The Big Killing (25 page)

Wetzon prepared to leave her apartment the next morning bent on confronting Smith and clearing the air between them. Or, closer to the truth, to clear the air between Wetzon and Wetzon. “Did you forget Howie Minton, Wetzon?” one of those Wetzons asked.

No, she hadn’t forgotten Howie Minton. Amidst all this blood and gore and confusion was still the need to do business, to make money. What else was it all for? She had it, too—the same greed they all had. Would she be a headhunter if there weren’t all this money in it? She couldn’t honestly answer that question. She didn’t rightly know. She’d had nowhere to go as a dancer. That’s what happened after you hit thirty. And the truth was, money or no, she loved her work.

So she had not forgotten she had to deal with Howie Minton. And Steve Switzer. And Amanda Guilford. Yes. Amanda.

She would call Silvestri at some point, but she was reluctant to tell him about the matchbook. The incident with the key still stung. He thought she was unscrupulous—dishonest—and how could she blame him? Now she was determined to get the tapes herself and deliver them to him. To make amends. No—to show him.

She would go to the networking meeting at the Caravanserie tonight. Carlos would meet her, and Carlos would be able to get the tapes out of Barry’s locker. She’d show Silvestri.

She opened the door to her apartment and walked into Silvestri.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she said, juggling her briefcase. “Are you harassing me?”
Get you,
Wetzon
, she told herself.
When what you really want to do is throw yourself at him, tell him
 ...

“You’re holding out on me, Ms. Wetzon,” he said bluntly, looking down at her. “Do I have to remind you we’re dealing with murder?”

She backed away, into her apartment, unable to meet his accusing eyes. “Would you like to come in?” Her words came out sharper than she’d intended. She walked into her living room and sat down. He followed her.

“Would you prefer coming to the precinct and talking to the Lieutenant?”

“Now?” She looked at her watch nervously. It was almost eight-thirty.

He ignored her question. “I’ll give you till noon tomorrow. I want you at the precinct by then, if not before.” His tone was cold and hard.

“Gee, thanks.” She wondered how it would have been if Metzger had handled the case. Whenever she and Silvestri met, whatever they said to each other took on a personal tone and went wrong. Her lips trembled.
I’m having a breakdown
, she thought. She brushed the wetness from her cheeks with her fingertips and stared defiantly at Silvestri.

His eyes were hard to fathom.

“Take a look at these,” he said, pushing aside the books on her coffee table and spreading a group of photographs, all different sizes, black and white and color, dealing them out and lining them up as if he were playing bridge.

She watched his face as he put each out, but he gave her no hint.
A poker face dealing to the
dummy
, she couldn’t help thinking. Smith was right.
You are a dummy
, she told herself sternly. She studied the photographs, acutely aware of him, the smell of him—his aftershave, cigarette smoke on his clothes, the coffee on his breath. “What is this for?”

“We’re looking for someone you might have seen at the Four Seasons who didn’t turn up during our initial interrogation.”

“Oh,” she said, looking at the pictures. “Wait a minute. This one is Dinah Shore. What’s she doing here?”

“I always include her,” Silvestri said pleasantly. “She’s a very special lady. You’d be surprised how many people pick her out as the person they saw—”

“Oh, great,” she said sarcastically. “It was a test and I passed.” She put the photograph of Dinah back in its place. “Well, I didn’t see her that night. I like her, too,” she added, not smiling.

“Keep going,” he said, serious again.

She pulled another photograph from the arrangement. “I think I saw her in the ladies’ room, only she was wearing dark glasses, but I’d remember that hair. It’s the most amazing color, like copper.” She thought for a moment. “I know her, I think. Who is she?” The eyes of the woman in the posed color photograph looked back at Wetzon suggestively.

“Are you sure?” Silvestri asked, ignoring her question.

“Positive. Are you going to tell me who she is?”

“Don’t you know?”

“No. Would I ask you if I knew? How would I know?” She studied the photograph. “Who is she?” Silvestri raised an eyebrow at her. “I guess you’re not going to tell me.”

“I guess I’m not going to tell you,” he said, scooping up the rest of the photographs and stuffing them back in his inside pocket. “Not if you don’t already know.”

They both stood.

