Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Crime Fiction
“It’s okay,” Silvestri said. His hand left Wetzon’s shoulder. “No more questions for now.” He shrugged lopsidedly at Smith, an I-didn’t-do-anything expression on his face. Nodding to the stenotypist, he opened the door.
“What are you doing to her, Silvestri?” Smith demanded. “Don’t you see she’s ready to collapse?”
“I know, I’m sorry. We had to finish it.”
“It’s okay, Smith. I’m okay.” Wetzon’s voice trailed off, high and distant.
“I’ll have one of the men take you home,” Silvestri said, turning to look at her.
“I’m going with her,” Smith said. “You can pick me up there.”
It was only when they got to Wetzon’s building that Wetzon remembered she hadn’t asked Silvestri if they’d found out anything about the missing attaché case.
“I’m all right, I really am,” Wetzon insisted. “Please stop fussing over me.” They were on the sidewalk in front of her building. Larry, the doorman, his coat off, was leaning against the building, smoking, talking to one of the locals, ignoring them. “It was just talking again about finding Barry that did it.”
“You looked as if you were about to pass out,” Smith said. “You didn’t tell him about the other key, did you?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t do that without telling you first.”
One of those new Honda scooters pulled up to the curb near them, and a man in a huge gray crash helmet and goggles, wearing a white lab coat, tie slightly askew, got off and looked curiously at Smith and Wetzon.
He removed the crash helmet, revealing curly gray hair, and, taking off the goggles, crossed the sidewalk to talk to Larry. Larry, bored, pointed vaguely at Smith and Wetzon and went back to his conversation.
The man in the white coat turned and came back to them. “Miss Wetzon?” he asked, looking from Smith to Wetzon.
“I’m Leslie Wetzon,” Wetzon said, dodging Smith’s elbow. “You were looking for me?”
“Yes, I’m Dr. Pulasky, Rick Pulasky, from York Hospital.” He smiled at her. He had a nice smile and warm, dark brown eyes. His hair was tousled. Too old to be an intern or even a resident. “I handle outpatient supervision for Emergency Services at York.”
“Oh, how nice,” Wetzon said, impressed. “I didn’t know hospitals had such a service.”
He flashed her another smile. “It’s experimental, and we’re the only ones in the City who are trying it right now. I’m here to monitor how you’re doing.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said lightly. “No problems.”
Liar,
she thought, “As you can see.” She spread out her arms and stifled a gasp.
“Dr. Pulasky,” Smith said in her soft, breathy voice, emphasizing “doctor.” She smiled seductively and offered him her hand.
Wetzon wondered if Smith was attracted to Pulasky, too. Or was it just second nature for her to do this with all men? Odd that she had never noticed this about Smith before, but then they had never been very social together, despite their business partnership. Or maybe it was just that she was so tired that everything was annoying her. She was beginning to feel like an observer in her own life.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is Xenia Smith.”
Pulasky took Smith’s hand for a moment, then dropped it. “Nice to meet you,” he said carelessly, eyes on Wetzon. “You look shaky. You should have spent the night in the hospital …. Head injuries are deceptive, you know. You can’t jump back into the thick of things as if nothing had happened to you.” He was very intense, and attractive. His eyes were gypsy eyes, so dark, and he was lean, the way Wetzon liked men.
“Well, you’re right there, she should definitely be in bed,” Smith said, “but she can be so stubborn.” She was smiling that crooked little smile.
“I’m feeling very tired right now,” Wetzon said irritably. She turned away, resentful that Smith was talking about her as if she weren’t there.
“Thank you, Doctor, but we have no need of your services,” Smith said coldly, dismissing him. “All Ms. Wetzon needs is some rest.”
Wetzon felt a small, hot kernel of anger rising to her throat. She was sick and tired of Smith’s interference in her life, sick of Smith’s constant attempts to manipulate. Turning to Dr. Pulasky with a flirtatious smile, Wetzon asked, “And what treatment would you care to suggest, Dr. Kildare?”
“Maybe I should look in on you tomorrow,” he said, playing along. “Strictly professional, of course.”
“Of course.” Wetzon narrowed her eyes at him.
“Oh, come on.” He grinned. “Give a guy a break.”
