The Deadliest Option (11 page)

Only Dr. Ash and Smith knew she was here, and Smith was in Connecticut for the weekend. Smith would try to call her, but probably wouldn’t worry about not reaching her until tomorrow. Silvestri would go crazy if she didn’t come home. Hmmmmmm. That was a thought. He never seemed jealous—or at least if he were, he never let on.

She was composing grand scenarios about their unlocking the door on Monday morning and finding a crazy-lady, when she realized that brokers would undoubtedly come in to work this morning. She would be sensible, finish
The Times
and wait. Eventually, someone would show up. After all, it was still very early.

But Chris had been here. What had he been doing here so early? And why had he been in such a hurry to leave?

And where was Dr. Ash?

She looked at the spilled coffee forming a greasy black cloud on the table. Oh, well. If she was going to be here for any length of time, she didn’t want to be sitting in a mess. She pulled a Kleenex out of her purse and dropped it on the pool, watching as the liquid turned the tissue brown. Gingerly, she pushed the Styrofoam cup away from her toward the center of the table. The cup was warm to the touch.
Chris,
she thought. She pulled the cup toward her. There was something in the cup besides coffee, but the cup was too full for her to see what it was.

Across the table were another cup and a plastic plate full of crumbs. She got up and walked around the table, picked up the almost empty cup, and poured the liquid from the first cup carefully into the second. At the bottom of the first cup was a nasal inhalator, similar to the one she had seen Carlton Ash using.
Yipes,
she thought and dropped the cup. It fell on its side and rolled away from her.

Unaccountably frightened, she got up and tried the door again, rattling the knob and banging with her sore fist. The knob turned in her hand and the door began to open. She stepped aside, astonished, as the door opened slowly and Dougie Culver, in jeans and a blue-and-white-striped shirt, stood there holding another Styrofoam cup, shock on his face.

“Good heavens, Wetzon, you scared the livin’ daylights out of me. What are y’doin’ down here at this ungodly hour?”

She looked at her watch. Only twenty minutes had passed in the locked—or was it?—conference room. She felt a little foolish. She looked at Dougie, who was waiting. “I was supposed to meet someone here at seven-thirty, but he’s not around. I thought he might have meant the conference room, but as soon as I came in, someone slammed the door behind me and locked me in.”

Dougie listened, amusement all over his face. “Aren’t we gettin’ a little theatrical here, Wetzon?” He fiddled with the latch. “I guess it could have slipped,” he said dubiously. “Or maybe you pressed the button accidentally and locked yourself in.”

“I am not an hysterical woman, Dougie Culver, so get that patronizing tone out of your voice.”

He chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, Wetzon. You let it all hang out.” He patted her arm. “Come on, be kind and split my Danish with me.” He patted his plumpness spilling over the waist of his jeans. “And you can tell me who y’all were meetin’.” Without waiting for her response, he walked off down the corridor toward his office.

“Dougie—” Oh, hell. Her stomach growled. Just the thought of being locked up for two days without food had made her hungry.
What a baby you are, Wetzon
, she thought. She followed Dougie Culver.

“Have you seen my office, Wetzon?” He walked through the open door and waved her in after him. The focal point of the office was not the
de rigueur
massive mahogany desk, the computer, the Quotron, the Telerate machine, and the collection of four separate telephones, or even the incredible view of New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty rising out of the morning mist, but rather, a floor-to-ceiling glass-enclosed vitrine with all kinds, shapes, and colors of seashells displayed on its shelves.

“Wow!” Wetzon said, drawn to the shelves. A huge chunk of rosy coral beckoned her on eye level.

“My grand collection.” He closed the door.

“You scuba?”

“Every chance I get.”

“It’s stunning.”

“Come on and sit down,” he said. He cut the cinnamon Danish on the plastic plate into wedges. “Help yourself.”

She tore herself away from the display case with difficulty and took a wedge of Danish, plunking herself down in one of the two upholstered chairs in front of his desk. The fabric was the same shade of red as the coral in the case.

“I see you matched the decor—” She pointed her wedge of Danish at the display case.

“Pure coincidence, Wetzon.” He smiled his slow smile at her.

“I’ll bet.” She took a bite out of the Danish. It was surprisingly fresh and buttery.

He looked at her expectantly. When she did not pick up his cue, he drawled, “Don’t tell me y’all have taken to interviewin’ brokers here at dawn on a Saturday.”

