Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Crime Fiction
“I still can’t believe it,” Wetzon said.
They had spread out all the papers on the living room floor. The clear northern light coming through the windows made the blaring headlines seem unreal. There were pictures of Jake Donahue, old pictures of Mildred Gleason in a Joan Crawford outfit with the shoulders out to here, when she’d been one of the first women members of the New York Stock Exchange. There was even a stiffly posed picture of Jake, Mildred, and her father, Joseph F. Gleason, all in a group of officers of the Joseph F. Gleason Company. Mildred’s and Jake’s faces were singled out with black rings.
Mildred Gleason, president of M. Gleason & Co., the investment banking and brokerage firm, was stabbed to death sometime last night in her elegant executive suite at 61 Broadway. According to police spokesman Edward McCarthy, Ms. Gleason’s body was discovered by a cleaning woman about 11:00 p.m. last evening. There were no signs of a struggle. The body was found face down in the doorway leading to her private bathroom. The wound was in the back, and there appeared to be no sign of a struggle, indicating that Ms. Gleason may have known her attacker. The report of the medical examiner noted that Ms. Gleason died at approximately 9:00 p.m.
“I just can’t believe it,” Wetzon said again. She flipped through the papers for an item on Sugar Joe. Nothing.
“What are you looking for?” Smith asked suspiciously. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her eyes bright and excited.
“Just more on Mildred Gleason,” Wetzon said, not ready to tell Smith about last night. She got to her feet. “I should get dressed. Come on, talk to me. Do you know there was a message from Jake Donahue on my machine?”
“How would I know that?” Smith asked innocently.
In the bedroom Wetzon bent, reaching behind the nightstand, and reattached the telephone. Smith followed her, kicked off her shoes, and lay down on the unmade bed, inhaling deeply. “Mmmmm,” she said, “there’s been a man in your bed.”
“Oh, shush,” Wetzon said, opening her lingerie drawer. “That’s odd.”
“What’s odd?”
“I don’t know. Something’s stuck in here.” She put her hand into the partly open drawer as far as it would go and groped around. “What the hell is this doing here?” She pulled out a white half-slip trimmed with lace.
“Very pretty.”
“I must have moved it without thinking. It’s usually on the bottom of everything. I haven’t worn it in years.” She refolded it and tucked it away on the bottom of the drawer, took out clean panties and a bra, and closed the drawer smoothly.
“So how was the good doctor?” Smith asked, plumping up Wetzon’s pillows.
“Good. How was Leon?” She pulled a new Ralph Lauren red sweatshirt over her head and looked at herself in the mirror. Not bad, considering all that had happened.
“Leon.” Smith looked at Wetzon disapprovingly. “That’s much too big on you.”
“I like things big,” Wetzon said, irritated.
The phone rang. “Hello,” Wetzon said, adjusting the elastic on her old gray sweatpants, which were also probably too big in Smith’s eyes.
“Hi, babe, just checking up on you. How are you feeling? Good medicine last night?”
“Good medicine, Rick.” She felt herself blushing.
Smith closed her eyes and sighed audibly. Wetzon turned her back on her.
“How about tonight?” he asked. “Movie and pizza or sushi?”
“That would be nice. Either. What time?”
“I’m off earlier today and on late afternoon and night tomorrow. Let’s see. Do you like old movies?
Notorious
is at the Regency.”
“Oh, I’d love to see it again,” she said. “It’s my favorite Hitchcock.”
“Great. I’m going to do a workout first. Do you want to come with me?”
“Where?”
“The Caravanserie ... we get a membership through the hospital.”
“Ordinarily, I’d join you, but ...” She flexed her knees. “Ouch,” she said. “Forget it.”
He laughed. “Okay, meet me at the Regency at five-thirty. There’ll probably be a line, so whoever gets there first should get on line. Oh, and, babe, leave your hair down. I like it that way.”
She hung up the phone, smiling. She turned around and saw Smith laughing.
“The cards say two dark men for you,” Smith said. “
Two
, you pig.” She got up and stretched.
“Oh come on,” Wetzon said. “It’s either feast or famine with me, not like you.”
“And they say one of them is not so nice.”
“Oh yeah?” Wetzon said. “Well, I only know of one dark man in my life, and he’s very nice, and he’s not really dark—he has gray hair. Let’s have some of the coffee that nice gray man left for me.” Still barefoot, she moved into the kitchen, Smith at her heels.
“I had such a deep sleep,” Wetzon said, pouring the coffee, “and now that I think of it, such a strange dream. You, Leon, Silvestri ... people I didn’t know ...”
