The Deadliest Option (26 page)

“Well, la-di-da, Birdie,” Carlos said. “I’m glad it’s me, too.”

“Oh, Carlos, I can’t talk now,” she wailed. “I’ve got this broker who called me and she’s in some kind of trouble, and I don’t know where she lives and there are thirty E. Kaplans in the phone book and Smith is probably waiting for me at Baci and I’m late....”

“Tsk, tsk, that last problem is the least problem. Let the Barracuda wait. She’s kept you waiting often enough.”

“Goodbye, Carlos.”

“I’m fine, dear heart, thank you for asking.”

“Carlos, this is important. I have to hang up right now. I’m sure Silvestri’s trying to reach me and I’ve got to tell him about Ellie.”

“Ellie
Kaplan? Do you mean the Wall Street Ellie Kaplan?”

“Yes, yes. This is no time for jokes, Carlos.”

“Not to worry. Stay right where you are. I’ll call you back.”

“Carlos!”

He’d hung up.

It was almost seven o’clock. Wetzon got up and ranged anxiously around the apartment. It was hot as a tomb because she’d turned off the air-conditioners before she left. Surely a mistake. She turned all the air-conditioners on low. She’d leave them on. Smith was always late, she thought. She looked up Baci’s phone number and left a message that she was delayed.

As soon as she’d hung up, the phone rang.

“If you weren’t such a hard head and had call waiting, darling, I wouldn’t have gotten a busy signal these last few crucial minutes—”

“I loathe call waiting. It’s rude and nasty. What did you find out?”

“Four-eight-o West Seventy-first Street. It’s a dead end street, the last house. The lower duplex.” He reeled off the phone number, which she quickly jotted down.

“Carlos, you’re wonderful, a genius. Goodbye.”

“Hold on there! You will pick me up in a cab in front of Arthur’s. I’ll be downstairs.”

“Oh, no I won’t.”

“Don’t argue, Birdie. Somebody has to look out for you.” He hung up.

“Men!” Wetzon muttered under her breath. She called Ellie’s number on the off chance that someone would respond. Ten rings. No answer.

She hung up, and again, the phone rang immediately.

“Wetzon,” Smith said, “I’m glad I caught you. I’m running late. Why don’t I pick you up in my cab?”

“I’m running late myself. Ellie Kaplan called and sounded really strange, then she disconnected or passed out. I’m just going to stop by and see that she’s okay.”

Smith groaned. “She’s a lush. I’ve heard stories about her. I don’t know why you have this Goody Two-Shoes thing about helping people—”

“Goodbye, Smith. I’ll see you about eight—or do you want to cancel?”

“No, I don’t want to cancel. You have to get your priorities straight. You yourself said we have important business to discuss. More important than Ellie Kaplan’s drinking problem. Don’t make me wait—”

Wetzon hung up on her without saying good-bye, certain again that the milk of human kindness curdled in Smith’s veins.

She stood at the door ready to go and stared one more time at the phone, commanding it to ring again, and when it didn’t, she quickly locked up and left. While she waited for the slowest elevator on the Upper West Side, she crossed out 7 on the Post-it note she’d stuck to the door and wrote 8.

It was twenty minutes past seven when she hit the street and less than half an hour since Ellie’s call. The heat was smothering, and the polluted air brought tears to her eyes. Daylight was a sickly yellow. A cab dropped off someone in front of her building, and Wetzon got in and directed the driver to West End Avenue and Ninetieth Street where Carlos and Arthur lived.

Carlos, looking fresh and crisp in khaki shorts and a blue-and-white-striped shirt, hopped in beside her, brimming over with energy.

“Seventy-first and West End, please,” Wetzon snarled.

“Oh, I see we’re going to be grumpy gus,” he said, leaning over and kissing her cheek.

“I’m not a baby,” she said stiffly. “I’m only going to look in on Ellie. I don’t need a keeper.” She curled her lip at him.

He rolled his eyes. “Quaint, darling, really quaint.”

The cab lurched, seeming to hit every pothole head-on, and she fell against him. “Learn how to drive,” she mumbled under her breath, trying to right herself, but Carlos held on to her.

“My, aren’t we churlish.” He looked at her somberly, eyes brimming with mischief, and said, “Now why don’t you break down and say, ‘Dear, wonderful Carlos. I am so grateful to you for telling me where Ellie lives....’”