“Are you going to your office?” he asked. “If you are, I can drop you.”

“Okay, you can drop me on Second and Forty-ninth.”

He had another car, a green Plymouth Valiant which had seen better days. “New car?” she asked facetiously.

“Borrowed.”

That was all they said to each other. He drove in silence, concentrating on traffic.

Wetzon felt her resolve wavering. She was growing more and more uneasy about everything. He pulled into the bus stop near Forty-ninth Street and turned to her. “Wanna talk?” he said, not shutting off the motor. She looked at him, uncertain. “The Lieutenant’s a mean son of a bitch,” Silvestri said. “Nothing like me.”

“Sure, you’re a pussycat, Silvestri.” She opened the door and stepped out, then leaned back toward him and spoke quickly. “Georgie told me Barry was holding something for him and it wasn’t in Barry’s locker. Buffie told me Barry had been threatened by Jake Donahue, that he’d written his autobiography as insurance and stashed it away somewhere, that if anything happened to him she was to present it to Mildred Gleason and Mildred would pay his insurance to Buffie.” Silvestri leaned both arms on the steering wheel, chin on arms, giving her his profile. She rattled on, peeved as hell by his bland reaction. “Mildred told me she’d hired Barry to get dirt on Donahue. Jake hired a broker named Amanda Guilford to spy on Barry. Leon Ostrow, my lawyer, was at the Four Seasons that night and outside Buffie’s apartment building before we found Georgie.” She stopped, breathless. “Okay? Thanks for the ride.” She slammed the car door.

Silvestri leaned over and rolled down the window on her side. “That’s a start,” he said. “You’re not off the hook yet. Noon tomorrow.”

“Ingrate.” She pulled herself up proudly, angry that he wasn’t satisfied, and walked away from the car. If her guess was right, she would present him with the stuff from the locker before noon tomorrow. That would do him.

She hadn’t even looked at the business section of the
Times
. Usually she thumbed through it over her morning coffee, but she had been in a hurry this morning and too jumpy to concentrate. She’d had her apple juice and all the vitamins and had skipped the coffee. She’d have it in the office. And for the time being she would block Silvestri from her mind.

The magnolia trees were thickening with pale magenta buds, and the humid mist was just starting to clear. It would probably be a nice day. The weekday morning smells of New York—coffee, danish pastries, croissants—came from the shop on the corner of Second Avenue. There was one like it on almost every corner in New York now. She walked past the line-up of secretaries, clerks, and executives in business uniform, lured by the enticing odors.

When she opened the door to the brownstone office, she was greeted by the unmistakable aroma of brewed coffee. It wasn’t like Harold to have made coffee, but there he was pouring himself a cup, so he must have. Wonders would never cease.

“Good morning,” she said. “Just what I need this morning, fresh coffee.”

“Good morning,” he said, drowning his coffee with milk and sugar. “Smith had it made before I got here.” He looked at her with concern. “How are you feeling? Did you see the papers this morning?”

“I’m feeling fine,” she said genially, her back to him, going through her mail. “Why?”

“Smith says ...” He faltered.

She turned and smiled at him encouragingly. “Don’t stop now, Harold, tell me what Smith says.” This was really annoying. It was as if Smith had deliberately set out to make her feel defensive this morning.

“Well,” Harold said, lowering his voice, “Smith said that we have to be very gentle with you because you’ve been so depressed since Barry’s murder, and we’re not to worry you about business problems or anything.”

What business problems
? she thought. “Isn’t that sweet of her. But she’s a mother, and,” she said, with the air of sharing a confidence, “you know how mothers are, Harold. They just hover too much.”

“Oh, don’t I know,” Harold said fervently, as she knew he would because he had one of those mothers. “But she’s awfully worried about you.”

“She enjoys worrying about me, so let’s let it be our secret, Harold. I’m really fine.” She flung out her arms and did a little shuffle tap routine. He laughed, applauding.

“Now what was that about the papers? Don’t tell me someone else has been murdered.” She took the
Times
out of her briefcase as she spoke and opened it to the business section. “Uh-oh.”