“Okay, call me.”
“No, how about tomorrow? And how about if I bring dinner? I come off duty after eight-thirty.”
“I hate to interrupt ...” Smith said haughtily.
“Well, how about it?” Pulasky said, ignoring Smith. His eyes crinkled when he smiled.
“Okay,” Wetzon said. “Twelve B.”
“I hope you like ribs,” he said, starting the Honda. “Nice to have met you, Miss ...” He’d forgotten Smith’s name, Wetzon thought triumphantly. He’d actually forgotten her name.
“I do,” she called after him.
Smith was angry. “I don’t like him,” she said.
“Why? I think he’s nice.” They were in the elevator, and someone had been next door using the health club swimming pool because on the floor of the elevator was a small pool of blood. Blood? Where was her head? Small pool of water. It was the woman in 9A. She did it all the time.
“He’s not trustworthy,” Smith was saying. “You don’t understand body language, and I do. He doesn’t look you in the eye. And he has very strange eyes.”
“Who cares about body language,” Wetzon said cheerfully. “Just give me a nice body.” Smith probably didn’t like him because he wasn’t a pushover for her.
Wetzon unlocked her door and saw the shadow of a man in the sunlight streaming through her living room windows. Her heart rose up in her throat. She clutched Smith’s arm, backing away.
“Don’t be scared, darling, it’s only me,” the shadow said, coming toward her.
“My God, Carlos, you gave me a fright.” She stood aside and let Smith through while she pulled her key from the lock.
“Well, hello, Carlos,” Smith gushed with phony enthusiasm.
“Hello.” Carlos was civil. Barely.
The tiny hairs on the back of Wetzon’s neck prickled a warning. She wished they would both go away and leave her alone.
“You’re here late, Carlos,” she said, dropping her bag in the foyer and stepping out of her shoes. She shrugged off her jacket and left it on the floor.
“I was worried about you.” He was very serious, not at all like her Carlos and not like this morning when he was being so curious and bitchy.
“Does anyone mind if I collapse?” she asked. She sank into the sofa and put her feet up. Every bone in her body felt one hundred years old.
Smith sat in one of the plushy club chairs and smiled brightly at Carlos. “I’d love something cold to drink,” she said.
“I can’t get up, Smith, just help yourself,” Wetzon said.
“Oh, I’m sure Carlos will get us something, won’t you, dear boy,” Smith said condescendingly. “I’d like a Diet Coke with lots of ice.”
Carlos gave her his full fish eye. “Your hands have been in so many people’s pockets lately, they must be tired.” He turned his attention to Wetzon. “What would you like, darling?”
“The same, please, Carlos.”
When he went for the Cokes, Wetzon reproved, “Smith, please.”
“He’s so disgusting and degenerate. You never know who’s good for you. You have terrible judgment about people.”
Wetzon closed her eyes.
Give me a break
, she thought.
Carlos returned with one of her old Coke trays and three glasses of iced Coke. And a dangerous look in his eyes.
“Listen, Les,” he said, “I waited for you because just as I was about to leave ... I was standing in the foyer as a matter of fact ... someone tried your door.”
“What?” She sat up.
“Really?” Smith sounded dubious.
“I know someone tried to break in,” he said impatiently. “I began banging and thumping around, and he must have heard me and went away.”
“How could he get past the doorman?” Smith asked.
“Larry is not always one hundred percent on the job, Smith,” Wetzon said.
“Why didn’t you look out?” Smith demanded of Carlos.
“Are you crazy?” he said. “He could have had a gun.... He could have shot me through the door.”
A cold knot started deep down in Wetzon’s stomach. She shivered, staring at Carlos, trying to take in what he was saying.
“Well,” Smith said, “any
real
man would have gone after whoever it was.”
“Smith ...” Wetzon warned. “Carlos—”
“Listen, you barracuda,” Carlos said amiably, leaning close to Smith’s face, eyeball to eyeball, “don’t try to manipulate me. It won’t work, and it makes me—”
“Carlos! Xenia, for
Godsake
,” Wetzon cried.
“That’s quite enough.” Smith stood up. “I don’t have to sit here and be insulted by a dirty fag.”
