Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Crime Fiction
Wetzon walked toward Broadway, sidestepping the spot on Amsterdam Avenue where Sugar Joe had died—maybe in her stead—passing the bus stop that had been his home. There was no trace of his metal cart of possessions or his blanket. Either the police had taken them or the Sanitation Department or another street person had. What was the difference? Things got swallowed up in New York. Things and people. If you let up for one minute.... Sometimes keeping it all together made her tired.
On Broadway she paused in front of the Korean market to look at the neat arrangements of fat, red strawberries and sliced fresh pineapple. It was one of the hundreds of immaculate small markets that had been opened in the last few years all over the City by Korean immigrants moving into the mainstream of the American system. Just as the Indians had moved into the newsstand business and earlier immigrants had—Chinese with laundries and restaurants, Jews with dry cleaning stores and tailor shops. It was the best of America, and their children would become the next generation’s doctors, lawyers, and scientists.
Broadway had become a bazaar over the last year. There was an entrepreneur on every corner with a tablecloth or blanket, selling old books, phony designer watches, glitzy jewelry, sunglasses, leather pocketbooks, and belts. Everything and anything. Without a license and without overhead.
She stopped at Zabar’s and, seeing that it wasn’t jammed with people, went in and bought two chocolate croissants and continued down Broadway.
In front of the Baptist church on Seventy-ninth Street a jazz quintet had set up and was playing, very professionally, “String of Pearls.” The alto saxophonist caught her eye and held it, flirting. She stopped and listened, and then, for no reason at all that she could figure, she remembered her recent dreams, both of which had taken place on the Floor of the New York Stock Exchange. The Good Humor man in the white coat with the Mickey Mouse watch and the rocky road ice cream. What had reminded her of them? She stood watching the quintet, no longer seeing them. The connection had disintegrated.
She put a dollar into the bass drum case, which already contained a decent amount of change and bills, saluted the alto saxophonist, and pulled herself away. She’d be late if she didn’t hurry.
Rick was on line when she got there, watching for her. He waved; the line was beginning to move. She saw the Honda parked on the corner, chained to the street sign.
“Mmmm, nice,” he said, greeting her, putting his arm around her waist, sniffing her hair. He had an oversized duffel in his other hand.
“I was dawdling on Broadway,” she said. “It’s like a giant flea market. You don’t know what to look at next.”
“What did you buy?” he asked, poking the Zabar’s bag.
“Chocolate croissants.”
“Aha, just the thing to take the edge off the appetite. That and a tub of popcorn.”
“Make that a giant tub of popcorn, and you’re on,” she said.
The hush of the audience was immediate as soon as the lights dimmed and the credits came on.
Wetzon’s sharpest memory of
Notorious
was the long kissing scene between Bergman and Cary Grant, and it was as she remembered. Sensual, sensuous. Rick’s arm was around her, and she could feel the heat of his body through the thin silk of her shirt. She imagined that it was Silvestri she was sitting there with, and a warm flush ran through her. She struggled to concentrate on the film, and in spite of everything she was soon swept into the story.
The key! She had forgotten that the climax of the film was Bergman’s theft of the key to Claude Raines’s wine cellar for Grant, and because of it, the Nazis’ discovery that she was a spy.
Damnation. It was inescapable. Just as she had gotten immersed in the mood of the film, she was jerked back to reality by the coincidence of the keys.
“I’ve lost you somewhere,” Rick complained mildly when they left the theater.
Broadway was a hive of activity. Couples dressed for dinner, restaurants busy. The line for subway tokens on Seventy-second Street stretched out of the station, mostly high-school- and college-age kids. It was Friday night, the beginning of a spring weekend. Joy to the world. “I know, Rick, you’re right. I’m sorry,” she said. “My mind keeps going back to the murders. I can’t help it. There was another one last night.”
“I know,” he said, taking two white crash helmets out of his duffel and handing her one. “Are they connected?” He unlocked the Honda, put on his helmet, and sat down. Wetzon put on hers and sat behind him, arms around his waist, hands clasped in front. “That’s real nice,” he said, patting her hands. They rode up Broadway, the wind whipping up her skirt. His body felt good under her arms, taut, with no excess.
He pulled up to the curb in front of Sakura, and they looked over the takeout menu, settling on a big order of tekkamaki, the sushi deluxe, and vegetable tempura.
“Something to drink?” she asked.
“I just happen to have a six-pack of Heineken right here.” He winked and patted the duffel bag.
When they arrived at her building, Rick chained the Honda to one of the metal poles that held up the dark blue canopy in front of it. He picked up the duffel and the bag of food. “Hey, babe, you there?” He snapped his fingers at her.
Wetzon flinched, embarrassed. Where had she been? Something kept slipping away. She’d almost had it. She handed Rick the crash helmet.
“Come on.” She smiled and took his arm. “Let’s have our sushi feast.” She must try to keep her mind on him.