“No, Dougie. Not a broker, although I’ve been known to meet people in odd places at odd times. You know how paranoid you brokers are.”

He smiled at her, his bald dome shiny in the bright natural light.

“I’m not going to tell you anything, Dougie, so don’t try to wheedle it out of me.” She helped herself to another slice of Danish. “This is good. Not your usual greasy-spoon variety.”

“Wetzon!” He mocked horror. “Y’all know I wouldn’t let that kind of junk past these lips. No, no. One of our employees has a connection for gourmet baked goodies. We get supplied six days a week. Sundays you’re on your own.” He picked up the last piece of Danish and ate it. “So, Wetzon, my word of honor as a Southern gentleman that I won’t reveal—”

“No. I keep confidences.”

“I know that. You’re a real pro. Everyone on the Street respects you. You have a top-notch company, and we rely on you to keep sendin’ us the good-quality people you have been.”

“Why, Dougie, that’s a really nice commercial. Just put in a good word for us with Hoffritz.”

Dougie smiled, slowly eased his feet in their Cole Haan moccasins onto his desk, and leaned back in his leather chair. “Now, Wetzon, y’all know you’re never goin’ to get the recognition you deserve from Johnny Hoffritz because you sit down to pee.”

She stared at him for a moment, not sure she’d heard right. “I’m not sure I got what you said.” She was having a hard time keeping a straight face.

“You heard me.” He was deadly serious.

She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “That’s what I like about you, Dougie, you let it all hang out.”

A muffled scream, a woman’s decibels.

Their eyes locked. Wetzon got to the door first and threw it open. The scream came again and again, agonizing, from the floor below, piercing, then filling the silence.

E
LLIE
K
APLAN
’
S FACE
was contorted by the soul-wrenching sound that poured from her.

“Ellie, for godsakes,” Dougie said, coming to the edge of the balcony.

The screaming subsided. Ellie stared up at Dougie with pure hate and loathing, her hands to her face, then backed away out of sight toward the elevator banks. Dougie said something under his breath that sounded like, “Women.”

“What’s goin’ on here?” John Hoffritz appeared in the hallway in tennis whites. The perpetual unlit cigarette dipped from the side of his mouth.

“Oh, my God,” Dougie said, stumbling backward, crushing Wetzon’s toes under the heel of his moccasin. He was looking down toward the foot of the staircase.

“Dammit, Dougie,” Wetzon murmured. She turned and limped away from him, rubbing her foot. There was now a dark smudge on her sheer pantyhose.

“Wetzon?” Destry Bird was standing in front of her.
Where had he come from?
He looked down, behind her, toward the staircase. “What the fuck—”

She straightened up and spun around. What was everybody so engrossed with?

“Do something, do something!” Ellie screamed.

Wetzon went to the edge of the balcony and looked down. Something lay on the marble staircase below. She saw the shoes first, the soles, new shoes, black shoes ... and knew who it was before she saw the man’s face, which was hidden by his immense bulk. Carlton Ash was lying on his back like a beached whale, upended, his lower torso on the steps, his head twisted awkwardly on the carpeted floor. A dark aureole of blood had formed around his head. His face was blue.

The Danish began a trip back up to Wetzon’s throat and she swallowed again and again, hand to her mouth.

“Stand back, Wetzon,” Hoffritz said, trying to shoulder her out of the way. “What the hell are you doing here anyway?”

She didn’t move; her feet felt cemented to the floor, her eyes cemented to the thing on the stairs. Neil Munchen was downstairs now. He bent and lifted Carlton Ash’s limp wrist, taking his pulse. He looked up at the faces looking down and shook his head. “We’d better call the police.”

“Not yet,” Hoffritz said. “Call 911 and tell them there’s been an accident. I want to buy us some time. Get Jed Backer up here so we can get a statement out quick. And move his head. That’s a quarter-million׳ dollar Persian.”

“You can’t move him, John.” Wetzon spoke quietly, when all the time she wanted to shout at him,
Are you crazy?
“He’s dead. You have to leave him that way for the police to see.”

“Stay out of this, Wetzon. It’s not your affair,” Destry snapped.

“Wetzon is right,” Dougie said smoothly, letting his hand travel lightly over her back.

“Oh, fuck it,” Hoffritz said. “But put somethin’ under his head so he doesn’t ruin the goddam carpet. I’m calling Jed Backer.” He went off down the hall.

