. “Smith—”
“Wetzon—”
They laughed.
“Leon seems upset,” Wetzon said.
“Yes.” Smith was thoughtful. “I suppose it’s about Jake Donahue, but he really shouldn’t have taken that tone with you.”
“It’s funny about his being there,” Wetzon mused. “I wonder if he was there when it happened.”
“Where? What are you talking about, Wetzon?”
“Leon. He was there. He was at the Four Seasons last night. I ran into him before I met Barry.”
“Leon? He was
there?
I can’t believe it.” Smith was indignant. “Why didn’t he tell me? Who was he with?”
“I don’t know. It was crowded and I couldn’t see—and now that I think of it, he wasn’t anxious for me to see, either—” She remembered the way he’d stood, deliberately blocking her view of the bar area, how he had walked her to the chairs.
Smith patted Wetzon’s hand. “Leave it to me, sweetie. I’ll find out. Don’t say anything to anybody about Leon being there ... not even to Silvestri....” She took the key out of her pocket. “Right now, we have more important things to think about.”
They both stared at the key.
“What do you think it was—” Wetzon started.
“What if we—” Smith said. “What if we
didn’t
give the key to Silvestri?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean ... not right away.”
Wetzon was quiet for some moments.
“Wetzon?”
“We couldn’t do that,” Wetzon said. “It’s evidence in a murder.”
“Of course, we can’t
keep
the key, but that’s not the point. We could just
hold
it for a while and see if we can find out what it unlocks. What could it hurt? And we might even make some money while we’re doing it—let’s say a finder’s fee.” Smith was smiling her crooked smile, being very sweet and persuasive. “Listen, sweetie pie, you’re tired now, and you’ve been through a lot. Why not wait until you’re thinking clearly? I really could handle this for you. For
us
.”
“No, Smith,” Wetzon said firmly, taking the key. “I don’t want to withhold evidence. It’s bad enough I walked off with Barry’s attaché case without thinking.”
“Now, now, sweetie, I wasn’t suggesting anything about withholding, just waiting. But of course we’ll do whatever you want.” She patted Wetzon’s hand again, obviously humoring her.
Sometimes Wetzon wondered what she was doing in this kind of work. Although she denied it vehemently, Smith seemed to be motivated only by money. “The object,” she always said, “is to get the money out of his pocket and into mine.”
In fact, everyone in this business seemed to be motivated only by money. Oh, the brokers gave lip service to how they protected their clients, but when push came to shove, and the commissions were not rolling in, even the best had sold a stock to someone who had no reason to buy it. And the headhunters? They were no different, although Wetzon had never sold anyone on a move she didn’t think was a good career choice. But she wondered about herself, too. It wasn’t that she didn’t like money. She did. But the securities business was surrounded by an almost overpowering aura of greed. It was as if making money wasn’t enough. It was a contagion, this money, and greed was the disease. How much was enough?
“More coffee, mesdames?”
“Let’s have another cup,” Wetzon said. “We have time, and I’d like some dessert, something very chocolate.”
“Okay. What do you have?” Smith asked the waiter.
“We have a very fine chocolate mousse cake or a zuppa inglese, fresh strawberries, plain or with zabaglione sauce.”
“Mousse cake for me. That’s an easy one.”
“I’ll have the strawberries with zabaglione,” Smith said.
Wetzon opened her palm and looked thoughtfully at the key again. There were definitely numbers scratched in it. “If this were a safe deposit key, I think it would be heavier and more official-looking. Mine has ‘Yale’ in big, important letters across the front. This looks more like a jewelry box key or a mail key.”
“Well, the police have probably gone over Barry’s apartment by this time. Maybe it unlocks a cabinet or a storage box there.” Smith sighed. “You know what the problem is? We’re too honest. Anyone else would have taken Leon’s hint and sold the blasted thing to Jake Donahue.”
The mousse cake was a heaping mound of dark, rich chocolate intersected with chocolate sponge cake, just what Wetzon wanted right now. “Oh boy,” she said, brightening. “This is going to make me very happy.”
“Such small things make you happy.” Smith smiled indulgently.
“I can be bought for a big piece of dark, rich chocolate anything.” Wetzon laughed, letting a forkful melt in her mouth. “See how easy I am?”
But Smith was gazing off in the distance, not really listening. Wetzon’s eyes followed hers. Nothing. She was looking at nothing.
“What’s the matter, Smith?” she asked.
“Wetzon!” Smith grabbed Wetzon’s hand. “I just had a brilliant idea. What time is it?”
“Two-thirty.”
“Let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”
“I want to finish my cake,” Wetzon protested. “Tell me your idea.” She really didn’t care about Smith’s idea. She was enjoying the essence of chocolate melting deliciously over her tongue. For the first time since Barry’s murder, she was feeling like her old self. She was not going to let Smith draw her into one of her schemes.
“Oh, poof, Wetzon.” Smith jabbed her fork at a strawberry. “You’re no fun.”
“We have time before we see Silvestri. Why rush out of here? I don’t want to go back to the office.”
“I don’t want to go back to the office either,” Smith said, signaling the waiter for their check. “I want to go to a locksmith.”
“Oh, no—”
“Oh, yes. Who would it hurt? We’ll just make a copy of the key and hold it. If it turns out the police can’t find what it unlocks, maybe we can. And besides,” Smith laughed her mock wicked laugh, “think of all the grateful people....”
After all, Wetzon told herself, how wrong was it? They’d wait and see what the police came up with.... No, it was wrong. All wrong. It smelled wrong. Smith was always so good at turning things around. She was the most seductive of creatures. She could spin flax into gold just by talking.
