The Deadliest Option (19 page)

“But—” Wetzon began, pushing back her chair.

“We’re on your side,” Smith assured him.

“Wait a minute, Smith,” Wetzon countered swiftly.

“There’s going to be a fight for control and it may get ugly,” Twoey said, looking at Smith.

“That’s all right,” Smith said, “we’re prepared to hang tough.”

“Wait just a minute.” Wetzon stood. Had Smith already known what was going to be said and had Smith set her up again? “Hold it right here.” Now she had everybody’s attention. “We can’t work for everybody. What do you really want, Twoey? And why is nobody mentioning the fact that Goldie and Dr. Ash were murdered and that the report Dr. Ash was writing is missing?”

“That’s just it, Wetzon,” Twoey said. “We’re dealing with murderers.”

“And what about the fact that Dr. Ash was supposed to be working directly for Goldie on this report?”

“Dr. Ash? Goldie?” Janet looked confused. “Dr. Ash wasn’t working for Goldie. Goldie was against hiring him at all.”

“Forget Dr. Ash,” her son interrupted. “We’d like to know you’re on our side when the firm is in play.”

“I don’t think—” Wetzon said.

Smith stood, too. “Of course, we’ll want some kind of financial arrangement up front.”

“Smith!”

“Agreed,” Twoey said.

“I’ll have my lawyer call your lawyer,” Smith said.

“L
ET’S GO TO
Bloomie’s,” Smith said, linking arms with Wetzon in the lobby. “I have the urge—”

Wetzon yanked her arm away. “Smith, how could you? We’re working for Luwisher Brothers, and that means Hoffritz and Bird. Now you’ve agreed to work for their enemy.”
And
, she thought,
I’m working for the NYPD.
It made her head spin.

“I don’t see any harm in giving to both political parties. People do it all the time.”

“Cab?” the doorman bobby asked.

“Yes,” Wetzon said to Smith, ignoring him, “but we’re not just giving, we’re taking. It’s an entirely different thing.”

“Wetzon, in the words of my old housemother, ‘if they give, you take, and if they take, you scream.’ Let me handle this. I know what I’m doing. I just have a feeling that the winning team is”—she pointed upward—“up there. Besides”—her expression turned beatific—“I’m in
love.
”

The tulips on the divider between uptown and downtown traffic on Park Avenue shuddered in the hot breeze. They drooped, dry, withered, and burnt. Overhead the sky was blue and cloudless, while on the street the exhaust of a million cars and trucks burned Wetzon’s nasal cavities and coated her throat. She looked up at Smith. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me, sweetie pie. He’s adorable, isn’t he?”

“Spare me. What about Jake?”

“Jake who?”

“Oh, my.” Wetzon couldn’t help laughing.

“Well, isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yes, gee, thanks a heap. I really appreciate it.”

Smith tilted her head toward the doorman. “Cab, please.”

The doorman whistled down a cab and held the door for them. They crawled in and sat recuperating in the air-conditioning. Salsa music blasted from the radio.

“Bloomingdale’s,” Smith ordered. “And would you kindly lower that noise, please.”

An agonized Jesus on a gigantic cross hung from the rearview mirror and swayed spastically to the motion of the cab. Their driver was a middle-aged Hispanic. “Where is?” he asked.

“What?” Smith leaned forward.

“Where is you’re going?”

“Bloomingdale’s, for pitysakes. I can’t believe you are living here and taking our money and you don’t know your job.”

“Fifty-ninth and Lexington,” Wetzon said, elbowing Smith.

“Thank you, nice lady.”

“Now let’s get to what you just got us into, Smith.”

“Leave everything to me, baby cakes. I’ve got the best instincts. You know that. Believe me, we just left the winning team.”

“I think we are honor-bound to tell John Hoffritz that we can’t take any money from him,” Wetzon said, thinking that Smith did have good instincts, but half the time they were warped.

“Honor-bound? What century is this? Don’t you see, sugar, we’re only taking money from them to find the murderer. The rest of the work we do on contingency.”

“But there’s an implied contract.” Wetzon’s head began to throb. “Oh, I give up.” Smith had created such a maze of everything it was impossible to negotiate a way out.

“Stop over here, driver,” Smith said.

“This Sixtieth Street, lady.”