Wetzon felt foolish and contrite. Putting her arm around him, she said, “Dear, wonderful Carlos, I
am
grateful. Tell me how you knew.”

He smiled. “Now that’s more like the Birdie I know and love. I called Dwayne. He was in that jazz class I taught at the Y three years ago.”

“Trust you to be everywhere and know everyone.”

“You know I always say there are only thirty people in the world, darling.” He paused and got serious. “Listen, Birdie, Dwayne says Ellie’s in bad shape—very depressed, drinking. We don’t know what we’re going to find. He’s going to meet us there.”

“Do you mean she’s suicidal, Carlos?”

“Let’s hope Dwayne is wrong.”

“God, Carlos.” She hugged him. “I owe you.”

“Listen, I know this is a stupid question to ask you of all people, Birdie, but are you sure you want to get involved?”

“She asked me to help her, Carlos.”

“I knew it was a stupid question.”

The fare came to four dollars even. “Let me,” Wetzon said, “it’s my deductible.” When she picked at the coins in her change purse to find two quarters for the tip, she saw the torn scraps of paper she’d found in Ellie’s makeup bag.
What kind of detective are you, Wetzon
, she thought, disgusted with herself. She had a mind like a sieve. She got out of the cab behind Carlos, willing herself to remember the scraps and put them together later.

A tall jogger in shiny gray shorts, wearing a white breathing cone over his nose and mouth, a cap backwards on his head, turned onto West End Avenue from Seventy-first Street, oblivious to traffic, then continued running in a measured pace south toward Lincoln Center. He wasn’t the only one out on the street running either; these joggers were fanatical about never missing a day, no matter rain, sleet, snow, hail, or poisonous air.

Ellie lived in a Georgian-style redbrick townhouse on one of the prettiest streets on the West Side. The houses on both sides of the street were beautifully maintained with window boxes, dense with flowers in spite of the heat, brass doorknockers, and solid oak doors and leaded glass windows. Some were freshly whitewashed with window sashes painted in blue. The street was quiet except for the soft drone of the air-conditioners that hung from many of the windows.

Dwayne wasn’t standing in front of the building waiting for them. “Now what?” Wetzon looked at Carlos, who wriggled his shoulders.

Two identical front doors at street level in a small brick courtyard, each with a grillwork outer door, indicated that Ellie’s building held two occupants. The door on the right stood slightly ajar.

“The one on the left,” Carlos said behind her. And sure enough, when she opened the door she saw
E. Kaplan
written on the mailbox next to the bell. A bamboo umbrella stand with two furled umbrellas stood in a corner of the tiny space.

“I guess we have to wait for Dwayne.”

“He should have been here by now. He lives only twenty-eight blocks due south, in Manhattan Plaza.” Carlos frowned. “Let’s see if she answers.” He pressed the buzzer, but they heard no responding buzz from within the apartment. He waited, pressed the buzzer again. Nothing. No sign of life. Wetzon jiggled nervously.

They looked at each other, reading each other’s thoughts.

“I’m worried, Carlos. Damnation! Where the hell is Dwayne?” Wetzon rapped on the inner door. “Ellie!” She knocked again, harder.

“Wait a minute.” Carlos turned the brass doorknob. The door opened. Just like when she’d been locked in at Luwisher Brothers. It hadn’t been locked.

Now she was really worried. Maybe someone had broken in and hurt Ellie.

“Jesus,” Carlos said, peering in. The apartment smelled musty; it was dark as pitch. He held out his hand to Wetzon, and they stepped inside. Somewhere an air-conditioner whirred, ineffectively.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” she whispered.

“I’m improvising. Why are we whispering?” He moved forward, pulling her behind him. The outside door slid shut. “
Merde.
Now we’ve lost our light.”

“I’ll get it.” She went back and opened the door. Daylight brought a dusty haze into the small foyer.

Someone groaned.

“Ellie!” Wetzon cried.

Carlos found the round dimmer button, and pressed it. Nothing. “Uh-oh,” he said.

A faint tremor of fear crept up her spine.

“The fuses must have blown.” Carlos’s voice had lost its usual buoyant lilt.

