The Deadliest Option (21 page)

She moved on, replaying her conversation with David, trying to figure out what it all meant. There was no more horse manure to dodge since the City ordered that carriage horses must wear plastic bags. Silly looking, but not as silly as the Canadian diapers.

Two teams of young men were playing volleyball with a modicum of energy. A Good Humor salesman leaned on his cart nearby and watched the game. Wetzon sat down on a bench shaded by an old chestnut tree and put on her pink Reeboks.

So “my precious” Harold was meeting secretly with Tom Keegen. Smith had been right not to trust him. Then again, Smith had been treating Harold so shabbily that maybe Smith had driven him to Keegen. Wetzon had wanted to confront Harold immediately, but Smith was firm. She wanted to be there.

“See that he doesn’t take anything out of the office with him.”

“If you don’t want me to send up a red flag, that’s not going to be easy. Why don’t you come back and we can do it now?”

“I just can’t cope with Harold now, Wetzon, it’s too hot. I’m going home.”

Wetzon had hung up and thought for a minute, then she went into the outer office. “Yo, I have an announcement to make. It’s too hot to work. Go home, guys. I’m closing down the office for the day.”

She leaned on the doorframe to Harold’s cubicle. Harold was gathering up suspect sheets and stuffing them into his attaché case. “No, Harold. I mean it. No work tonight. The heat will make us all sick if we overdo. I want you and B.B. to go home, get cool, have a good night’s sleep. No calls tonight. No work. We’ll all be better for it tomorrow.”

“But—” His eyes looked at her innocently from behind his glasses. Maybe Smith was wrong.

“No, really. Come on. Leave everything. You don’t need your case, Harold.” She waited in the doorway until he returned the sheets to his desk.

Under the guise of concern, she’d amiably escorted B.B. and Harold out the door, and once they were gone, she’d locked up. Good thing Harold didn’t have a key. Or did he? She couldn’t remember. Without a qualm, she inspected his attaché case. Yesterday’s
Journal
and
Time.
Among the suspect sheets on his desk she found a list of the Merrill brokers in New York. That little creep. She confiscated the list.

There could be a logical explanation for Harold’s meeting with Keegen
. Sure, Wetzon, if you buy that, I have a bridge to sell you that runs between Brooklyn and Manhattan.

“Watch the
ball,
lady!” The soccer ball hit the bench with a slam, just missing her.

“Sorry.” A wiry little guy in gym shorts and an iridescent blue sleeveless tee shirt grabbed the ball on the bounce. He grinned at her from under a pimpy mustache.

“S’okay,” Wetzon said. She got up and started walking again, north and west.

The fenced-off area, Sheep’s Meadow, where New York farmers had grazed their sheep into the twentieth century, was empty except for a few diehards braving the smog and heat, lying in the grass. Its great expanse was usually lush with grass and people, reading, talking quietly, meditating, or just plain sleeping. Designated a quiet zone by the Parks Commission, no radios, shouting, or ball playing were allowed. She had never thought of Central Park as anything but an oasis, and as much as she disliked the country, whenever she walked through the magic door into the Park, she felt a sense of awe, pleasure, and yes—peace.

Wetzon’s Reeboks crunched on a short length of gravel path; her jacket, lying over her arm, was drenched with perspiration. She decided to leave the Park at Seventy-second Street and Central Park West, taking the steep, uphill walkway past Strawberry Fields, the John Lennon memorial. A few elderly people were sitting on the benches near Seventy-second Street looking dazed by the heat. Two teenaged boys on bicycles whizzed out of the Park onto Central Park West without looking and narrowly escaped being run down by a black stretch limo making a left turn to the Dakota. The Dakota, a residential fortress with turrets, was the oldest apartment house on the West Side, and had a list of inhabitants from the arts, politics, and business that was unimaginable. It had been John Lennon’s home—he’d been murdered in front of the building—and Yoko still lived there.

By the time she got to Seventy-seventh Street and the Museum of Natural History, Wetzon was having trouble breathing. On Columbus, she went into a supermarket and bought a six-pack of Amstel Light right from the cooler.

Javier, her doorman, was sitting in the lobby under the huge standing fan, which was blowing hot air around. He made a move to get up and help her, but she waved him back. Parking the grocery bag near the elevator, she pressed the button and went around to the mailboxes for her mail, too tired to look through it.