They took their mugs of coffee and went back to the papers on the living room floor.
“It’s related to Barry, isn’t it?” Smith said, sitting on the floor, leaning against the coffee table and reading the accounts of Mildred Gleason’s murder again.
“It has to be. She kept asking what he’d said to me. Can you imagine, Smith, she said she was talking to him on the phone when he was being murdered....”
“How awful. But she must have figured out who did it. That’s why she got taken out.” Smith actually had a gleeful expression on her face, as if she were talking about a placement, not a murder.
“Barry was working for her. He’d made some tapes, and she was going to use them to get Jake Donahue. That piece of tape we heard must have been one of them.”
“No kidding,” Smith said lightly.
Wetzon eyed her friend. How strange. There it was again: the odd feeling that Smith already knew about the tapes, what they meant. How could she? Wait a minute. Leon. Leon represented Jake Donahue. The key.
The key
. How could she have forgotten?
“What did you do with the key, Smith?” Wetzon demanded.
“The key?” Smith asked vaguely. “Oh, yes, the key. It’s in my desk. I decided you were right. We should stay out of it.”
Not we
, Wetzon thought.
You
. “Oh, Smith, that’s great,” she said, breathing easier.
“I’ll give you the key on Monday, okay?”
“Sure, that’s wonderful. We can throw it away and forget about it.”
“I wonder if there’s anything more about the murder on the radio,” Smith said.
“Let’s see.” Wetzon walked on her knees over to the stereo, wincing at the tenderness from last night’s escapade. “It’s eleven o’clock. There should be some news.” She switched on the radio.
They listened to a rundown of the world news, then: “Locally, police report no further developments in the Wall Street murders. The second murder, that of investment banker and socialite—”
“Socialite,” Smith snorted.
“... Gleason, took place in her executive suite at approximately nine o’clock last evening. Employees of M. Gleason and Company have reported a violent altercation earlier in the day between Gleason and estranged husband Jacob Donahue, noted Wall Street guru. An employee, who did not wish to be named, declared it had stopped just short of blows and that there had been bad blood between them.”
“Bad blood, Jesus,” Smith said. “Who writes their copy?”
“... reported but not confirmed by police that stockbroker Barry Stark, who had worked for Jacob Donahue, had been talking to Gleason on the phone at the time he was murdered. We will continue to follow up on this case as events unfold…. The sanitation workers, who have been working without a contract for—”
Wetzon snapped off the radio. “Sooo ...” she said. “I saw some of that violent altercation.”
“Oh, tell.”
“Jake broke into Mildred’s office screaming and yelling. He was angry enough to kill her.”
“Aha!”
“Damn, now Silvestri will find out I was there.”
“Probably.”
“And want to question me again.”
“Probably.”
“He’ll think it’s a little weird that I’ve been close to three murders ...
I
certainly do.” Wetzon was silent for a moment as Smith watched her. Then she said thoughtfully, “You know, Smith, I bet if we put the pieces together right, we can solve this before the police do. Everyone I’ve talked to has told me something he or she hasn’t told the police.”
Smith waited, eyes veiled.
“I’m sure Barry must have told me something that I haven’t remembered. He wouldn’t have just given me the key without an explanation....”
“I’m starving,” Smith said. “What do you have to eat?”
“You know me. Bagels.”
They went into the kitchen, and Wetzon took a bagel and sliced it in three pieces. They sat at the counter with their coffee.
“What are you doing tonight?” Wetzon asked.
“Leon is taking Mark to the Planetarium this afternoon and then we’re having dinner at Tavern on the Green.” She made a face.
“I thought you didn’t like Tavern on the Green.”
“I was outvoted. They’re supposed to have a new chef.”
“What happened to Silvestri?”
“Oh, he’s around, but after all, he’s just a cop. An attractive cop, I admit, but he’s not really for me. Mark needs a role model.”
“Silvestri would be a good role model.”
“Wetzon, don’t be obtuse. You know what I mean,” Smith said, not looking at her.
“Yes, you mean Silvestri doesn’t make enough money for you.”
“Well, he can’t take me to the Four Seasons.”
She had stopped listening to Smith. Something had skimmed across the surface of her memory, eluding her again.
“Mildred’s assistant, Roberta, sat through most of the meeting,” Wetzon said, thinking out loud.
“So?” Smith opened Wetzon’s refrigerator and took out a bag of dried papaya.
“I don’t know. There was something creepy about her.” Wetzon wrinkled her forehead, eyes distant. “Tall, very chic, but covered up.”
