Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Crime Fiction
She talked to six brokers from Dean Witter and set up appointments for two of them; the others wanted to stay within the firm and had made arrangements to move to other branch offices. She arranged for Howie Minton to see three firms during the week, and for Amanda Guilford to talk with Alex Brown that afternoon after the close. Her stomach was telling her it was just about ready for lunch when Rick phoned again.
“I’m so glad you called back. Hold on a sec.” Wetzon turned, looking for Smith, but Smith was already sitting in the garden with a foil sun reflector under her chin, working on her tan. “Rick, didn’t you tell me you had a membership at the Caravanserie?”
“Yeah,” he said, “... through the hospital.”
“Well, I need your help....Can you—would you—check out a locker there for me tonight?” She was talking so fast into the mouthpiece of the phone that her tongue kept tripping on her teeth.
“Hey, hold on, whose locker? Tell me slowly, babe.”
“Rick—I think I figured it out. I mean—last night—Barry told me—”
“Barry’s dead, babe.”
“I know, I know. But he left me a message ... in a matchbook. The key was caught in the matchbook—”
“The key? You have the key?”
“No, don’t you see?” she said, impatient. “The key was never important. What was important all along was the matchbook. It had a locker number and combination written in it. I think Barry may have had another locker.... Oh, it’s too complicated to explain. Georgie cleaned out Barry’s regular locker and didn’t find anything—”
“But what about the key?” he persisted.
“I told you, the police have the key. Don’t you see, it has nothing to do with the case. The key is a hospital key of some sort. Maybe it got in my pocket after the accident when I was with the paramedics or at York Emergency.”
“Okay, babe, fine. I get it. What can I do? I want to see you tonight anyway. That’s why I called.”
The phone rang, rang again, and again. Harold had gone out for lunch and Smith was still toasting herself in the garden. “Hold on a minute, Rick, I’m sorry to do this to you.” She hit the hold button and answered, “Smith and Wetzon.”
“Wetzon, m’dear, this is Leon. I must talk to you—”
“Leon, I’m sorry, I’m on the other line and I’m the only one here. I’ll call right back.”
“But—”
She broke the connection and went back to Rick, as Harold entered carrying their lunch, and she motioned him out to the garden. “Rick, I’ve been invited to a networking session at the Caravanserie tonight.” She saw Harold say something to Smith, and they both looked back toward the office.
“What time?”
“Six. Can you meet me?”
“Not till seven, but if you have the number of the locker and the combination, why don’t you give me the numbers now over the phone, and I’ll get everything and meet you there.”
“Wetzon, come on, you’re missing the best sun.” Smith stood in the doorway, arms folded, reproving.
“One more sec, Smith,” Wetzon said. “I’m talking to Rick.”
Smith didn’t move.
“Okay, I’ll meet you at seven, in the downstairs lounge. Can you get there? You can get in through the club.”
“I know. And I know you can’t talk,” Rick said. “Just tell me, do the cops know about this locker?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Later, babe.”
She hung up the phone and smiled. He sounded like such a thug when he called her babe. A little like Barry, come to think of it. Barry had also called her babe.
“You’re too much,” Smith said. “Come on, I’m starving.”
Funny, Wetzon thought. Normally she would have shared the matchbook with Smith, and they would have worked out the strategy together, but she had not yet figured out how she felt about Smith and the key. Silvestri
could
have set a trap for them.
The sun was mildly tranquilizing. Wetzon tilted her face toward it gratefully. She needed soothing. She felt as if she’d been beaten up, physically and emotionally. But it would be better tonight. Tonight she would get the tapes and turn them over to Silvestri. And he would realize that she was straight and honest, and maybe even smart and terrific. She took off her jacket and put it on the back of the chair.
“Where are you?” Smith demanded. “I’ve called to you twice. You look like you’re a million miles away. That Dr. what’s-his-face has really gotten to you.”
“No, I’m just beginning to unwind, and Dr. what’s-his-face is about to disappear from my life as suddenly as he appeared.”
“Oh? What’s up?” Smith’s voice was guilefully uninterested.
“He’s got a job in San Diego heading up emergency medicine at one of the hospitals there.”
“Too bad,” Smith said, but she didn’t sound very sympathetic. “Your cards keep coming up with danger, you know. I’m worried about you.” She leaned over and patted Wetzon’s hand. “You must take better care of yourself.” She was very sincere now. “What are you eating?”
“Egg salad.”
Smith grimaced. “Yuk, bird food,” she said. “You should be eating red meat. Look how thin you’ve gotten.”