“Trust Johnny to make the appropriate comment every time,” Dougie said. “Class will out.”

“Good thing it didn’t happen yesterday; otherwise, we’d never get any work out of anybody.” Destry made a sweeping gesture and followed Hoffritz.

Neil looked up at Wetzon. “Would you call please, Wetzon?”

“No, I’ll do it,” Dougie said. “Neil, you get somethin’ to put over the poor clumsy slob. Can t have him lookin’ at us that way.”

Wetzon looked down at Dr. Ash. His right hand was clenched, his index finger pointed up at them—an accusation. She turned to Dougie, who shrugged.

“Gallows humor.” His hand rested on her waist. “Wetzon, go deal with Ellie, would you?” He gave her a little pat on the back and went into the conference room. Wetzon started down the stairs and remembered the inhalator in the coffee cup. Carlton Ash’s inhalator. What was it doing in the cup of coffee—and more important now, what had happened between the time it was left in the cup and Ash’s death?

She followed Dougie, stopping at the door. Dougie made the call to 911 as she listened. The phone seemed to be working fine.

When he hung up, she asked, “Did Dr. Ash have an office here?”

“He was usin’ Angelo’s office down on the floor.”

“Who is Angelo?”

“Was, not is. Angelo La Rocca. He was our man on compliance. Took a flyin’ leap in front of the ‘F’ train about six months ago. Forty-five years old. Damn shame. We haven’t found a replacement yet, so I’ve been coverin’ compliance. We put Ash in Angelo’s old office, near Ellie.”

As if in response, Ellie’s voice could be heard below, rising to a high pitch, shrieking for Neil to call an ambulance, cover him, get him off the stairs.

“Please, Wetzon.” Dougie’s eyes beseeched her.

“Okay, okay.” She left the conference room, again thought of the inhalator, and started back. Dougie was talking on the phone again.

“Fortune shines on us,” he said. “They’re in check and don’t know it.” He paused. “Later.” And hung up.

Wetzon dashed away from the door and was halfway down the stairs, eyes averted, when she felt Dougie’s presence above her. She did not look back, afraid of her footing on the slippery marble.

“Watch it, Wetzon.” Neil was coming down behind her. He was carrying a linen tablecloth, which he flapped open and dropped on Dr. Carlton Ash, obliterating him.

They’re not even bothered he’s dead,
Wetzon thought. “Where’s Ellie?”

“In her office probably.” Neil’s tan was tinged with gray. He was wearing a gold chain around his neck under his sportshirt.

“Neil, what about that study he was doing?”

“What about it?”

“Well, you know. It was supposed to be top secret.”

“It is, Wetzon. He’d just finished it.” Neil looked miserable. He seemed the only one to be emotionally affected by Carlton Ash’s death, except for Ellie perhaps.

“Where is it then, Neil? Have you seen it?”

He shook his head. “He—”

Three brokers came bounding down the hall, steaming with curiosity. “Hi, Wetzon,” one greeted her. Juggy Greenfield. Wetzon had placed him at Luwisher Brothers last year. “What’s up? Ellie just told us someone took a header on the stairs.”

“Someone did. Best to stay out of the way until the medics get here.”

“Oh, okay.” Juggy said, but he and his cohorts kept going toward the reception area. Wetzon shrugged and made her way to the boardroom and the surrounding offices.

The boardroom was empty, just a sea of L-shaped desks, the Quotron machines eerily silent. She passed the closed door of David Kim’s office, hearing the faint murmur of voices. It made sense that if Ellie were working, David would also be. She passed the closed door of Ellie’s office, heard talking. Ellie could wait.

The door to the last office on the floor was shut tight. No sound came from within. This had to be the office Carlton Ash was using. Wetzon opened the door boldly and stepped in—then, shocked, took an involuntary step backward.

Carlton Ash’s office had been trashed.

S
HE MOVED SLOWLY
into the small office thinking someone might be hiding behind the door. No. The office was deserted. Drawers hung open, papers lay in snarled masses, books had been pulled from bookshelves. The desk had been made a catchall for the wastebasket which lay upended on its surface. There was no sound, except for the computer. A tornado had swept through the room, and it didn’t much matter anyway because its previous occupant was dead and that’s all there was.
This is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends
, T.S. Eliot’s words floated up from her memory.
Not with a bang but a whimper.