“This is Bloomingdale’s,” Smith snapped. “It runs an entire block between Fifty-ninth and Sixtieth Streets.” She took some bills from her pocket, put them in the metal drawer attached to the glass partition, and slammed it closed.

They stood in front of Bloomingdale’s trying to talk above the yowling of a beggar in tatters, who thrust a plastic cup at them. “I want to go back to the office, Smith. I have work to do.” Wetzon felt in her purse for some change and dropped it into the plastic cup, which looked as if someone had chewed on the rim. “I have to call Ellie. I have things to do.” Her voice sounded querulous.

“Just come in for a minute with me, sweetie. I want you to help me pick out a tie for Mark.”

“Oh, well. Only for a few minutes.” She let Smith lead her through the revolving door into the store. “What did you decide to do about this summer?”

A small troubled cloud drifted over Smith’s face. “I’m sending him to the ranch, but only for June and July. He and I are going to spend August together in Connecticut.”

“That’s lovely, Smith. What about Jake?”

Smith brightened. “Well, of course, you never know, do you?”

“Twoey’s mother-led, so be careful.”

“You underestimate me, Wetzon. I can handle Janet.” Smith laughed. “She can be eliminated just like Goldie.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“I was only kidding. Wetzon, why are you so serious about everything? It’s a real pain. What happened to the good-time-get-up- and-go girl—pardon the word—I used to know?”

“She got up and went. She couldn’t take the turmoil you always create around her.”

“
I
create turmoil? Really, sweetie. I want to remind you which one of us always finds herself hip-deep in murder.”

They picked out a rep tie for Mark, and Wetzon left Smith going through the sale rack of designer clothes on the fourth floor.

She felt an odd sense of unease when she left Bloomingdale’s, almost as if there was something she’d forgotten. Everything had gotten so convoluted. She started down Third Avenue, but the intense heat was torture; surrendering, she hailed a cab and took it back to the office.

B.B. was alone, dealing with calls incoming and outgoing. “Where’s Harold?”

“He took a late lunch. Silvestri called twice. He left a number.” B.B. handed her a pile of pink message slips.

“Okay. I’ll get to him ... it’s hellishly hot out there.”

Riffling through the messages, she trailed into her office and closed the outside door. At once she began to peel off her top layer—jacket, blouse, shoes. Soaking a towel in cold water, she washed her face, neck, and underarms, holding her wrists to the cold water. She patted herself dry and replaced the blouse. Her feet were swollen; she sat down at her desk and lifted them up.

“Aaah.” She closed her eyes. Smith was crazy, but she was sharp and intuitive. And hard to take. Sighing, Wetzon dug out Ellie’s suspect sheet and called her direct number.

“Ms. Kaplan’s office. Dwayne speaking.”

“Ms. Kaplan, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Leslie Wetzon.”

“Oh hi, I’ll get Ellie for you.” Again Wetzon heard that extra familiarity in his voice, as if he and she knew each other.

“Wetzon?” The voice was hoarse and cracked; it didn’t sound like Ellie.

“Ellie? Is that you?”

“I don’t feel like talking, Wetzon.” Her voice faltered. “Call me in a month.”

“Ellie, wait a minute. What’s the matter?”

“Don’t ask me, please. Nothing is going right.”

“Ellie, meet me for a drink tonight.”

“No, Wetzon. I’m not feeling sociable. Besides, I have an appointment.”

“Then tomorrow. Please. Just us girls. Come on, how about the Four Seasons? I guarantee you’ll feel better.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Ellie wavered. “Actually, the Oak Bar at the Plaza would be more convenient—”

“Okay, the Oak Bar it is. At five o’clock.”

Wetzon hung up and dialed Silvestri. She did not recognize the number he’d left. When he answered, “Silvestri,” she said, “where are you?”

“Midtown North. I’m with Weiss.”

“Will you be home later?”

“Yup.”

“Smith and I had lunch with Janet Barnes today.”

“Oh? Want to fill me in?”

“Not here, not now. I’m going to try to find a broker to have a drink with this afternoon.”

“Busy, aren’t we?”

“Jealous?” Alton Pinkus’s face materialized in front of her and she waved it away.

“Sure. It’s in my blood.”

“Do you want to bring a pizza home?”

“I’ll think about it.”

She was about to hang up when she heard him say, “Les—”

“Yes?”