“Oh, please, Smith, I’m the same weight I always am, maybe a couple of pounds off.”
“Humpf,” Smith said. “Did you set up Howie Minton?”
“Yes, with Shearson, D. L. J., and the Bear.”
“He won’t move.”
“I think he will this time.”
“I think he’s just jerking us around again, but if he does move, I’ll buy you dinner at the Four Seasons. You’ve certainly put the time into him over these years.”
“What do you have in the works today?”
“There’s an offer out to Bill Davis, from Pru-Bache, but Oppie wants him.”
“Davis’ll get a better deal from Bache. What did you tell him?”
“That he has to choose the type of firm he wants to work in, a big impersonal wire house like Bache or an elite boutique, like Oppenheimer. Macy’s or Martha’s.” They both laughed at her analogy.
“We’ll do better if he goes to Oppie.” There, Smith and Wetzon were paid on the broker’s future production, so if the broker did well, they did well. Wetzon never minded doing that because it was betting on the broker. She was rarely surprised when she bet on the broker at OpCo or Lehman or Bear. It was usually a good bet. At firms like those, a well-paid sales assistant relieved the broker from all paperwork, leaving him free to sell and sell and sell.
“Only if he has a good year.”
“Right. Which depends on the market. So the hell with it. It’s his choice, anyway. Where do you think he’ll go? And will he go?”
“Who knows? He’s unhappy at Merrill, so he may do it.” She turned to Wetzon. “I’m sorry about the doctor.”
“It’s okay. You were right about him. He’s not for me.” She paused. “Honest.”
Wetzon backed her chair out of the sun. Too much, too soon. She’d get salmony pink. Not her best shade. And the last thing she needed right now was a sunburn. “You’re seeing a lot of Leon lately.” She didn’t know why it had surprised her, but it had. She made a mental note to call Leon back after lunch.
“He wants to get married.”
“Are you kidding?” Wetzon sat up, shading her eyes with her hand, and looked at Smith. “He’s really serious? But you—”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Well, that’s new.” Wetzon was surprised all over again. Smith looked away. “Do you want to talk?”
“No. I’m just thinking about it. He would take good care of me—us. He’s very successful. Sometimes a woman wants to be taken care of....” She seemed a little defensive.
“How does Mark feel about it?”
“Mark will be happy if I’m happy.”
Wetzon didn’t think it was that simple. Mark and Xenia had a special relationship, almost husband and wife, in a sense. The boy might resent the intrusion.
“Smith,” Harold called, “Bill Davis, line two.”
“Oh, great,” Smith said, jumping up. “Maybe this is it. Back in a flash with the cash. Cross your fingers.”
Cross your fingers. Wetzon had crossed them when she promised Howie Minton she wouldn’t tell about the conversation between Barry and Mildred that he’d overheard. Should she tell Silvestri? Did it matter anymore? Mildred and Barry were dead. Wetzon went back to her desk reluctantly. There was still a lot of work to do.
By the end of the day, they had a done deal on Bill Davis and a start date in three weeks. He had chosen Pru-Bache, which would mean a thirty-thousand-dollar commission for Smith and Wetzon.
“Not a bad day,” Wetzon said.
“Not bad. I’m dead, if you’ll pardon the expression,” Smith said with an exaggerated yawn shortly before five. She did look a little tired. “I’m going home to take a nap before dinner. Are you coming?”
“No, go ahead.”
“Do you need Harold? Come on, Harold sweetie, it’s been a long day, and you’ve done a super job fielding everything.” Harold looked eagerly at Wetzon. He wanted to leave with Smith, have her to himself. He was so obvious.
“Go ahead, Harold,” Wetzon told him. “I’ll lock up. I’m meeting Rick around seven,” she said to Smith.
“Oh, I quite forgot. Good night then, sweetie pie.” Smith gave her a hug and a kiss, just like old times.
Wetzon washed her face and redid her makeup. She was wearing her black wool crepe suit and a white silk blouse. The collar of the blouse was ruffled and her mother’s cameo looked perfect pinned at her throat. She took the hairpins out of her hair and brushed it, then rerolled it, but not as tightly as before.
“The Good Humor man,” Smith had said. She meant Rick, of course, because he was a doctor in a white coat. She had seen him in his white coat the other day. It seemed so long ago, but it wasn’t even a week.
Her dream ... the Good Humor man in her dream ... who wore a Mickey Mouse watch and sold only rocky road ice cream. The tricks the subconscious played. She hadn’t liked the Good Humor man in her dream. There was something mean and manipulative about him. Rocky road. That could be the Pulasky Skyway. No. It was all too silly. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything.