The buzzer sounded.
“I’ll get it,” Carlos said. “Maybe
she’ll
have slimed out of here by the time I get back.”
Smith was in a fury. “That’s it, Wetzon. I have nothing more to say to you. You sit there and let me be insulted by that
degenerate
you claim as a friend—”
“Your date is waiting in the lobby,” Carlos called maliciously from the foyer. “Don’t forget your broomstick, dear.”
Smith stomped out of the apartment without looking back, without saying a word. The door slammed behind her.
“Oh, shit. Shit,” Wetzon cried, burying her head in the sofa pillows.
“Gee, birdie, I’m really sorry,” Carlos said, sitting next to her, hugging her. “But there’s something wrong with that woman. Don’t you see that? She’s not your friend if she tries to alienate you from your friends. And she’s always putting you down. She never even got upset about someone trying to break in.”
“Oh, please, Carlos, not now. I’m scared.”
“Come on, not to worry. I’m here. Carlos is not going to let anything happen to you. Who would I
dish
with?” He kissed her on the top of her head. “That’s why I waited. I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight and get you a chain bolt in the morning.”
“Thank you, friend,” she said.
“I really wish you’d get out of this sleazy business,” he said, “and come back to us where you belong. You’re too nice for them. They’re all such sharks, and they’re going to eat you alive.”
At that moment Wetzon agreed with Carlos—that she was being eaten alive—but she was certain it was only because of Barry’s murder.
She changed into jeans and a soft brown-and-aqua plaid flannel shirt.
The truth was, she liked headhunting because it was fun. No day was like any other day. And she
liked
making money. She had stopped dancing because she was tired of going from one show to another, many of which closed after opening night. She was tired of the injuries, which came with the territory of being a dancer, and she’d seen that in time she would be just another broken-down, aging chorus girl.
“What do you want for dinner, my love?” Carlos asked.
“Chinese. Beef in orange sauce—very spicy.”
“What else?” he asked, prompting, because he knew she rarely varied from what she liked.
“Shrimp fried rice ... cold noodles with sesame sauce.”
“By George, she’s got it!” Carlos cried, mocking her, mocking
My Fair Lady
.
Georgie
, she thought. She had forgotten to call Georgie.
“I’m going to stop at the Food Emporium and fill up your larder,” Carlos said.
“It’s okay. I have to make some phone calls.”
“Oh, birdie, you never know when to let up.”
She pushed him to the door. “Out with you. And don’t rush.”
The paper with Georgie’s phone numbers was in her purse. She found it and called the first number.
“Yeah.”
“Georgie? Wetzon.”
“The cops were just here.” He sounded rattled. “Where are you?” His voice was slurred, as if he’d been drinking.
“I’m at home.”
“I’ll be right over.”
“Wait ... no. Not good.” She thought for a moment. Carlos would be gone for at least an hour.
“Okay,” Georgie said quickly, “I’ll meet you at Amsterdam’s in fifteen minutes.”
“Wait—” But he’d hung up. Damn. She had hoped to avoid seeing him again. He made her uncomfortable. The hell with it. Best to meet him and get it over with.
She took her denim jacket from the hall closet and scrawled a quick, innocuous note to Carlos that she’d forgotten to do something and would be right back.
Georgie was hunched over a beer at the far end of the bar, which was just starting to fill up. Amsterdam’s did a big business with the “happy hour” groupies that spilled over into the yuppie crowd after seven o’clock. The real diners didn’t come until after eight.
Georgie was still dressed as she had seen him earlier in the day, even to the Ray-Bans, and he was smoking a stub of a cigarette.
“I’ll have one of those.” Wetzon pointed at his beer and slipped onto the high, black stool next to him. She saw her reflection come into focus in the dark mirrors of his glasses. “If we’re going to talk, Georgie, you’ll have to take off those sunglasses,” she said testily. There was something about people who wore dark glasses that hid their eyes—a hostility, something threatening. And she’d had quite enough of that for today. She ran her fingers lightly over the chipped enamel surface of the bar counter.
Three brightly dressed young women came in, laughing, and one took the stool next to Wetzon, while the others stood, chattering.