“Covered up?” Smith bit into a piece of papaya and chewed gingerly. “Not bad ... the papaya, I mean.”
“Dark glasses, turban—you know—no eyes, no hair. Peculiar relationship.”
“Well ... Mildred Gleason ... she was a notorious dyke—”
“I didn’t know that. But anyway, what does that have to do with anything?”
A curious expression formed on Smith’s face. “Oh, Wetzon, you are so dumb sometimes, I don’t know what we’re going to do with you.”
Wetzon busied herself making more coffee, so as not to let Smith know she was hurt.
Dumb
.
“Oh, by the way,” Smith said, “Harold told me about Switzer. Maybe we can work it out on Monday. I’ll talk to Gordon Kingston. I met him last month at the Economic Round Table luncheon. Remember, it’s not over till it’s over.”
“And even then, it’s not over,” they both said together.
Smith took a piece of paper from the notepad on the counter top. “Okay,” she said, choosing a pencil from the pressed glass spooner. “What do we know?”
“We know that Barry was murdered at the Four Seasons,” Wetzon said, “while he was on the phone with Mildred Gleason.” She put the bagel slices in the toaster oven.
“Right,” Smith said, making two columns on the paper and labeling them KNOWN and UNKNOWN. “And we know that he was working for Mildred, taping phone conversations at Jake Donahue’s.”
“None of which could be used in court,” Wetzon said slowly. “But Mildred could have made trouble for Jake with the SEC, couldn’t she?”
“Blackmail,” Smith said, writing
blackmail??
under UNKNOWN.
“Okay, Barry got something on Jake that could hurt Jake, so say Jake kills Barry?”
“But how does Jake know Barry was working for Mildred?” Smith asked. “He has no motive unless he knows.”
“That’s where Amanda Guilford comes in,” Wetzon said absently.
“And who is Amanda Guilford?” Smith demanded, throwing down her pencil. “You’re not telling me everything you know, Wetzon.”
“Amanda Guilford is a friend of Laura Lee Day—”
“That flake—”
“Let’s not start anything, Smith,” Wetzon warned. “You know how I feel about Laura Lee.”
“You are totally undiscerning when it comes to friends, Wetzon.”
“Drop it, Smith,” Wetzon said sharply.
“Okay, okay, don’t hit me.” Smith tried to make a joke of it.
“So if Jake knows Barry is spying on him, he has a motive.”
“Wetzon, you don’t know Jake Donahue the way I do.” Smith ran her fingers through her hair, preening. “Jake would never resort to murder. He doesn’t have to.”
Wetzon gave her a sidelong glance.
The toaster oven clicked off. She opened the door and turned over the slices, burning her hand on the hot top of the door. “Damn,” she said, slamming the door closed, “why do I always do that?” She turned on the cold water and let it run on the burned spot, then took an ice cube out of the freezer and held it to her hand.
“Does that really help?” Smith asked, scribbling notes. “There must be a connection we’re not seeing. Georgie—”
“Georgie could have killed Barry—but don’t you think Barry, Georgie, and Mildred had to have been killed by the same person? You know, modus operandi—the knife?”
“What about Barry’s little girlfriend?” Smith put the head of the yellow pencil in her mouth.
“She was with me when Georgie was killed, but wait, Smith—I think she was up at Mildred’s office before I got there yesterday because I ran into her coming out of the elevator.” Could Buffie have gone back later and murdered Mildred?
“What would her motive be?” Smith took the pencil out of her mouth and rubbed the lipstick mark off its yellow coating.
“Barry is supposed to have written his autobiography.”
Smith burst out laughing. “You can’t be serious! Barry Stark could hardly tie his own shoelaces, Wetzon, let alone write a sentence.”
“Oh, come on, Smith, he went to Bronx Science and he graduated from college.”
“Humpf.”
“Buffie was supposed to sell it to Mildred for big dollars, but she couldn’t find it.”
“That’s because it doesn’t exist,” Smith hooted. “How do you know all this?”
“Buffie told me.”
“Maybe Mildred wouldn’t pay her so she went back and stabbed her.”
Wetzon took out the bagel slices and put them on a plate between her and Smith. “Cream cheese? Butter?”
“Cream cheese. No to all those earlier questions.”
“It has scallions in it.”
“Better still.”
“No, that doesn’t make sense. As long as Mildred was alive, Buffie might be able to get money for the autobiography, if there was one.”
“What about this Amanda person?”
“What about her? I don’t think she knew Mildred. She’s a broker at Donahue’s. Jake, with his infinite powers of persuasion, induced her to spy on Barry.” Wetzon gave Smith a piercing look. “I expect you to keep this confidential, Smith. That means not telling Leon or Donahue.”