Roberta was due momentarily. Roberta’s phone call had been so baffling. How could
she
save Roberta’s life? There it was again. She had not been able to say no to someone she barely knew. But Roberta had said it was a matter of life and death. No, she would refuse to let Roberta draw her in further, and besides, Silvestri would be there.
She’d walk, she decided, to the Caravanserie after the Roberta business was finished. It was still light and it would be a pleasant walk. Her fingers crept to the matchbook in her pocket. Just to be sure.
Maybe she shouldn’t be such a hotshot about doing it herself. Maybe she should tell Silvestri when he got here. In the silence of the empty office, she thought about it. She locked the door to the garden and pulled the blinds. Oh, hell, she was being a fool. Yes. She would tell Silvestri and take herself out of the game. After all, he was the pro. She had a sudden, tremendous urge to tell him immediately, even though she knew she would soon see him. That way he would know before he got to her office and had to deal with Roberta.
She searched in her handbag for his card, couldn’t find it, and ended up calling information again.
The switchboard answered, “Seventeenth Precinct,” and switched her upstairs.
“Metzger.”
“Sergeant Silvestri, please.”
“He’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”
“Just tell him Leslie Wetzon called. I guess he’s already on his way over.... Never mind. I’ll tell him when he gets here.”
“Where?”
“Here—in my office—for the meeting Roberta Bancroft set up.” There was a peculiar pause. “Detective Metzger?”
He came back on the line. “Sorry,” he said curtly, his attention elsewhere. The line went dead.
Jittery, she checked the back door to the garden. Of course it was locked. She had just locked it. Checked the front door. Locked it. Harold should have done that when he left. No. She had told him she would do it. Where was her mind?
She was feeling antsy, so she sat down at her desk and went through her messages again to be sure she had called everyone back. One by one, she crumpled them and dropped them into the wastebasket at her feet.
Mike Antonio liked to be called at eight in the morning. He started his day early. She’d call him tomorrow from home before she left for the office.
She looked over the suspect sheets which profiled the brokers she was working with and made a list of people she had to call. Then she added those brokers whose appointments had to be confirmed.
Oh, God, she had forgotten to call Leon back. She could do it now, while she was waiting. She picked up the phone and started to punch out Leon’s number. An odd sound came from the front room. She cradled the phone, listening. There it was again. Someone was rattling the doorknob. She froze.
Don’t be a jerk
, she told herself. She looked at her watch. It was just five. Could it be Roberta already? And where was Silvestri? No. It was probably a broker who wanted to talk. It had happened before. When a broker made up his mind to move, he invariably wanted to get things going fast.
She went into the front room and slipped the chain lock on. Then she opened the door cautiously, thinking how flimsy and ridiculous the chain lock was. A strong man could shove the door all the way open, easily tearing the lock from the frame.
Through the small opening, she saw a big man in an expensive, dark blue pinstripe suit. There were scratch marks on his face.
“Wetzon.” It was not a question.
She felt a cold chill. She had seen him only once before, under unfortunate circumstances, but she recognized him. Jake Donahue.
“Yes. What do you want?”
How stupid, Wetzon. You know exactly what he wants.
“Let me in, please. I want to talk to you.” He spoke in that easy, smooth way of powerful men. The assumption of command.
“I don’t have anything to say to you, Mr. Donahue. Please go away.” Her voice shook, and she was furious with herself for showing weakness.
“You’re frightened,” he said, apparently compassionate. “I don’t mean to frighten you.”
She looked at him. He had Paul Newman blue eyes, set in a coarse, fleshy face, a large nose, dark red hair flecked with white, billowy eyebrows, and a deep bronze tan, as if he’d just gotten back from the islands. Decidedly gross, larger than life, but infinitely better than the last time she had seen him.
“How did you know I’d be here?” she asked. “Wait—don’t tell me—I’d rather not know.” Now she understood why Smith had left earlier than usual. “Goddammit,” Wetzon cursed under her breath. Smith had set her up again.
She slammed the door closed, unhooked the chain, and swung the door open.
“Thank you.” Jake Donahue stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“Make yourself at home,” she said flippantly. “I know you’ve paid for your time with me, so you’ll want to get your money’s worth.”
He eyed her, arching his left brow.
“I do want to warn you,” she added, “that I am expected elsewhere very shortly, and if I’m late ...”
“Okay, fair enough.” He became brisk. “I just need a few minutes—” He broke off. “Why are you looking at me like that?” He was such a big man, tall and square, very self-assured. And why not? He was a many-times-over millionaire, he had power, he had celebrity. But he seemed disconcerted by the intensity of her stare.