The headline read: GOVERNMENT CLOSES DOWN BROKERAGE FIRM. She leaned against the outside door, stunned.
So the Feds finally make their appearance,
she thought. Long overdue. It was almost as if they’d been hanging around the perimeter all along. The government almost never shut down brokerage firms. Usually if it was a matter of sudden loss of capitalization, the firm’s underpinnings, the government gave the industry time to rush in and try to remedy the situation—arrange a merger with or a buy-out by another securities firm. Because if word got out, it soured the client on the whole industry. But if the firm was thought to have been doing something illegal, the industry had to stand aside. It was shattering news for investors, bad for the market, bad for headhunters, bad for the industry. She folded the paper in half lengthwise, New York style, and read the article.

Government agents padlocked the brokerage firm of Jacob Donahue & Co. late last night. Sources close to Donahue claim investors began demanding their money and stock certificates because of the publicity about the recent murders of Donahue’s estranged wife, Mildred Gleason, and Donahue’s employee, stockbroker Barry Stark. Carole Sue Wright, a spokeswoman for the SEC, stated that because Donahue & Co. held the securities instead of transferring them to the lender, when the investors demanded the return of their securities, it was uncovered that Donahue & Co. had used these same securities in several repos agreements.

“What happens to the people who have accounts there?” Harold asked.

“The accounts automatically go into SIPC,” she answered, rereading the article. She looked up and, seeing the blank expression on his face, added, “‘Securities Investors Protection Corporation.’ It’s insurance for up to half a million dollars per customer account.”

“Oh.” Harold nodded. “And what happens to the broker if he hasn’t done anything wrong? Can he move those accounts?”

“Not easily. The government appoints an overseer. It all takes time. So a broker is better off finding another firm and rebuilding his book. And that’s not easy either, because most of the firms are wary of hiring a broker from a disreputable firm and without a book.”

“Did you see where it says that Jake and Mildred were never divorced?” Harold loved gossip.

“I can’t believe Mildred would have been that stupid, unless she felt she could somehow hold on to her father’s firm by not divorcing Jake. All of which means he will probably inherit her company, unless they prove that he’s a murderer. Poor Mildred. She even loses after she can’t lose anymore.”

“But won’t the Exchange and the SEC take away his license?”

“Yes, if he’s convicted. Otherwise, they might slap his wrists for a short time or fine him, or maybe they’ll say he can’t trade for thirty days or sixty days, or ninety days, but then he’ll be back—if he’s not the murderer. And in this business, maybe even if he is.”

“What’s going on? Am I missing something?” Smith poked her head out of the main office. She was wearing the silk tie with the cabbage roses as a band around her dark curls, tied in a bow at the nape of her neck. Wetzon stared at it, flabbergasted. Was it the same tie Smith had worn the day Georgie was murdered, or was this a brand new one she’d bought at Bloomingdale’s this morning? And if it was new, did Wetzon have the old one, because Smith had been at Buffie’s apartment with Georgie and had lost it there after— No, she couldn’t let herself think that.

“We were just talking about Jake Donahue,” Wetzon said. “I need to talk to you, Smith.”
But not about the silk tie, obviously
. Smith would wriggle out of that.

“First let me get you a cup of my fresh brewed coffee,” Smith said sweetly, sounding like a television commercial. “I knew you would need it this morning. Where were you last night? I called.”

“At the Caravanserie.”

“You went to the Caravanserie? Really?” Harold was agog. His mouth dropped open and his eyes all but popped from behind his glasses. “Did you see any stars?”

“Later, Harold, please,” Smith said sharply. “We have work to do now.” She handed Wetzon the coffee.

“You had some calls, Wetzon,” Harold said, cowed.

“Who?”

“Sid Ashencraft from Thomson McKinley in Palm Beach.”

“Probably about Angela Buttenweiser.”

“You can call him back, he said.”

“Who else?”

“Steve Switzer. Smith spoke to him.”

Smith nodded. “It’s dead with Hallgarden, but I talked him into looking at Oppenheimer.”

“He wants up-front. It’s a waste of time. They won’t give it to him at Oppenheimer.”

“Wetzon, you know as well as I do that these brokers never know what they want.”

Wetzon sighed. Smith had a point. Sometimes things fell into place for all the wrong reasons. And maybe sometimes people got murdered for all the wrong reasons.

“Any other calls?”