The Deadliest Option (17 page)

This had to have something to do with the murders. Silvestri had left this morning dressed to the nines. Was he meeting with the Deputy Chief of Detectives?

One Police Plaza, where the Commissioner had his office, and from which all important NYPD decisions were made in the City of New York, was one of the truly ill-conceived buildings in Manhattan, hanging like a huge crate over Madison Street near the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge. It rose fourteen stories and appeared to have been dropped down behind the Municipal Building, intentionally ugly, as if to let the people of New York know that looks were not important. What was important was how the job was done.

Siegel hustled her through the nearly empty garage to the elevator and pressed the button for thirteen.

Great! Here she was being escorted like a suspect to an office in one of the few buildings in New York that dared to have a thirteenth floor.

Siegel led her through an open door into a large room, not unlike a squad room, holding beat-up desks, some with computer terminals, others with typewriters. On the wall facing her, Wetzon saw in large blue letters: DETECTIVE BUREAU. Framed photographs, of past chiefs no doubt, decorated walls which may have been white originally but were now leaning toward gray. Siegel went to the desk and pressed the intercom. The line opened, crackling static. She didn’t hear a voice.

“Ms. Wetzon is here,” Siegel said.

“Send her in.” The voice was harsh with the residue of years of beer and cigars.

She was shown into a meat-locker-cold office, acutely aware of her informal dress and of the man in the smart gray business suit, white shirt, and dark red silk tie, who overpowered the massive mahogany desk he sat behind.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Silvestri and Weiss at a small conference table, papers, notebooks, and photographs spread out between them. Weiss coughed and cleared his throat. Smoke hung over his head like a dark cloud.

Chief McMann stood up. He was a hulking man probably close to sixty, with slumping shoulders and keen dark eyes. His face was deeply seamed from nose to chin and the skin under his eyes sagged. He had a full head of gray hair and enormous ears that hung down his short thick neck almost to the collar of his shirt. “Ms. Wetzon,” he said. His voice rumbled like a diesel engine. He offered a curiously small, blunt-fingered hand, which she shook, and a small smile, which she returned. “I’m sorry to bring you down here on such short notice. Please, have a seat. I understand you may be able to help us, and your cooperation is appreciated.”

Wetzon shot daggers at Silvestri, who deflected them impassively. She felt cornered. Silvestri slid over one chair, leaving the one closest to the Chief vacant for her.

The room was unbearably cold, and she shivered violently. Without a word, Silvestri took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders, tucking her in, straightening the lapels. It was either an act of tenderness or he was staking his claim to her as “my woman.” She gave him a suspicious once-over, but couldn’t figure which, and he was avoiding eye contact.

“I understand you two are acquainted,” McMann said with a faint quiver of a smile.

“I’ve met Lieutenant Weiss also.” Wetzon nodded at Weiss, who sat smoking, reading from a clipboard, not looking up.

They sat, the three of them, facing the Chief like students with a professor, waiting for him to begin a lecture. Behind him, on the walls, everywhere there was space, were plaques and framed citations. On his desk were two telephones, a huge Rolodex, a box with buttons and lights—NYPD’s version of a Quotron. A gray computer sat to the side, seemingly unused. On one wall hung a large electronic map of the City with blinking colored lights.

McMann’s eyes fastened on hers. “We have two connected murders here. Both victims worked for the same firm, both were killed with the same substance—”

“Substance?” she repeated and got a rough nudge from Silvestri’s foot under the table. She resisted the urge to kick him back.

“You are working as a consultant for Luwisher Brothers.”

“My partner Xenia Smith and I are.”

“Yes. This must remain strictly confidential, Ms. Wetzon. That means no discussion, whatever you decide, with your partner.”

“Sir, excuse me. What is this all about?”

“We’d like you to work with us. You know these people. The evidence points to someone on the inside, someone at Luwisher Brothers, but we have not found a clear motive for either murder. The department uses outside consultants from time to time, and we’re prepared to put you on the payroll.”

“Put me on the payroll?” In spite of her efforts to stay calm and Silvestri’s knee pressing against hers, she heard her voice rise an octave.

“We want information that will lead us to a murderer. Someone who has already killed twice. We believe there are people at Luwisher Brothers who know why these two men were killed and maybe even who did it. We think you can help us.”