“Be careful. Please. Don’t go off anywhere half-cocked.”

“
Moi
?”

He hung up on her.

Well, she guessed she deserved it. She laughed. This investigation would be safe for her. It was really just a question of using her brain. Like right now. She pulled out her Filofax and looked up the phone number for the New York Public Library information line and called it. “Sulfites or sulfite powder,” she said to the male voice who answered. “Can you tell me what it is?”

“Hold on, please.” She pulled a blank piece of paper from the Filofax and doodled with her pen while she waited. He was back on the phone only seconds later.

She listened, then hung up, going over in her mind the gist of what he’d said. A salt or compound ... used as a preservative until it was banned from fresh fruits and vegetables by the FDA in 1986 because it can cause severe allergic reactions in susceptible people....

The lights on the phone lit up all at once and it rang, over and over. Where was Harold? She padded to the door and opened it. B.B. was trying to deal with all the calls. Harold was still not back and it was three o’clock.

“Jeeeeezuz!” Wetzon picked up one line. “Smith and Wetzon,” she said.

“Wetzon? Is that you?” The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t immediately place it. “This is David, David Kim. Something’s happened and I need to talk to you right away.” He was stumbling over his words.

“David, calm down. Whatever it is, we can deal with it.” She looked at her watch. “I can meet you at five-thirty at the Berkshire, on Fifty-second Street between Fifth and Madison. How’s that?”

“Okay. Just hang in there if I’m a little late.”

“Is this anything to do with what’s been happening at Luwisher Brothers, David?”

“You’re not going to tell anyone I called you?” Panic.

“I wouldn’t do that, David.”

“Good, because I don’t want to be history like Goldie and the fat fuck.”

S
HE HAD THREE
candidates meeting this afternoon with Keith Burns, Northeastern Regional Sales manager for Marley, Strauss; there were two openings for managers, one in New Haven and one in Wellfleet on the Cape. Only one of the three was already licensed for management. Carolyn Johnson.

Wetzon had sandwiched the appointments, putting Jeff Lewin first at two o’clock, then Carolyn at two forty-five, and finally, Gary Walsh at three-thirty. She’d had to do some further juggling because both Carolyn and Jeff worked in the same Dean Witter office, and it would be death if they ran into each other. So it was arranged that Carolyn would wait on the twentieth floor and Keith, who was interviewing on the twenty-first, would let reception know when Jeff had left.

All very cloak-and-dagger but necessary to ensure confidentiality. In her early days as a headhunter, Wetzon had discovered what a small street Wall Street really was. Everyone knew everyone, and secrets were hard to keep. Brokers moved around so much that it was nigh to impossible that a broker going on an interview wouldn’t run into, or be recognized by, someone he’d once worked with, or a friend of someone he’d once worked with. If his present manager were to find out he was doing something disloyal, like considering a move to another firm, his books could be confiscated before he had a chance to copy them and he could be fired outright. Or, if he were a big enough producer, his manager might bribe him to stay with perks like paying for a cold caller, picking up certain expenses, throwing him house accounts.

Confidentiality was often breached because brokers forever talked among themselves, semi-trusting each other. News, rumors, gossip swept the Street like a raging brushfire. Once, Wetzon had been working with a broker whose gross production ranged between four hundred and four hundred fifty thousand dollars. He didn’t like his manager and made the mistake of telling another broker in the office, a friend, he thought, that he was seriously considering joining another firm. The friend let the manager know, the manager confronted the broker, confiscated his books, and ordered him out. The friend was rewarded with some of the broker’s accounts. Moving was never easy, and moving before one was prepared to move could be a disaster. This particular broker’s manager picked up the phone and called every client, offering the client free trades and implying that the broker had been fired for doing something disreputable and that he had not handled the client’s account professionally.

Wetzon checked the time. It was almost four o’clock. She could probably reach both Jeff and Carolyn. Gary would head for the Port Authority and his bus to New Jersey. She’d catch up with him tomorrow.

Her hand was on the phone when she heard the outer door slam and a sudden bustle of activity, then a knock. “Yes?”

Harold opened the door tentatively. He was dripping wet, as if he’d been swimming. Harold was a sweater. When he realized Smith wasn’t there, he breathed relief and straightened himself, becoming less apologetic and more full of himself as she watched.