The elevator had a pizza smell that made her smile. Silvestri had beaten her home, which meant the air-conditioner would be on and the apartment reasonably cool. She was right.

After dinner they sat in the living room drinking the remainder of the six-pack. Silvestri had his feet in his white cotton socks up on the coffee table. Wetzon had just finished telling him about her lunch with Janet Barnes.

“Your partner’s a piece of work.” He took a handful of jelly beans and popped them in his mouth.

“Beer and jelly beans?”

“Smith and Wetzon? You two fit together like beer and jelly beans.”

“Have you and Carlos been comparing notes? Let’s talk about something else—say, the way you set me up yesterday? I should be mad as hell at you, but I’m too nice a person.”

He chucked her under the chin. “I set you up because we need you. We’re at an impasse. And by the way, how come the Chief got you to do something I couldn’t?”

“Wholesale flattery and ego-building.”

“Sure. You just want official permission to snoop.” He put his arm around her and kissed her nose. “Love that nose.”

“So, what do you want to talk about, besides my nose?”

“Let’s see, we have MOM to look at for each suspect.” He got up and left the room, coming back in moments with his notebook.

“Mom?”

“Motive, opportunity, method. We know the method; let’s look for a motive.”

“Listen, I forgot.” She sat up. “I had a strange conversation with David Kim this afternoon.” Hand on her mouth, she mumbled, “My God, what am I doing? I can’t tell you.”

“What’s this about? Why can’t you tell me?”

“Because he spoke to me in confidence, as a headhunter, and I can’t reveal what he said, except—Silvestri, don’t be mad at me—I can tell you he’s scared to death.”

“Okay, I’ll haul his ass in and find out what he’s scared about.”

“Oh God, Silvestri, do you have to? He’ll know I gave him away.”

“We’re talking to everybody. He’ll never know you had anything to do with it.”

She rubbed the side of her head to ease the sudden twinge of pain, a band of tension circling her brow. “I’ve just broken all the rules,” she said, abashed.

“Les, goddammit. This is not a game. We’re talking about two murders. Just because there was no blood shed, don’t think for one minute it’s not as deadly.”

“I’m not allergic to sulfites, Silvestri.”

“He could change his modus operandi at any time. We’re dealing with a sociopath.”

“He?”

“Okay, let’s look at our group. Ladies first. Janet Barnes. She had opportunity and, possibly, a motive.”

“What motive?”

“Maybe Goldie Barnes and his son didn’t get along. Son of powerful father and all that. With Goldie out of the way, Twoey Barnes could join Luwisher Brothers at the top.”

“But why would Janet kill Dr. Ash?”

“Say his report discredited Goldie in some way, which would then reflect badly on Twoey. What about Ellie Kaplan? She also had opportunity.”

“She hated Dr. Ash—but enough to kill him? I don’t know. She’s supposed to have been Goldie’s mistress, though.”

“Well! That’s news. When were you going to tell me that?”

“I just did. I didn’t think it was pertinent before.”

“Why did Ellie hate Ash?”

“She said he was going around asking too many questions. I think she was worried about that report.”

“Hardly a motive for a normal person. Was Goldie breaking off their relationship?”

“I don’t think so. I like Ellie, Silvestri. She’s a nice person. She’s wonderful at what she does. Somewhere I read she’s very active with AIDS help organizations. But I think she has something going with David Kim.”

Silvestri raised a dark eyebrow at her and took another swig of beer. “Let’s consider David Kim.”

“Was he at Goldie’s banquet? I didn’t see him, but then, I wasn’t looking for him. I suppose he could have done either murder. But why?”

“Who will free me from this turbulent priest?” Silvestri looked pleased with himself.

“Why, Silvestri. I had no idea you knew
Murder in the Cathedral.”
She leaned over and kissed the dark-whiskered shadows of his cheek. “Would David have done it for Ellie? Maybe. What about Twoey? Patricide?”

“Motive maybe, but no opportunity. He wasn’t at the dinner or at Luwisher Brothers, was he?”

“Now that you mention it, no. Odd, though, that he’d miss a banquet in his father’s honor. Alton Pinkus?”

Silvestri shook his head. “No opportunity or motive that we know of for Dr. Ash.”

“Okay. “ She reached over and picked out two licorice jelly beans from the glass compote and rolled them around in her palm. “That leaves Hoffritz, Bird, Dougie Culver, and Neil Munchen. They all probably had opportunity, but what was the motive? I just know it had something to do with the report. Why haven’t you guys been able to find it?”

