The Deadliest Option (16 page)

He turned and grabbed her before she could escape. “You have no respect for anybody,” he said, holding her face in his hands.

“I do, Silvestri. You just don’t understand women.”

He laughed and kissed her. “I don’t understand
this
woman. I’ll never understand her. Being around her is a complication.” He picked up his jacket.

A sharp flash of lightning and then a tremendous clap of thunder drowned out the hum of the air-conditioner. She opened the blinds. “It’s really dark out there.”

“I’m not afraid,” Silvestri said. He strode down the hall to the door.

“No coffee, no breakfast?”

“I’ll grab something on the way.” He patted his slight paunch and opened the door.
The New York Times
lay on her doormat. He picked it up and handed it to her. “What are your plans?”

“Don’t you think it’s time you let me in on what the poison is?” She stood in the doorway as he waited for the elevator.

“No.”

“Don’t you trust me? I’ll never tell.” God, she sounded like Smith.

“I bet.”

Her downstairs bell buzzed. She dropped
The Times
on the floor and let the door slip shut while she went to respond. “Yes?”

“Ms. Smith coming up.”

Shit! What the hell was Smith doing here? She went back to the door. Silvestri was still waiting for the elevator, now with impatience, jiggling from foot to foot, pacing. “Smith is on her way up.”

He stopped and eyed her. “You were going to spend the day with her?”

“No, I was not going to spend the day with her,” she mimicked. “We, you and I, were supposed to meet Carlos and Arthur at Sarabeth’s for brunch and then we were going to do the Amsterdam Avenue fair, which may or may not be rained out.”

The elevator door opened and Smith stepped out and Silvestri stepped in, managing with some finesse to avoid Smith’s quickly proffered cheek. The door closed.

Smith wrinkled her nose. “Humpf.”

“You might have called me and let me know you were coming,” Wetzon said.

Smith pushed her door open and stepped around her into the apartment. “You’d better get some clothes on.”

Wetzon shut the door. “Oh? Why?”

“Jake is parking the car and is on his way up.”

“O
H, FOR PITYSAKES
,” Smith said. “I don’t know why you’re being so pigheaded about Jake. He’s as much involved in this as we are.” She was wearing washed silk bluejeans and a black silk camisole with spaghetti straps. Her arms were tanned a walnutty brown. “I’ll just give him a kiss and be right back.” She closed Wetzon’s door.

Wetzon opened her door, still in her towel. “Furthermore, I wish you’d kiss the bastard off for keeps.”

Smith pressed the elevator button and looked wounded. “I don’t tell you who you should or should not see.”

“You don’t? Since when? Who’s kidding who?” Wetzon slammed the door, stamped down the hall, and thundered at the thunder. Damn Smith. What did Smith mean,
he’s as much involved in this as we are?
She’d probably told Jake everything.

Wetzon threw on a pair of shorts and her red Murder Ink tee shirt that sly old Carlos had found at a bookstore by the same name in the neighborhood. “Murder,” he’d said, “is your middle name.”

When her doorbell rang, she was pouring water through coffee in her Melitta pot and grinding her teeth. “Cool your heels,” she growled.

“Sweetie pie, where are you?”

Wetzon let her in. “I’ll bet you’ve told him everything, the agreement with Luwisher Brothers, Janet Barnes’s invitation to lunch—”

Smith’s eyes opened wide and innocent. “You know I wouldn’t break a confidence.” She frowned. “Why are you in such a foul mood? Did you and Silvestri have a fight?” She sounded so hopeful, Wetzon almost laughed.

“If you didn’t tell him, why would Jake want to come up? And how is he as involved in this as we are?” She poured coffee into mugs and put Sweet ’n Low in one for Smith.

“Jake wants to be friends.”

“Sure. You be friends with him, not me. I hope you haven’t forgotten what he did. People like him give the industry a bad name. I don’t like the games he plays.” She offered the mug to Smith. “I’m wondering what kind of game he’s playing right now.”

“Oh, I give up. You’re awfully hostile, Wetzon. You know, I try really hard to please you.” Tears welled up in Smith’s eyes and spilled over. She went into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Taking a tissue from her pocket, she dabbed carefully at her makeup.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Come on.” Wetzon sat beside her and gave her a hug. “I’m a jerk. First Carlton Ash expires mysteriously just before we’re supposed to meet and then I had this horrible dream.”