“Sir—I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. You want me to be a mole. I can’t do that.”

She watched McMann’s hands reach for a giant black stapler, which he slowly took apart, emptied, and refilled with the same staples. Neither Weiss nor Silvestri spoke.

Nervous, Wetzon stumbled verbally into the silence. “I just can’t. Please don’t ask me. “

Still no one spoke. McMann snapped the stapler shut, set it aside, and fastened his eyes on her again.

“This is serious, Ms. Wetzon. I understand you have a natural inquiring instinct. If you uncover anything, your life will be in danger.”

She dusted imaginary lint from the lapels of Silvestri’s jacket, chastened. “Look,” she said, gesturing unconsciously with her hands, watching McMann’s eyes travel to her hands and then back to her face. She felt her cheeks flush. “I feel I’m breaking a confidence by telling you this.”

Silvestri glowered darkly at her. What was his problem? For once, she had Weiss’s complete attention.

“They ... please don’t give me away on this....”

Silvestri made a noise in his throat.

The Deputy Chief waited.

“This was before Carlton Ash was murdered. They hired my partner and me to investigate the murder—that is, Goldie’s murder.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Les!” Silvestri jet-propelled out of his seat.

“Sit down, Silvestri. I want to hear this. You said
they.
”

“Hoffritz, Bird, Culver, Munchen. All of them. But Hoffritz, really.”

“Now we’re talking!” McMann thumped his desk with his fist, and the intercom spat static. He turned it off without glancing at the box, as if this happened frequently. “I want your cooperation on this, Ms. Wetzon. I’m leaving it as a request. I want to remind you that you and your partner have already exposed yourselves to some danger by agreeing to do an internal investigation. I might add, this was a very foolish thing to do, Ms. Wetzon.”

“Hoffritz wanted us to find who did it before you did,” Wetzon blurted, suddenly realizing how dangerous that was.

“These people are all prime suspects. And, I repeat, they all know you’re investigating the homicide. Think about it.”

Damnation
, Wetzon thought.
He’s right.
No outsider committed these murders and Hoffritz knew it. What had Smith gotten them into?

“I’ll do what I can,” Wetzon said, softly.

“Silvestri and Weiss are going to handle it between them from Midtown North,” the D.P. said. “I’m going to leave you here now to work out the details. Ms. Wetzon, don’t pursue any lead without clearing it with Silvestri or Weiss. Or me. I’d like your word on that.”

“Good luck,” Silvestri muttered without moving his lips, so only Wetzon and Weiss heard him.

A frisson of excitement ran up her spine. “Of course,” she said, after taking a moment to wonder if she ought to cross her fingers. T
his is not fun and games, Wetzon,
she chided herself. She smiled at the Chief, who looked at his watch and rose.

Wetzon stood, too. “May I ask—” Silvestri clamped a hand on her shoulder, and she shook it off. She came around the conference table and held her hand out to McMann, who took it. “May I ask what the murder weapon was?”

“Don’t you know?” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m late for lunch with the Mayor. Tell her, Silvestri. Good to have you on board, Ms. Wetzon.”

“T
HOSE ARE VERY
nice numbers, Bert,” Smith said. “You must be doing something right over there.” She laughed seductively. “Mmmm, I’ll bet.” She made some notes on the suspect sheet in front of her. “I’ll put the bill in the mail. I hope this time we don’t have to wait till Christmas to get paid.” She turned and winked at Wetzon, who was talking to Sharon Murphy on the other phone.

“Sharon, I set up two appointments for you this week after the close. One tomorrow with Marty Rosen at Loeb Dawkins and the other on Thursday, with Carl Fisher at Dayne Becker. Both are good managers. Marty is a little more unstructured. Both firms have a decent muni bond inventory for these days.”

“And they’re both in midtown, right? I don’t want to go downtown.”

“I know. Both are midtown.”

“I’m really nervous about this, Wetzon. If they find out here I’m interviewing, they’ll fire me.”

“They’ll never find out if you don’t tell anyone, Sharon. And besides, if they fire you, it’s their loss. Your trailing twelve come to over three hundred and fifty thou. Any firm would be thrilled to have you. Just make sure you have copies of all your statements.” Wetzon hung up the phone.

“You spend altogether too much time propping up these sleazebags’ egos,” Smith scolded.