“There is a report floating around somewhere. We think Hoffritz has the original, and we haven’t been able to pry it out of him without a subpoena. He says he’ll disclose its contents in a public press conference later this week.”

“What the hell?” Wetzon popped the jelly beans in her mouth and let the licorice melt on her tongue.

“He claims it has absolutely nothing to do with either murder.”

“He had motive and opportunity. So did Bird.”

“Hoffritz put himself through college doing stand-up comedy.”

“You must be kidding. He’s about as funny as a crutch.”

“Destry Bird’s degree is in biology.”

“Do you think he was heading for med school? God, medicine’s gain, Wall Street’s loss. But really, Destry’s not a people person—has no bedside manner, so to speak. He would probably have ended up in a lab.” She glanced at Silvestri. “So he might know his way around poisonous substances.”

Silvestri shrugged. “What about Culver?”

“He plays his own game. I don’t know about Dougie. I don’t see him as a murderer. He’s more like a vulture who hovers over the murder scene and then moves in to pick the flesh off the bones of the dead.”

“Jeezus, Les.” He was looking at her hard.

She shrugged. “You asked me and I’m telling you. Neil Munchen, graduate of MIT. He was Goldie’s protégé. He probably didn’t like Ash. I don’t know about Neil. He’s like Ellie, I think. He would never have killed Goldie. Just before Goldie keeled over, I heard either Neil or Goldie through the wall that separates the men’s room from the ladies’ room say to the others what sounded like ‘over my dead body.’”

He looked at her quizzically, raising an eyebrow. “One of these days, lady, someone is going to catch you listening at keyholes.”

“Oh, come on, Silvestri, it was an accident. Serendipity.”

“Sure.” Silvestri frowned, thinking. He drummed the table with his pen. “Neil’s folks own a kosher deli on Second Avenue.”

“No wonder they all look down on him. He’s far from a blue blood. But what does that have to do with Neil and the murders?” Her head was pulsing. “Oh-h.”

“Right. Who’s to say there wasn’t a stray can of sulfite powder lying around in the deli’s storeroom after it was banned?”

“T
OM
K
EEGEN
.” S
MITH’S
lip curled as she drew the syllables out slowly. She was resting one hip on the edge of her desk, half sitting, swinging an elegant leg.

“Tom Keegen?” Harold’s left eyelid twitched violently behind his horn-rimmed glasses. His head swayed from Smith to Wetzon, back to Smith.

“Yes, Harold. You’ve heard of him?” Wetzon said.

“Well ... ah, yes....” He stood in front of them squirming.

“Who is he, dear?” Smith purred. There was so much venom in her voice that even Wetzon was startled.

“I ... ah ... he ... I mean ...”

“Speak up, Harold.”

“He ... ah, he’s a headhunter.” Harold jiggled on his feet and looked to Wetzon for help, but she’d rotated in her chair, turning her back on him.

“That’s quite right, dear. And what is his area of specialty?”

“Um ... ah, you mean ... brokers?”

“That’s wonderful, dear. Isn’t that wonderful, Wetzon?”

Wetzon rotated again. “Oh, yes, truly. What were you doing with Tom Keegen yesterday, Harold?”

“I ... uh ... oh ...” Harold looked down at his scuffed brown shoes and up again. “You saw me?”

“Not I. Smith saw you. I was in the office working, wondering why you were taking so long at the doctor.”

“Oh.”

“Do you like working here, dear?” Smith asked sweetly.

“I do ... ah ... I do.” He began to sputter.

“I don’t think he does, do you, Smith?” Wetzon said.

“No, I don’t think he does.”

“Please ... Smith, Wetzon. We have the same eye doctor. Honest. He had the appointment before mine. He said he recognized my name because the brokers say such nice things about me.”

“Oh Harold, how could you? After all we’ve done for you?” Smith’s voice was steely.

“No ... I ... oh, please, Smith. I didn’t do anything. He ... uh, invited me for a drink. I didn’t want to go.”

“But you did?”

“Well ...” Harold brightened. “I thought to myself, what would you do, Smith, and I knew right away I should accept and string him along to hear what he was going to say.”

Ha! That little weasel
, Wetzon thought. He was right, though. And not just about Smith; Wetzon would have heard Keegen out, too.

“Humpf.” Smith’s eyes were dark slits. “And just what did he have to say?”