“I was thinking about the last time I saw you,” she said, not knowing why she was standing there calmly talking to him as if they were two ordinary people meeting under ordinary circumstances.
“I hadn’t realized we’d met before.” He frowned. He obviously didn’t like the unexpected.
“We haven’t—not officially,” she said. “I was in Mildred Gleason’s office the other day when you made your grand entrance.”
“Christ,” he said, with a self-conscious grin, running blunt fingers through his thick hair. “Look, the situation got a little out of hand. Do you mind if I smoke?”
She shook her head. He took a Marlboro out of a box and lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter. “Come into the back office,” she said, motioning him through, closing the door after them. The last thing she wanted was to have Roberta see Jake or vice versa.
Jake looked around curiously. “So this is a headhunter’s lair.” He sounded amused. “And we are alone at last, Wetzon.” He turned to her then and saw the look on her face. “I’ve frightened you again,” he said, extending his arm.
She backed away, feeling her face tighten.
“Hell, I’m really not a bad fellow,” Jake said, his voice beguiling. “A lot of people like me. I’m not going to hurt you. Why would I?”
“Because you think Barry told me something before he died,” she exclaimed, thinking even as she spoke,
You’re being stupid again, Wetzon
.
“Sit down, please,” he said, motioning her to her own chair. He sat in Smith’s chair, which disappeared under his bulk.
The phone rang. They stared at it as it rang again, and Jake Donahue shook his head at her. He saw the answering machine on the worktable and pressed the auto-answer button. The machine clicked on and answered the phone on the fourth ring.
“Hello, Wetzon, this is Scott Fineberg. Please call me. I’ll be in my office till seven.” The machine clicked off.
Donahue and Wetzon looked at each other. Jake inhaled deeply and breathed smoke out slowly through his nose. “So that little scumbag was two-timing me with you.”
She looked at her watch. Almost five-thirty. She was beginning to feel cornered. Where was Roberta? Where was Silvestri? She had to get out in time to meet Rick.
“Yes,” Jake said, “I want to know what Barry said to you. He had some things that belong to me.”
“You and the late Georgie Travers.” She couldn’t keep the scorn out of her voice.
“I’m not interested in Georgie Travers. It’s Stark I want to know about. That dirtbag was spying on me.”
The pieces of the puzzle were shuffling around again in Wetzon’s head in a peculiar jumble. She didn’t respond.
“Fuck this,” Donahue said impatiently. “I didn’t kill Stark. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I didn’t even know he was there that night—it’s not exactly his kind of place—and I was long gone by the time you found his body.”
Wetzon tried to keep her head clear, but small waves of panic were beginning to wash over her. She tried to shift her weight in the chair, but her arms and legs were numb.
Jake Donahue had just admitted he was at the Four Seasons that night.
“Please try to see my position,” Donahue was saying. He pulled his chair over to hers and took her hand. She did not pull away, but stared at her hand, swallowed up in his big one. She felt his voice begin to lull her.
“My wife was a bitter, vindictive woman. She was trying to put me out of business for good. Stark was my employee. He was working for her and taping my phone calls.”
“How do you know that?”
“I have one of the tapes.”
Her eyes widened. “You stole the attaché case,” she accused, pulling her hand away.
“Someone did it for me,” he admitted, not moving. “No one was supposed to get hurt. He just got a little carried away.” Donahue shrugged. “Stark left the office that day with that big attaché he always carried. Someone at the Four Seasons tipped me to the murder. I was told you left with a big attaché case. I needed that case. That’s it. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” She was angry. “Is that all you can say? What kind of power trip are you on?”
He stood and she flinched, expecting a blow.
“Ms. Wetzon,” Donahue said, meeting her guarded glare, leaning against Smith’s desk. “I’ve done some rotten things in my life, but I am not a murderer, and I’m not going to hurt you. If you gave me some time and got to know me, you might even like me.”
“Sure. You may be a crook, but you’re not a killer.”
His blue eyes reproached her, and she felt a brief twinge of guilt. Was she being too rough on him?
What the hell is wrong with you?
she thought. What a soft touch she was. Maybe Smith was right. She was too naive for this business.
“What do you want of me, Jake?”
“I want you not to tell the cops about the tapes, the key, the money. I need time to try to find the rest of those tapes.”
“And do what with them when you find them?”
He grinned at her, suddenly full of Irish charm. “Do what Nixon didn’t have the guts to do.”