Smith stopped snuffling and pulled away from Wetzon’s embrace. “That’s really why we—I came back to the City early. Did he tell you who killed Goldie?”

“No, my dear partner, he didn’t have the grace to do that before he died. I never even saw him.” Wetzon thought for a minute, staring off in space. “Damn. You want to hear something really fascinating? All the players were there yesterday. Any one of them could have killed him. Just like in my dream.” She got up, bemused, and went back to the kitchen to get the mugs of coffee.

“Come on, tell me. I’ll interpret.”

Rain rapped at the windows, clattering like pebbles on her air-conditioner.

Wetzon sipped her coffee and closed her eyes. She saw the table, the smoke, the faces, and the cards. “They were playing poker—all of them—with these big cards.”

“Tarot cards, you mean. I knew it when I did my reading this morning. You’ve had a psychic dream, sugar. What cards did they play? Who played what?”

Wetzon searched her memory. “I don’t know enough about them to remember specifics.”

“Maybe we should have you hypnotized.”

“Forget it. One of them tried to feel me up.”

“Ooooh, goodie. Who?”

“I don’t know. It was a spooky Technicolor dream. But the worst was the dancing woman with Goldie’s head on a plate.” She shuddered. “It was disgusting.”

“Lovely!” Smith jumped up, almost spilling the coffee from her mug. “Think back, did any of them talk?”

“They were all talking, including Goldie’s head.” She giggled.

“That’s not funny, sugar. You were getting a message of some sort.”

“Oh no, Smith. You know I’m not into that.”

“Tell me, what did Goldie’s head say? Don’t laugh, Wetzon.”

Wetzon laughed. Smith’s mouth twitched.

“It said,” Wetzon intoned, “
Over my dead body.
” They stared at each other and then shrieked with laughter.

“I’ve got to go,” Smith said regretfully. “He said he’d be back in an hour.”

Wetzon sighed. “Please don’t tell him anything.”

“I promise.”

She walked Smith to the door. “I guess we’re just not going to be able to find out what was in that report Ash was working on.”

“Unless Janet Barnes knows and we can get it out of her.”

“Why would she know?”

The phone rang.

“I’ll let myself out,” Smith said. She seemed suddenly in a hurry to leave.

“Hello,” Wetzon said into the phone.

“La-di-da, Birdie.” Carloss voice was ebullient. “The heavens have opened up, but the Festival will probably go on. Are we still on for brunch?”

“I am. Silvestri had to go to work.”

She hung up the phone and did some pliés and stretches at the barre, which ran along one wall of her dining room, backed by mirrors from floor to ceiling. She was in good shape again; her body felt long and limber.
My,but you’re such a tiny thing,
people always said to her, and she didn’t understand why. She thought tall, therefore she was. She laughed out loud and looked at herself in the mirror. She’d looked pretty sexy in her dream with fishnet hose.

She soft-shoed her way down the hall to her bedroom and put on a loose yellow Laura Ashley sundress, the coolest thing she had. There was little hope that the rain would bring a respite from the heat.

As if in response, the sky began to lighten, and by the time she left her apartment and sauntered down Amsterdam, the sun was back to summer-heat-wave normal, and the humidity was tropical rain forest. On both sides of the street the displays of clothing and antiques were being set up. Sausages were frying, and the Belgian waffle makers were cooking. Streams of balloons decorated the Avenue, strung from lamppost to lamppost. A salsa band was warming up.

The Avenue itself was blocked off for traffic and was already beginning to fill with people. Security guards in short-sleeved shirts mumbled into walkie-talkies and eyed the crowd.

Wetzon arrived at Sarabeth’s Kitchen before Carlos and Arthur. “Three,” she said, giving her name to the young woman in the entrance to the dining room.

“It’ll be about a ten-minute wait,” the woman said. “Nice to see you again.”

The front left side of the restaurant was a bakeshop, with wonderful scones, muffins, cookies and cakes, jams and jellies on sale. She ogled the showcase and decided she might be forced to have a sticky bun for breakfast.

“Ms. Wetzon, your table is ready.”

She was seated at a table to the rear of the restaurant when Carlos arrived with Arthur in tow—serious Arthur, with his solemn face and gray beard, and wildly exuberant Carlos. They’d been together two years, and she’d never known Carlos happier. He blew her a kiss and then stopped at every single table where it seemed he knew someone.

“He’s unbelievable,” Wetzon said, holding her hand out to Arthur.

