Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Crime Fiction
“Yeah, a Dr. Pulasky.”
“Did he leave a number?” Harold looked stricken, his bearded face funereally grave, flooded with concern. “Don’t look so worried, Harold, Dr. Pulasky is a personal friend.”
“Yes,” Smith said mischievously, “
very
personal.”
Harold smiled, tentative, not understanding. “He said you couldn’t reach him, that he would call again later.”
Wetzon closed the door to the office she shared with Smith and put the coffee cup down on her desk. Her briefcase went under the desk. She took a sip of the coffee, and a deep breath, then turned to face Smith, who was smiling indulgently at her. It was downright disconcerting. Smith was sending out waves of love.
Wetzon sighed and took another swallow of coffee. It was unusually good. Probably a new blend of decaf.
“Smith,” she began.
“Yes, dear.” Smith’s big dark eyes were moist. Actually, she looked more exotic than usual this morning. Her olive skin was set off by the vivid blue and mauve colors in her silk dress, and she’d made herself up to emphasize her high, broad cheekbones and doe eyes. Her dark hair was a curly wimple for her face, cut by those damn mauve cabbage roses....
“Smith.” Wetzon closed her eyes against Smith’s wide-eyed innocence, knowing that Smith well realized its impact on her. “Smith, why did you tell Silvestri that it was my idea to make a duplicate of the key?” It made her angry all over again just thinking about it, and saying it out loud, she found herself shaking with fury.
“What did you say?
I
told Silvestri it was your idea to make a copy of the key?” Smith’s face reflected nothing but indignation. “I did no such thing. How could you possibly think I would?” She paused, waiting for Wetzon to cave in, but Wetzon kept silent. “Actually,” Smith said, smoothly placating, “he wanted me to say that, you should have heard how he phrased it, but I wouldn’t. I think he was trying to trick us, to get us to say something incriminating about each other.”
“Incriminating? Smith, what are you talking about?”
“Well, you know, that whole business with the key.” Smith’s voice radiated goodness. “You know I would never have said such a thing to Silvestri. I’m your friend. I love you. We have a history together. You know you can trust me. We’ve been together too long for that.” Smith put a hand on each of Wetzon’s shoulders, staring into her eyes. She was sincere.
Wetzon felt sick. Here was her friend and partner, Xenia Smith, meeting her eyes unflinchingly and telling her that Silvestri had set a trap for them, and maybe he had, because he had guessed the key had been copied. Of course he had. And he had caught them both. It had all been a silly mistake. “Oh, I know, Smith,” she said. “I’m really ashamed that I could have thought you would do that.” She was surprised to discover that she was shaking.
Smith’s eyes fluttered as if she were going to cry. She was full of compassion. “You’re just overwrought by this whole thing, dear. Just look at yourself, you’re trembling. Maybe you should get away for a few days. Why not take my country place—”
“No, no, I’ll be all right, and besides, I hate the country. I’d just get stir-crazy there. But thank you. Now where is that damn key?” But she wasn’t all right. Her heart was thumping and she felt waves of panic in her chest.
“You really ought to go home,” Smith said. Her eyes narrowed solicitously. “You look terrible.” She opened her desk drawer and took out an envelope. “Here it is.”
“I’ll give it to Silvestri tomorrow.” Wetzon put the envelope in her handbag.
“Why tomorrow?”
“He wants to see me at the precinct tomorrow at twelve.”
“What for?”
“More questions, I guess. Smith, about that money from Leon—”
“Don’t say another word,” Smith said. “I gave it all back to Leon last night. You were right, of course.” She smiled her crooked smile.
“I’m so glad, Xenia.” Wetzon, feeling fiercely relieved, squeezed her partner’s hand. “Just let me sit here for a minute. I feel as if I’ve been running miles.”
“Okay, sweetie, you just sit there and relax and I’ll fill you in on what we’ve been doing about Donahue’s. You don’t have to worry about anything right now. First, Harold pulled all the names. We have home phone numbers for some of them, but who knows if they’re at home. They’re probably all scattered around looking for jobs.”
“And their accounts will all go into SIPC and be frozen for who knows how long, so what firms are going to be willing to hire them, especially through us? We’ll have to see, but we may just end up spinning our wheels,” Wetzon said, starting to feel better.
“I put Harold on it. He’ll let us know if he comes up with anyone.”
“Good. Now I have to set up appointments for Amanda Guilford and Howie Minton.”
“Oh, no,” Smith groaned. “Not him again. He’ll never leave Rosenkind.”
“This time I think he will. They’ve decided he has to pay for a customer complaint about their bad stock picks.”
“So
he
says, the sleazebag.”