“No,” Wetzon said, bristling. “It’s wrong.”
“Oh, honestly, Wetzon, you’re such a priss,” Smith said. “Very well, I’ll be responsible ... if something happens ... but really, what could possibly happen?” She was the picture of innocence.
“Okay, okay. I give up. You win.” Wetzon hated being called a priss and Smith knew it.
They were standing in front of Sy’s Locks on the corner of Second Avenue and Sixtieth Street, under the Roosevelt Island aerial tramway. Sy had a storefront business, a sliver of space the width of a door. In fact, it was a door. The upper part opened like a Dutch door, and Sy had made a plank of a tabletop that fitted over the top of the bottom half of the door. On his left, on the side wall, were nails, hundreds of them, row upon even row, with thousands of keys. A bare bulb hanging from the ceiling lighted the ridiculously narrow space. A business created in an alley. It could only happen in New York, where space was at such a premium.
A framed photograph of Milton Berle stared out at them.
To Sy, best locks in town after the
Carnegie Deli. Love, Uncle Miltie.
“What can I do for youse ladies?” Sy was a runty little man with a pungent Brooklyn accent. His face was a mass of seams and warts, with white and gray beard bristles sprouting through all that activity.
“The key, please, Wetzon.” Smith held out her hand. It wasn’t a request, it was a command.
Wetzon sighed and handed over the key.
“Turn your back, Wetzon,” Smith instructed. “This is all my idea. Remember, I’m taking the responsibility.”
“Let’s just get it over with,” Wetzon said through clenched teeth.
“We’d like you to copy this key.”
Sy took the key and squinted at it. “Uh-huh,” he grunted, moving back into his narrow space, searching. “Here we are.” He held up a key, placed them both into the vise of the machine on his front shelf, turned on the motor for a second or so, then opened the vise. He held up both keys to the light, took a large metal file, and made a few passes at the new key. “Uh-huh,” he grunted again, feeling the new key for rough spots with his deeply callused thumb.
Then he set both keys in front of Smith on the little shelf. Smith put them together. A perfect match.
“Perfection,” she confirmed.
“What do you think it was made for?” Wetzon asked.
“Strongbox,” Sy said, taking off his cap and scratching his bald spot. “The kind you get in a hardware store, maybe. Or a cabinet, like an architect’s or a dentist’s.”
“How much?” Smith asked.
“Three dollars.”
She handed him three dollar bills and took the keys. “One for you, Wetzon, and one for me,” she said, slipping hers into her pocket. “Leave it to me. We’ll put this in a nice safe place and I’ll talk to the cards.”
“It’s three-thirty. We’d better get going.” Wetzon was now certain that the police would find what the key unlocked in Barry’s apartment. The key had been too easy to reproduce. If it was a safe deposit key or a mail key, Sy would have said something ... or would he?
She looked up above the giant concrete structure of the tramway at the clear, blue sky. Everything would be all right. She watched as the aerial tram, a bright red car, pulled into the docking area. It seemed to float in.
“Come on, let’s call Harold and see what’s happening in the office,” Smith said.
They stopped at a pay phone near the Fifty-ninth Street entrance to the D&D Building, and Smith called Harold collect.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Wetzon complained.
“I know, but I’m not going to carry a lot of change in my pockets,” Smith said.
“You could carry a handbag like other people.”
“I am not like other people,” Smith replied. “Hello there, what’s happening, sweetie pie?” She waited, listening. “Lots of calls about you, star,” she said to Wetzon. She listened again. “That’s the best story I’ve heard yet.” She looked at Wetzon. “Monahan said he did the interview and was made an offer.”
“Unbelievable,” Wetzon said. “But believable,” she added.
Smith listened again. “He told Harold he was there for over an hour. Thought Elliot was a hell of a nice guy.”
“Garbage,” Wetzon said.
“Guess what Wetzon just said? Right, garbage. Did he tell you what this mythical offer was?” She shook her head at Wetzon. “He told him he would think about it and get back to him.”
“Think about what?” Wetzon said. “This is great. Another crazy.” Carlos always broke down “crazy” into three categories: nice crazy, crazy crazy, and vicious crazy. At this point Monahan was just plain crazy crazy.
“Anything else? No, we’ll tell Elliot about it tomorrow. Let him cool off a little. Wetzon, Mildred Gleason called again.”
“My new best friend,” Wetzon said, watching a city tow-truck driver attach a towline to a black Audi while the woman in the driver’s seat screamed hysterically and shook her fist at him.
“Harold, please call her and tell her Wetzon will have to get back to her tomorrow. And about six or seven reporters called. And Carlos.” Smith licked her little finger and stroked her eyebrow in a mincing imitation of a homosexual.
Wetzon ignored her. Smith could not tolerate homosexuals, and it was a subject of contention between them. Wetzon, from her years as a dancer, had a great many gay acquaintances and a few close gay friends.
“And me?” Smith was asking. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Who? Well, really. He’s got a lot of nerve. Okay. Give me the number.” She motioned to Wetzon for pen and paper, which Wetzon gave her. “Anyone else? Ah, that’s nice. Just hold the rest for me. I won’t be back today, but I’ll be in first thing in the morning.” She looked enormously pleased with herself as she hung up the phone.
“Anything I should know about?” Wetzon asked.
“Leon,” Smith said with a smug smile. “Dinner tomorrow night.”
“Not with me.”
“No ... just little ol’ me.” Smith threw her arms in the air triumphantly and spun around, wild-eyed, bursting with a strange energy, pulling an astonished Wetzon with her.