“He’s exhausting.” Arthur watched Carlos with delight. He squeezed her hand, then lifted it to his lips. Across the room, Carlos beamed at them.

“Will you get over here already,” Wetzon called, “I’m starving.”

“Coffee?” the waitress asked, dropping three menus on the table.

“Decaf for me. Orange juice and a sticky bun, please.”

“Black coffee with all of her caffeine,” Arthur said, smiling. “Orange juice, scrambled eggs, and a bran muffin.”

“What’s Mr. Wonderful having?” Wetzon said, as Carlos closed in on them.

“Oatmeal and black coffee,” Carlos said, pelting her with kisses. “So, Birdie, what’s going on in the jungle these days?”

“Very funny.”

“There’s a bit of activity at Luwisher Brothers,” Arthur said.

“Quite a bit. They’re a client.”

“She attracts murder like a lightning rod,” Carlos said. “I think we have to have you exorcised.”

“You’re starting to sound like Smith.”

“Heaven forfend,” Carlos said dramatically, rolling his eyes.

They had just been served when the maitress d’ came over to their table. “Ms. Wetzon?”

She took a sip of coffee. “Yes. “ Her fingers touched the sticky bun.

“There’s a police officer in the entrance asking for you.”

“Oh me, oh my.” Carlos stood up, side of hand cupping his brow to cut the glare, and stared toward the front of the restaurant.

“Sit down, Carlos.” Her heart was thumping. Had something happened to Silvestri? “I’ll be right back.” She got slowly to her feet, licking the honey from the bun off her trembling fingers, and followed the young woman to the front of the restaurant.

A burly uniformed cop was standing outside in front of the restaurant. He had pale pink skin, and carrot-colored hair crept from under his hat. He was watching the people and the activity of the street fair. Wetzon opened the door and stepped out.

“I’m Leslie Wetzon. Is it Silvestri?”

He looked puzzled. “Silvestri?” He took off his hat and wiped the sweat off his brow. “The deputy chief wants to see you downtown.”

“The deputy chief?”

“Yes, ma’am. Deputy Chief of Detectives Ian McMann.”

“W
HERE ARE WE
going?” Wetzon squinted at his nameplate. SIEGEL. The street beneath her feet was radiator-hot. Groaning, overloaded window air-conditioners spewed hotter air down on them.

“One Police Plaza.” Officer Siegel wiped sweat away from his forehead with a handkerchief and held the back door of the blue-and-white open for her. Perspiration stained his light blue summer uniform shirt. She climbed in as two young men walking a Doberman stopped to stare. Across the street, a mother and two small children, bound for the fair, paused.

“
Mira, mira
,” the little boy cried, pointing.

A
New York Post
headline—
Headhunter Moonlights Selling Sex—
flashed across her mind. She’d done nothing wrong. Why did she feel guilty?

It got worse when Siegel, who had left his patrol car double-parked with the rest near the Twentieth Precinct on Eighty-second Street, pulled out onto Columbus and turned on his siren. Unaccountably humiliated, Wetzon sank deeper into her seat. She straightened the skirt of her dress and realized that her present costume of sandals, sleeveless yellow cotton dress, and the yellow print scarf she’d tied jauntily around her ponytail was not the proper dress to meet with the deputy chief of detectives.

Once she knew that nothing had happened to Silvestri, she began to hatch scenarios as to why she had been sent for. Siegel took a corner like a race car driver, barely swerving out of the path of a
New York Times
delivery truck. Wetzon slid back and forth across the lumpy leather seat like a rag doll. She hit the opposite door with a thump.

“What’s the hurry, Officer Siegel?” She sat up and grasped the back of the seat, checking her upper arm, sure she’d show black and blue there later.

“The D.P. said posthaste, Ms. Wetzon, and the D.P. gets whatever he wants.” Red hair, dripping droplets of sweat, curled on the back of his neck.

“Just like Lola,” Wetzon said.

“I’m sorry, Miss?”

Am I that old,
she wondered
, that no one gets my references anymore?

They tore off the FDR Drive, plunging into lower Manhattan which, except for the occasional tourist bus headed for Chinatown or Little Italy, was devoid of traffic on this hot summer Sunday.

Sweat ran like salty rain from her forehead onto her lips and chin. The open windows of the car let in steamy drafts of air pollution in the form of oil, grease, gasoline, and exhaust fumes, leaving her gasping. Her sunglasses did a wet slide down her nose. She pushed them up; they slid down again.