“I like Sharon, and I meant what I said to her. I wish you wouldn’t be so cynical, Smith. You’d have a lot more fun.”

“But would I make more money, sweetie pie? That’s what counts.” She pulled the calculator to her and put in some numbers. “You know what I always say, Wetzon, the secret of success is—”

“Getting the money out of their pockets into ours,” Wetzon finished for her.

“Humpf.”

“Were those Jordan Shapiro’s year-end figures you were getting from Bert?”

“They were.” Smith had a beatific smile on her face. “Would you care to hear?”

“Tell.”

“Four hundred thou.”

“Wowee! That means sixteen lovely little thou for us on the back end, plus the twelve we got last year on the front end. We did all right. I knew he’d do it. All he needed was the right environment.” Wetzon was thrilled for Jordan. On the fifty percent payout he got as part of his deal, he’d made himself two hundred thousand dollars.

Harold knocked on their door and came right in without waiting. “Hi.” His eyes blinked nervously behind his glasses.

“Insufferable,” Smith said, eyes to the ceiling. They had asked him again and again to wait for a response before opening their door.

“Don’t make a big deal,” Wetzon said, out of the corner of her mouth.

Smith brought her eyes back to Harold’s rolled-up shirtsleeves and pants riding low on his hips, dragging over the heels of his shoes. “What is it, baby pie?” Her tone was saccharine.

Harold looked uncertainly from Smith to Wetzon.

“Go on, please, Harold,” Wetzon said.

“We have five candidates for Luwisher Brothers ready to be set up.” He held a stack of suspect sheets.

“Excellent. Give them to me and I’ll introduce them,” Smith said, holding out her hand.

“Er ... ah, I thought I could do it.” He did not turn over the suspect sheets.

Smith snapped her fingers at him. “Think again.”

Harold’s face fell as he gave her the sheets. “We’re still talking to people.”

“Fine. Close the door behind you.” She turned her back on him. The door closed. “Is he gone?”

“Smith, you are being dreadful to him.”

“I don’t trust him. Don’t you notice how he doesn’t look you in the eye? How do we know he isn’t going to go out and join a competitor or open his own company? You said yourself he thinks he knows everything.”

“Oh, come on. He wouldn’t do that. He’s kind of attached to you, don’t you think?”

“Humpf.” Smith opened the bathroom door and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. “I think we ought to go over the questions we’re going to ask Janet Barnes today over lunch.”

“Okay.”

Smith patted her slim hips and turned and looked over her shoulder at her rear view. “I think I’m putting on weight.” She was wearing a snug white linen dress that only the tallest, thinnest woman in the world could get away with.

“You’re not. But if you think you are, why don’t you try some exercise?”

“Exercise?”

“You know—dancing, aerobics, jogging.”

“Sex?”

“I won’t touch that.” Wetzon grinned. “Do you want me to call Chris with our candidates?”

“Oh, would you, sweetie? I thought I might run over to Vicki’s and get my polish changed. It’s only ten o’clock; lunch isn’t till twelve-thirty.” She dumped the suspect sheets on Wetzon’s desk.

“Go ahead.” Wetzon flipped through the sheets. “These are pretty good people. If they don’t work for Luwisher Brothers, we can remarket them to the Bear.” Smith didn’t respond. Wetzon was talking to an empty room. Sighing, she picked up the phone and punched out Chris’s direct number.

“Hi, what’ve you got?” His tone was always so intimate, almost as if he was coming on to her over the phone. This was the style of the brokers trained in a cold-calling boutique. Chris talked to everyone that way.

She talked bullets to him, running quickly down the candidates and setting up appointments. She was about to hang up when he said, “How’re things?” He hadn’t said a word yet about Carlton Ash.

“You missed a little excitement on Saturday.”

“So I heard.”

“I don’t suppose you ran into Dr. Ash up there before I saw you?”

“Don’t suppose, Wetzon. It might be bad for your health.”

“Hey! What kind of thing is that to say?”

“No, I didn’t see Ash. I was there to pick up some papers I had to read over the weekend. The place was empty.” He laughed harshly. “Trying to earn your fee as a detective, I see.”

“Oh, come on, Chris. I thought we were friends. What is this about?”

“You’re so serious about everything, Wetzon.” He laughed again. “Can you meet me for an early dinner on Thursday? I’ll pick you up at the office.”