“Wetzon, you hurt me,” Smith said. “Would I break a confidence?”
Would she? Wetzon was far from certain. “Anyway, we’re going to quickly and quietly outplace Amanda next week.”
“You can trust me,” Smith said, her face artless.
“I wonder if Jake has an alibi for any of the murders,” Wetzon mused. “And if he hasn’t, why haven’t the police arrested him? Didn’t Silvestri say anything about it?”
“I tried to get it out of him, believe me,” Smith said, smiling, smearing her piece of bagel liberally with scallion cream cheese. She laughed. “But he’s not much on shop talk....” She trailed off suggestively.
Wetzon took a bite out of her bagel, covering up a twinge of envy. Smith was not interested in Silvestri, but she was not letting go of him, either. And she seemed to be taunting her with him. Or maybe it was just Wetzon’s paranoia. Silvestri had come into Smith’s magnetic field, and he was going to be another orbiting planet, like Leon, like the other men in Smith’s life. She poured more coffee into their mugs. It made her sad.
“Hello, hello,” Smith said, elbowing her in the ribs. “Where are you? Where did you go just now? What are you thinking about?”
“The key, of course,” Wetzon said quickly, feeling guilty. After all, it wasn’t Smith’s fault. She didn’t do it on purpose. She had a kind heart and she meant well.
“Right. The key. It must unlock where the rest of the tapes are. Maybe it unlocks the hiding place of the mythical autobiography.”
“Did you ever find out what Leon was doing at the Four Seasons and near Buffie’s apartment?”
“Oh, it was nothing—as I told you—” Smith said easily. “He was meeting with an M & A specialist from Montgomery re one of his aging clients who is looking to sell his company and retire. He left long before you found Barry, so you shouldn’t be thinking bad things about Leon.”
“Well, of course, I never thought he had anything to do with the murder, but what about his being near Buffie’s apartment?”
“But, Wetzon sweetie, he was never there. You probably saw someone who looked like him. Remember how tired you were, what you’ve been through. You couldn’t have seen him.” She patted Wetzon’s cheek.
“I don’t know, Smith. It sure looked like him. I just don’t know. I’ve had such a terrible week, and then last night that derelict, Sugar Joe, was mugged—killed—on Amsterdam and Eighty-sixth and I almost got caught in it.... Actually ...” She looked down at the scraped skin on her hands. “Actually, I lost another suit last night. The mugger tore the jacket of my dark gray suit.”
“You’re kidding,” Smith said, putting her coffee mug down with a thump. “Why would anyone want to murder a derelict?” She stared hard at Wetzon. “How was he killed?”
Wetzon stared back at Smith. “I don’t want to be paranoid ... but Rick thinks—”
“I don’t give a fuck what Rick thinks. How was he killed?”
“Oh, Smith, it’s just a coincidence.” Smith glared at her. “Okay, he was stabbed, and my jacket was slashed.”
“Jesus Christ, Wetzon, there’s a nut out there with a carving knife, who’s already gotten three people you knew and possibly a fourth. How do you know he wasn’t out to get you and the bum just happened to get in the way?”
“Of course, I don’t, but—”
“Did you call Silvestri?”
“No. Now really, Smith, it’s nonsense. Why would anyone want to kill me? I don’t know anything.”
“It’s not nonsense, Wetzon. You’re in danger. I knew it. The cards have been saying so. Someone thinks you know something. It’s that key—”
“No, it couldn’t be. No one knows I had it except—” Wetzon floundered. “Except you, Silvestri ... and Leon. Leon?”
“No,” Smith said hotly. “Leon is totally trustworthy. You ought to know that.”
“But Leon represents Jake Donahue.”
“I know, but ...” Smith looked down at the counter and absentmindedly brushed some bagel crumbs onto the floor. “There’d be no reason….”
“Oh, Smith you didn’t....” Wetzon was furious. Smith’s face reddened.
“I did it for us,” she said defensively.
“Did what? Just say it—did you give Leon the key?”
“Well, not exactly.” Smith did not meet Wetzon’s eyes.
“What exactly?”
“I sold it to him.”
“Oh, no, Smith, my God, how could you?”
“It’s okay, it really is. No one will ever know about it. I did it for us. Twelve and a half thousand each. Come on, Wetzon,” Smith said, smiling seductively. “It was-easy money.”
“Illegal, unethical money, Smith!”