They had a picnic on the floor of her living room, plucking the food from containers with chopsticks, drinking beer from the bottle.
“I’ve lost you again, babe,” Rick said, breaking her reverie, a touch of impatience creeping into his voice.
“I’m rotten company, I’m afraid,” she confessed, feeling a pang of guilt. “I keep thinking I’m missing something. It’s that damn key.”
She was lying on the living room floor, her head in Rick’s lap. They were listening to George Benson, drinking beer. He had loosened her hair and fanned it out around her head, sifting it through his fingers. “Hey, ouch!” He’d pulled her hair as she was talking.
“Oh, sorry,” Rick said in a silky voice. He massaged her temples. “Okay, then why don’t you tell me about this key? Maybe it’ll help to talk about it.”
“The key?”
“Yes, you said ‘that damn key.’”
“Oh, yes, I did—”
“You’re so tense,” he said, rubbing her neck and shoulders. “Maybe you should just talk it through. A fresh opinion might help ...”
“I don’t know, Rick. I hate to drag you into this mess, and the more I talk about it, the more confused I get.”
“Come on now, babe. I’m a scientist, uninvolved, clear-headed as they come. Try me.” He unbuttoned the top button of her shirt. “What about this key?”
“Barry put a key in my pocket before he was murdered.”
“Why would he do that?” His hands were warm and strong. The massage felt so good, she could just drift off right now.
“Don’t know ... unless he wanted to get rid of it quickly.”
“What does it look like? Do you have it here?” There was no change in his soft, pleasant voice, but a slight change of pressure in his massaging fingers made her open her eyes.
“I don’t have it,” she said. “The police have it. Why?”
“Just curious,” he said indifferently.
“I guess I should just leave it for the police to figure out.”
Rick took his hands from her shoulders. “I may be moving out to the Coast soon,” he said.
“How come?” She looked up at him, upside down.
“I’ve had an offer to head emergency medicine at a hospital in San Diego.”
“Gee, Rick, that’s really nice.” She rolled over and leaned on her elbows, facing him. “You’re going to take it, then?”
“Yes. I did my first residency in internal medicine, and then did another one in emergency medicine. I’ve been at York for over four years, so this is it. I was out in San Diego about two months ago, and I liked them and they liked me. And I love the lifestyle. Great weather all year round.”
“I’ll miss you,” she said, patting his knee.
“I haven’t made it definite yet. Don’t pack me off.” He pulled her to him and kissed her hard. A little too hard. Not like Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman. She felt herself tensing up and so did he. With sure hands he began to massage her neck and shoulders again, and she felt her body relax into his. “Come on,” he said, his voice a sexy whisper, “it’s Pulasky’s prescription for well-being.”
“Pulasky ...” she heard herself murmur. Or maybe she didn’t quite say it out loud. Maybe she thought it and didn’t say it. But just before she let her mind go and gave in to her body, she thought of the Pulasky Skyway in New Jersey and remembered the jagged rocks that ran like the cut-out center of a mountain along the side of the road just past the Skyway, and her last flicker of thought was,
rocky road
.
She was making a big platter of French toast when the phone rang.
“Damn,” she said under her breath. “Rick?” No response. She turned off the heat and moved the pan. Her machine should have grabbed it, but the phone kept ringing. “Damn.” She picked up the phone, still holding the spatula in her left hand. “Hello.”
“Guess what, guess what, guess what!” Carlos shouted into the phone.
“What? What? You crazy person,” she said, immediately forgetting her irritation. He must have gotten into the show.
“I got it! I got it! How do you like that?”
“I like it a lot.
What
did you get?”
“Oh, come on, you know what I got! And it’s not chorus either—it’s assistant choreographer. Marshall sprang it on me when I got there. Get that,
assistant choreographer
.”
“Oh, Carlos, that’s super!”
“You’re damn right it’s super! And we do Boston and Washington pre New York.”
“When do you open in New York?”
“September fourteenth.”
“Happy Washington summer.”
“Who cares! Now, as to why I’m calling you at this ungodly hour, madam. I wanted to get you before you were completely booked socially. We’re going to celebrate, you and I. Dinner tonight—on me—my celebration—and the biggest and the best of the clubs, the Caravanserie, afterward. We’ll really do it up nice. Dance up a storm. You could use the exercise. What do you say?”
“Hold on a minute, can you?”
“Ho ho, we’re not alone and celibate anymore.” It always amazed her how intuitive Carlos was where she was concerned.
“Shut up, you nut.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Rick?” she called.
“Yo?” he said, sticking his head out of the bathroom. He had shaving cream on his face and a razor in his hand. So the duffel had held a lot more than beer.
“When do you go in today?”
“Four. Trying to get rid of me?”
She felt her face redden. “No, don’t be silly....” But he was back in the bathroom again. “You’re on, Carlos. What time?”
“Seven-thirty. We’ll do dinner at Mezzaluna, and you can tell me all the delicious details about your new lover.”