Georgie shifted the sunglasses to the top of his head, and Wetzon shivered. His eyes were bloodshot, his look glazed but wary. “Come on,” he growled. He took her beer and the one he was drinking and nudged her to one of the small blue-and-white checked cloth-topped tables.
She was sorry she’d come out to meet him. He was mean and scary-looking. His face had the stubble of a reddish beard. She sat reluctantly. “What do you want, Georgie?”
He rubbed his eyes. A waiter brought two more beers. He finished the one he was drinking and started another.
“I want to know what Barry told you last night.” He tilted the bentwood chair back precariously and lit another cigarette.
Cigarette smoke floated in the air between and around them.
“Nothing. He told me nothing,” she said impatiently. “He didn’t have a chance to. He sat down with me, jumped up, and I never saw him again—I mean—alive.” She wasn’t afraid of Georgie now; she was angry. She felt she was being used. “What’s going on, Georgie?”
“Listen, Wetzon.” Georgie drank more than half of the second beer in one swallow. “I don’t want to make you suffer, but Barry was my best friend. I wanna know what happened and who killed him.”
She softened, looking at his wasted face. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll try to help.”
“The cops came to see me. Asked me a lot of questions, where I was at the time—I was in the middle of a session with my ad agency—so I’m clear.”
Wetzon hadn’t thought of Georgie as a suspect, but now she considered it. Could he kill someone? No question about it.
She changed the subject. “Did you know Barry from Merrill?”
“Naa, longer than that. Forever. We all grew up together, in the North Bronx ... went to Science together. Then we split up ... and after college Barry and I ended up at Merrill. Jesus, it was fun.” He finished the second beer and started a third.
“Can I get you anything?” the waiter asked.
Wetzon shook her head. “Another round,” Georgie said. “You didn’t know us then. It was so fucking exciting. We were desk partners ... we shared a Quotron. We cold called together, vied to see who could open the most accounts.” He stopped. “I always beat him out,” Georgie said, with a chilly half-smile. “The market was so crazy—Jesus.” He lit another cigarette, dropping the match on the floor. “We thought it would never end.”
Wetzon nodded, remembering. It was three years ago. She and Smith had just started their firm.
“Yeah, and the headhunters were all over us—like vultures. Yeah, even you, Wetzon.” He pointed his finger, yellowed from nicotine, at her.
She blinked, taken aback by the accusation. “I thought I was different,” she blurted, hurt, in spite of her mistrust for Georgie.
“Don’t kid yourself, Wetzon. You’re a salesman, just like us. You’re out for the buck. You like the money. But you
were
different. You give great phone. You didn’t push, you listened. Barry liked you. Shit, I liked you.”
“You gave me Barry’s name and phone number,” she said, somewhat mollified.
“I did?” He looked surprised. “I don’t remember.”
“You said, ‘Call this guy, get him out of here, then I’ll get all his accounts.’”
“I said that?” Georgie laughed suddenly, a weird neighing laugh, and his small eyes folded up and disappeared. “Man, was I funny.”
“You guys made a lot of money that first year in the business.” She looked up at the yellow globes that lit the restaurant. Smoke hung in the light, suspended. Everything had a dreamlike quality to it. Slowly, she brought her attention back to Georgie.
“Yeah, more than we’d ever seen. I bought a Jag and Barry got himself that red Porsche. Christ, it was unbelievable.” He seemed to have forgotten her, staring into his beer. “It was even better the second year. Barry bought his big loft in SoHo, and I picked up the old church for a song, and the health club ... I had plans. I wasn’t gonna sit around and be a fucking stock jockey the rest of my life. The market could come apart any frigging minute—”
“You were right.”
He turned to her and nodded. “Yeah. But before it did, we were going to have one hell of a roller coaster ride. We took a whole house ourselves in East Hampton the second summer. The place was crawling with gorgeous women....” Roughly, he pulled the sunglasses off his head and tossed them on the table, running his hands through his hair. “I broke the record for opening new accounts, and they gave me an award and a week in L.A. They had me talk to all the new trainees ... then ...”
“Then the market took a nosedive.” Wetzon sipped her beer, remembering how badly shaken all the relatively new brokers had been. They had never seen a bear market.