“It’s done. We’ll buy ourselves something nice. You can buy a fur coat,” Smith said, cajoling. “You’ve always wanted one, and now you can get yourself a big, beautiful, dark mink.” She was being cloyingly sweet. “We deserve it. We work very hard. It’s only right.” Seeing Wetzon’s anger, her face hardened. “Come on, you
knew
what I was going to do when I made a copy of the key, so don’t get holier than thou with me.”
“I don’t want the money, Smith. It’s dirty. It’s not the way I live my life, and it’s not the way I want to live.”
“Money is money. You’ll change your mind.”
“No, I won’t. Where did you put it? Not in the office, I hope.”
“No, I have it at home. I’ll hold your share for you. You’ll come around. It’s part of doing business. A lot of cash always changes hands. I don’t see why we shouldn’t get some of it. You’re so naive, Wetzon. And smug. Grow up. Everyone has a price. Even you.”
Wetzon felt sick to her stomach. She pushed away the rest of her bagel. “I’m tired,” she said, “and I’m scared.”
“But you shouldn’t be scared of Jake. Don’t you see, there wouldn’t be any reason for Jake to try to kill you. He already has the key. But I think someone else is scared that you may know something.” Smith stood up. “I’ve got to get home before Leon and Mark do.” She took Wetzon’s hand gently. “I want you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“I want you to call Silvestri and tell him about that derelict. It may be nothing, but let him make that decision. He knows more about the case than we do.”
“Oh, Smith—” At this juncture Wetzon didn’t think Silvestri knew more about the case than she did. How could he possibly put all the pieces together?
“Promise me.”
Wetzon looked into Smith’s eyes. There was honest concern for Wetzon in them and Wetzon accepted it. “Okay, I will.”
“Now,” Smith insisted. “As soon as I leave.”
“Okay.”
“And lock your door after me.”
“Okay.
Just leave
.”
Wetzon poured the rest of the coffee into her mug and turned off the burner. She had forgotten to tell Smith about Howie Minton. And she had forgotten the silk tie with the cabbage roses. Or maybe she was too chicken to deal with it. She had just wanted to be alone, as quickly as possible. She took her mug of coffee into the bedroom, setting it on the old painted washstand she used as a night table. She opened her closet door and stared at her shredded jacket.
Enough. Where had she put Silvestri’s card? She could never find it when she needed it. Screw it. She picked up the phone and asked information for the precinct phone number and then punched the buttons.
“Seventeenth Precinct, Dombrowsky.”
“Detective Silvestri,” she said, then waited for the switchboard to put the call through.
“Hollander.” There was laughter in the background.
“Detective Silvestri, please.”
“He’s not here right now. Can I help you?”
“Please just tell him Leslie Wetzon called
Wetzon hung up the phone. All right, she’d done what she’d promised. She started to make the bed. Stopped. Gave a little cry, got into bed and pulled the covers up over her head. She’d done what she’d promised. She always did what she promised. She always did the “right” thing.
She thought about the money Smith had taken for the key. It was wrong. It was dirty. And it was immoral. How could Smith not see that? Or did she see it and just not care?
Wetzon had thought, until lately, that their partnership was good, worked well, and that they were well suited, but now she didn’t know. She felt besieged. By the murders. By Smith’s peculiar behavior. By her own sexuality. She was hopping into bed with Rick, but she lusted for Silvestri.
She reached out to turn on the radio and caught her finger on the edge of the washstand, tearing her nail. Damn. She sat up, opened the drawer, and poked around for her emery board. It wasn’t there. Damn, where was it? She gave up and leaned over. Oh, there it was, on the other side of the drawer. Carlos must have decided to clean out the accumulation of junk for her. She raised her pillows and leaned back, putting on the radio.
The weather would be cool today. But fine. Clear. Fine.
“...A new development in the murders which have stunned Wall Street this week. This station has received information from a source in the district attorney’s office that investment banker Jacob Donahue has been taken in for questioning in the recent murders of stockbroker Barry Stark and Donahue’s estranged wife, Mildred Gleason, also an investment banker. The police have refused comment. We’ll have more information on this case as it develops. Stay tuned. On another local issue, the district attorney’s office has announced that the investigation of massive drug thefts at New York City hospitals has been completed and arrests are imminent. They are denying that the thefts are widespread, constituting a conspiracy, as the
Daily News
has asserted, and have indicated that only one hospital is involved. In Washington today—”
Wetzon turned off the radio. One word from the newscast kept ringing in her mind.
Estranged
. It had been mentioned before, but somehow she hadn’t picked up on it. Jake and Mildred were not divorced—they were
estranged
.