“Carlos, you’re impossible.”
“Listen, darling, I’m happy for you. And a little jealous, too. Now what’s with all these Wall Street corpses?”
“I’ll tell you all about everything tonight.”
She opened the outside door and picked up the Sunday papers from the mat, dropping them on the floor in the dining room. The dropleaf table was open and set for two. It was after one o’clock and she was starving.
The sun had awakened her early that morning, and she’d taken a hot shower and slipped quietly into a leotard and tights, bunching leg warmers around her ankles, for the apartment was chilly and there was no heat. She was aching mentally and physically for a workout. She hadn’t taken class in over ten days, and with the good, strong sunlight coming through her windows, she felt more energy than she had in a week. She had worked quietly, without music, letting Rick sleep.
Her concentration was so pure that she hadn’t noticed Rick standing in the doorway until she’d completed most of the workout. He was naked except for his blue bikini underwear, which she found funny and not at all sexy, sort of like the old Calvin Klein ad in all the bus stops, androgynous. He had a smooth, almost hairless body, in prime shape. She knew he worked out with weights because he’d told her so.
“Don’t stop, babe,” he’d said. “I like watching you.”
But she hadn’t been able to go on. And she was very confused by her reaction to him. She felt strangely invaded and uneasy and couldn’t say why. “How long were you standing there?” she’d asked, trying to hide her confusion.
“Only a little while,” he’d said, backing off a fraction.
There, she’d done it again, and she didn’t know how or why. She’d sensed that he wanted to make love to her again, and she’d been incomprehensibly afraid. Afraid.
“I’m finished.” She’d stopped abruptly. “I’ll get breakfast.”
“No,” he’d said, “I’m going to shower and shave.” He’d disappeared down the hall, and she suddenly knew that it was over. She had clicked off. It was something she did, some defense mechanism she carried with her all the time. She didn’t know why, but the funny little knot of fear was still there.
They lingered over coffee and the papers, both pretending that nothing had changed. And maybe it hadn’t. She was depressed and tired again, and she felt she couldn’t trust her reactions. She’d had almost no time to herself since Barry was murdered.
“It’s almost three,” Rick said. He was wearing his jeans but was bare- chested.
“Do you want more coffee?” she asked.
Her doorbell rang. “Damn, who can that be?” She was still wearing her tights and leotard, but she’d pulled on an oversized sweatshirt after she’d finished her workout. She peered through the peephole. “Oh, for godsakes, it’s Silvestri again.”
“Who’s Silvestri?”
“The detective on the case.” She unlocked the door and pulled it open angrily. “Don’t you ever call?”
“I knew you were home,” he said placidly. “Good afternoon.”
“How could you know I was home?” she demanded.
“Your line was busy. Aren’t you going to ask me in?” He was still wearing the rumpled sports jacket.
“Jesus, Silvestri,” she said, “and where was my doorman this time?” She opened the door wide.
“He was there. He said good afternoon to me.” Silvestri walked in and then stopped, seeing Rick’s shadow against the light coming through the dining room windows behind him. “Of course, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, squinting at Rick. There was something about the way he said it that implied just the opposite.
“This is Rick Pulasky. Dr. Pulasky, Sergeant Silvestri,” she said, mortified. Her cheeks felt on fire.
Oh shit
. She felt as if she’d gotten caught in the act.
“Doctor,” Silvestri acknowledged, without changing his expression.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Rick said. “I was about to get going....” He went down the hall toward her bedroom, proprietorial, shirtless, flexing his muscles.
Nice
, she thought. It was humiliating. They were acting like two roosters. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked Silvestri, who stood looking after Rick. “Silvestri?”
“Oh, yes, what? Coffee? Oh, sure.” Silvestri was still staring after Rick.
“What can I do for you today, Sergeant?” She decided she wasn’t going to let him provoke her. She put a fresh mug on the table and poured the coffee. Silvestri sat down in Rick’s chair.
“Known him long?” Silvestri asked, contemplating his coffee.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Silvestri,” she said, annoyed. He looked at her without expression. Dammit, she had let him get to her. “Oh, all right, if you must know, he’s from York Hospital. He came over the other day to check up on me, and we hit it off.”
“Check up on you—?”
“Yes, after the accident. York has this experimental program where they assign doctors from Emergency to follow up patients after they’ve been treated and sent home. Rather an admirable program, don’t you think?”
“Admirable,” Silvestri said, echoing her, but faintly ironic.
“I’m going, babe.” Rick stood in the doorway, fully clad. “Don’t get up, Sergeant.” He was making a big show of his duffel.
“I had no intention,” Silvestri said, putting milk in his coffee. Excusing herself, Wetzon followed Rick into the foyer. “I’m sorry about this,” she said.
“No problem, babe,” he said. He put his arms around her. “We’ll talk.” He pulled her close and aimed a kiss for her lips, missing because she’d turned to see if Silvestri was watching. He was.