“Now, Smith,” Wetzon said, and they were back in motion again, grinning at each other. But her heart still pounded and she couldn’t quite shake the feeling of panic. The last time she had felt like this, she’d drunk regular coffee by mistake. Smith had made the coffee this morning and Smith knew she drank only decaf, so it had to be something else. The shock of everything that had happened to her over this past week was probably starting to tell.
Harold opened the door. “Smith, call for you from Gary Enderman.”
“Oh, please, give me a break,” Smith said. “And it’s only Monday.”
“Al Catella for you, Wetzon.”
They retreated to their corners and picked up their weapons. So the day began.
Somewhere near midmorning, Carlos phoned. “We’ve got a problem about tonight, darling,” he said. “My main man with the entry card is out of town until tomorrow, and I haven’t been able to round up someone with another.”
“Shit,” Wetzon said.
“And Marshall called a creative session for tonight. I’m really sorry, birdie.”
“That queers everything,” Wetzon bitched.
“I resent that implication.”
“If the foo shits,” she said, laughing. She sat back in her chair and caught a glimpse of Smith looking at her inquiringly. She shook her head, indicating it wasn’t business.
“Very funny, very funny,” Carlos replied. “Listen, we can do it tomorrow night.”
She lowered her voice. “But the networking thing is tonight. I wanted to do it tonight.”
“Well, we can’t, Miss Compulsive.”
“I know, I know.” She thought for a second. Hadn’t Rick mentioned he had a membership at the Caravanserie through the hospital? She’d have to ask him. Maybe he would do it for her.
“Hello ... hello, have I lost you entirely?”
“Carlos,” she whispered, “I think I just remembered someone telling me he was a member of the club.”
“And I wanted to play cops and robbers with you, spoil sport.”
“But you ‘wanna dance’ a lot more, right?”
“True! ‘’tis true, ’tis pity and pity ’tis, ’tis true.’ Well, go ahead, but you have to tell me
all
about it.”
“Goodbye, Carlos, you idiot.”
“But that doesn’t make me a bad person,” he said. “Be careful,” he added, becoming serious. “Do you trust this guy?”
“Of course.” Why shouldn’t she trust Rick? She hung up; her hand remained resting on the receiver.
“What was all that about?” For some reason it always seemed to make Smith paranoid when she couldn’t hear Wetzon’s conversations with her friends. Even when she eavesdropped, Smith rarely understood what she heard. One thing always amazed Wetzon: Smith had no sense of humor, unless she made the joke.
“Just Carlos being silly.”
“Who did you go to the Caravanserie with—the Good Humor man?”
A little bell went off in Wetzon’s head. Smith meant Rick, of course. The Good Humor man, all in white. “No. Carlos. We were celebrating. He’s going to be assistant choreographer on Marshall Bart’s new musical.”
“Humpf,” Smith said. “And are you seeing the Good Humor man tonight?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Oh, I thought we could have dinner together, just the two of us, the way we used to.”
“Maybe later in the week,” Wetzon said, suddenly feeling sorry for Smith. She’d been left out of things since Barry’s murder. Smith liked to be the star, and here was plain little Wetzon getting all the attention, and not even wanting it, either. “Later in the week, okay?”
She didn’t want to tell Smith about the Caravanserie and Barry’s locker, or the networking night, because she knew that Smith would try to take it over, as she had done with the key. This was Wetzon’s idea and she felt proprietary about it.
“Wetzon, dear, one more thing,” Smith said with a big, sweet smile.
“What?”
“Jake Donahue would love to meet you. He saw your picture in the papers and—”
Wetzon felt herself getting angry all over again. “Oh, yes, he saw my picture in the paper and he was overwhelmed with my beauty. Right? And just in passing, he’d like to know what Barry told me before he died.”
“Wetzon, why are you being so difficult? It’s just that he’s heard a lot about you—”
“How?”
“Well, from Leon, from me ... and he’d like to meet you.” She was positively glowing with sincerity. “Leon can arrange it. Come on now, Wetzon, Jake’s a very attractive man, and he knows a lot of important people.”
“Smith, are you crazy? Donahue’s a crook, and he’s probably going to jail. And he could be a murderer. He figures I know what Barry had on him. Just as Mildred did.”
“Honestly,” Smith said, with a light laugh, throwing up her arms. “You are such a hardhead. I was only trying to do something nice for you. Forget it—it was just an idea.”
Surprised by Smith’s easy capitulation, Wetzon smiled warily. Smith was so unpredictable.
Harold opened the door. “They’re closing the Dean Witter office on Sixth Avenue and giving the brokers two weeks to choose another office in the system.”
“Do we know anyone there?” Smith asked.
“Everyone. Wetzon’s talked to at least ten brokers there. I’ve pulled the names.”