“Yeah. Happy clients became unhappy assholes overnight. The bitching started. Complaints up the wazoo.” He shrugged. “That’s when I quit.”
Wetzon didn’t challenge him. She knew for a fact that there had been a lawsuit, that Georgie had sold a deep tax shelter to an eighty-year-old widow. The widow’s family wanted restitution and had gotten it. Georgie had been fired. “Barry had a problem at that time,” Wetzon said. Barry had been accused of unauthorized trading in two of his accounts.
“Who didn’t?” He jammed his cigarette out in the ashtray and lit another. “They all love you—management and clients—when you make money for them, but the minute the well runs dry, they forget. For me, it was good riddance. I never wanted to hear another complaint from a frigging client that I lost him a few thou when only last year I made him twice that. By that time I had the Caravanserie going—”
“Barry called me around then.” She kept trying to turn the conversation back to Barry.
Georgie squinted at her. “He was my friend, but he was a schmuck. He was making big bucks, but he was blowing it away. I told him, schmuck, put your money in real estate. He never listened.”
“He told me he was ready to make a move, but he’d cut a deal for himself with Jake Donahue.”
“That he did.” He stared at Wetzon hard. “Don’t kid me. He must have told you something yesterday.”
She shook her head. “Only that he had been close to something big and had ...” she stopped to think again, “that he’d overplayed his hand ... something like that ... and they were on to him. Do you know what he meant?”
“He was doing some kind of business deal with Mildred Gleason,” Georgie said. “He wouldn’t tell me what. Said it was the opening he’d been waiting for, just what he needed to get going again.”
“The new-issues market is depressed, dead in the water. He told me Jake was getting into repos—”
“I don’t know anything about that crap, and I don’t want to know, but if you’re talking depressed, Barry was it. Christ, he was even thinking about getting married.”
“Barry?” She didn’t know why she was so shocked. Somehow she couldn’t imagine Barry as a married man. “Who was he going to marry?”
“I told him he was out of his fucking mind. I didn’t get it. He was making it with this sharp-looking piece from Connecticut—someone he worked with— but he was talking about marrying Buffie.” Georgie shook his head in disgust. “He said, can you believe this, none of us was getting any younger.”
“Buffie?”
“Yeah. She was one of the crowd—from the neighborhood—the four of us—” He raised his hand. “Same again here,” he called out to a passing waiter.
Surreptitiously, she looked at her watch. Carlos would kill her.
“Georgie, I’ve got to go—”
“Wait a minute, Wetzon. Barry had some stuff of mine he was holding.” She could hardly hear him. Amsterdam’s had begun to fill up. People were standing three-deep at the bar.
“I don’t know anything about that.” She started to stand.
He clamped his hand on her shoulder and held her down, hurting her. “I went through his locker,” Georgie grunted, leaning beery-breathed into her. “Nothing. Not a goddam thing but old sweats and jogging shoes.”
“Goddam it, Georgie.” Wetzon was furious. She’d had enough. “Kindly remove your hand,” she said through clenched teeth.
Georgie took his hand away slowly, surprised by her reaction. His mouth twisted, jeering. “You’re a killer, Wetzon.”
“I accept your apology, Georgie,” Wetzon said, standing. “One question.”
“What?” He restored his Ray-Bans, covering his terrible eyes.
“Is there going to be a funeral?”
“Funeral? Barry?” Georgie laughed that high whinnying laugh. “Barry was a donor.”
“A donor?”
“Yeah. He signed one of those things on the back of his driver’s license that said you can have his organs. He loved the idea. He wanted everyone to have a piece of him, he used to say.” Georgie snorted. “Yeah. He wanted to be cremated and told me to spread his ashes along Wall Street and dump a little on the floor of the Exchange. Isn’t that a laugh?”
“Very funny,” Wetzon said, not laughing. “I’ll see you, Georgie.” Her reflection looked back at her from his glasses.
“Wetzon,” Georgie said, “if you remember anything, tell me first. And don’t talk to any strangers.”
She didn’t answer. She was wondering why he had suggested Amsterdam’s on Eighty-second and Amsterdam, how he had known she lived on the West Side.