“Yes,” Wetzon said, taking her update folder from the drawer of her desk. “And one of them is Joe Stotner. I’ll go after him and the rest after I take care of Amanda Guilford.” She pulled her yellow pad with the notes she had made on Amanda’s history and business out of her briefcase.
“Oh, I forgot,” Harold said, “there’s a woman on the phone for you who doesn’t want to give her name. She’s holding on line three. Jesus, I’m sorry.”
“One of Wetzon’s waifs, no doubt,” Smith said sweetly.
Wetzon smiled back sweetly and picked up the phone. “Wetzon.” She heard clamor in the background, but no one responded. “Hello? Wetzon speaking.”
“Hello.” Wetzon could barely hear the woman’s voice over the noise. Subway noise? “Can we speak confidentially?” the woman asked.
“Yes, of course.” Another paranoid broker, probably from Donahue’s, she thought.
“This is Roberta Bancroft. I must see you tonight.”
The sudden intrusion of Mildred’s assistant triggered an anxious pulse in Wetzon’s throat. “I’m very sorry about your loss, but—”
“Please, I’m begging you. My life is at stake.” Her voice faded. The connection seemed bad. Wetzon strained to hear. Her voice came back, very low. “... something crucial ... you’re the only one ...” The sound of a jackhammer obliterated her words. “... who can verify—”
Wetzon’s heart began to race. “No, please. Call Sergeant Silvestri at the Seventeenth Precinct. Here,” she fumbled in her handbag, “I’ll give you the number.”
Now Roberta’s voice crackled. “I tried. He wasn’t there. Please. My life is in danger. I can’t go home. Please help me. You must help me—”
Wetzon closed her eyes, listening to the muffled sobs, agonizing. She’d be crazy to get involved. “Okay,” she heard herself say. She looked at her schedule. “Can you come to my office later today? Around five-thirty?” At least that would give her plenty of time to get to the Caravanserie.
“Oh, yes, anytime, whatever you say.” Roberta’s voice grew stronger, eager. “I’ll call Sergeant Silvestri again. I’ll tell him to meet me at your office. But please, please, do not tell anyone else. If you do, it may be the wrong person—” The connection was cut off, leaving Wetzon speechless. Roberta must know who had killed Mildred and Barry. It had to be Jake, or maybe someone Jake had hired to do it. Who else could it possibly be? She looked up and saw Smith watching her suspiciously.
“What’s up now?” Smith asked, an odd tightness in her voice.
“Amanda Guilford ... she’s so nervous,” Wetzon fabricated. “I told her I’d meet her late in the afternoon.”
“At the Four Seasons?” Smith asked, tongue in cheek.
“God, Smith, I don’t know if I have the guts to go back there this soon. Just the thought makes me shiver.”
“Switzer for you, line one,” Harold interrupted.
“Switzer? Now what?” She picked up the phone. “Steve? What’s happening?”
“I’m starting at Hallgarden in two weeks.”
“You’re what?” Wetzon mouthed,
He’s going to Hallgarden
, to Smith and held up two fingers for weeks. Smith jumped up and crossed over to Wetzon’s desk, clapping her hands together soundlessly. “How did it happen?”
Switzer’s voice was bursting with contained excitement. “About an hour ago it came over the tape that that asshole Gordon Kingston resigned. I called Garfeld and he said, ‘When are you coming on board?’ ”
“You firmed up the deal already?” Wetzon was flabbergasted. All the terrible things Switzer had said about Andy Garfeld seemed to have been forgotten, at least for now.
“Wetzon, you know you gotta move fast in this business.” Switzer laughed. “We’re doing a kiss contact.”
That was a new one on her. “Kiss contract?”
“Yeah, ‘keep it simple, stupid.’”
“Well, okay then! Congratulations.”
The phone rang and Harold came running back. “Andy Garfeld!” he whispered.
Wetzon put her hand on the mouthpiece. “Hold him.”
“Listen, Wetzon,” Switzer said, “Andy explained it all to me. I know he was under the gun. I don’t hold it against him. He’s a terrific guy. Later, huh?” The phone clicked.
Wetzon shook her head and punched the button releasing Garfeld from hold. “Congratulations,” she said.
“You know already?” He sounded disappointed.
“Just spoke with Steve. You got yourself a great producer.”
“I hope so. My ass is in a sling if he’s not a winner. I gave him the best deal I had. I want him over here this week.”
“He said two weeks.”
“Wetzon, I leave it to you. Get him here by Friday.”
“Yes, sir,” Wetzon said, saluting, putting down the phone.
“It’s not over till it’s over,” Wetzon and Smith said simultaneously.
Smiling, Wetzon slipped her fingers into the outside pocket of her suit jacket. They touched the smooth cardboard of the matchbook.
And even when it’s over; it’s not over
.