Not uncommon, Wetzon told herself sternly, when every window has an air-conditioner and the wiring dates back to pre World War II. They edged forward along the wall.

They came to an opening, perhaps an archway. From here the darkness seemed fathomless. A floorboard beneath Carlos’s feet squeaked loudly. He called, “Ellie?” and Wetzon heard the uncertainty in his voice.

Another groan came out of the darkness. The muscles in his back tightened under her hand. The floorboard squeaked again. Why were they hesitating? There were two of them. Thank God, he hadn’t let her come alone. But Ellie sounded awful. “Let’s go to her, Carlos,” she urged in a whisper.

He turned. “Birdie ... ” She could feel his anxiety. “We may not be alone. Caution would be smart. You stay here and I’ll go on. If something happens to me, you run for it.”

“No way! We’ll go together.”

She felt him shrug. He moved forward, but she’d lost his shoulder. Determined, she felt her way along, her fingers touching picture frames, leaving them askew, no doubt. They seemed to be in a hallway leading to a larger room. Carlos stopped abruptly, and she bumped into him with an “Ooof.”

“Wait here,” he said, firmly. “Not one step farther. I’m going back to the foyer to see if I can find the fuse box.”

She looked over his shoulder. It was pitch black. “Okay,” she said. He passed her and she could hear him moving toward the foyer. If she only had a match.... Wait. She had picked up a matchbox at the Oak Bar—or had she? She groped inside her bag and found a matchbox. Clumsily, she tried to light a match by feeling. She’d probably torch herself. She scraped a match on the side of the box and a little flame burst forth. Very pleased, she held it out in front of her and almost dropped it. In the arched entranceway to what seemed to be a huge living room, a body lay spread-eagle on the carpeted floor.

“Ellie!” Wetzon dropped her bag and jumped forward. The match went out. Something crunched under her sandals. It was too dark to see what. She could hear Carlos in the other room, mucking with the switches, but no light.

Ellie groaned again. Wetzon lit another match. “Ellie, I’m here. It’s okay.”

She dropped to her knees beside Ellie and felt a sharp pain in her knee as something cut through her skirt and into flesh. Holding the match higher, she saw the floor was covered with sharp shards of glass. The cut stung. The match went out. She could feel blood burning from her wounded knee. Bending, she touched Ellie’s shoulder, brushing her fingers on clammy stems and flowers, felt the damp clothing, and a surprising amount of sinew. She put her hand out and stroked Ellie’s hair, stopped, rubbed her fingers together and recognized the unmistakably sticky wetness of blood.

“Are you okay?” Carlos called.

“Yes,” she lied. “Ellie, can you sit up? No, wait.” Wetzon rose. Brushing the soles of her sandals along the floor, she tried to sweep the largest slivers of glass away from Ellie’s body. “Okay now, try, Ellie. I’ll help you.”

She lit another match. In the flickering light, she could see Ellie’s pale skin and slim muscular legs. What the hell was she wearing? Shorts. Somehow she’d never pictured Ellie in shorts. Ellie groaned again and rolled over onto her side. Wetzon leaned over to help her.

Porcelain lamps awoke suddenly, spreading soft light around the room.

Wetzon looked down at Ellie, but the figure on the floor wasn’t Ellie. It was Dwayne.

A
SCREAM ROSE
into her throat and she choked on it. “Good God, Dwayne!” Wetzon squatted beside him, flinching from the cut on her knee. “Are you all right? I’m sorry, what a dumb question. What happened?”

“Birdie?” Carlos called.

“Carlos, it’s Dwayne.”

Dwayne groaned and put his hands on his head. He groaned again and opened his eyes. “The mother crocked me with Ellie’s Baccarat vase.” The floor was alive with pink roses and petals and broken glass.

Wetzon stifled an hysterical giggle as Carlos came racing into the room. He dropped down beside Dwayne, opposite Wetzon.

Dwayne struggled up on his elbows; a limp rose fell from his back. “The fucker didn’t even take the flowers out.” He touched his cheekbones gingerly. “Did he hurt my face?”

“No,” Carlos said. “Good thing your head is so hard. Come on, let me help you up.”

“Should we get an ambulance?” Wetzon looked around the room. No Ellie.

Carlos helped Dwayne to his feet. “Dwayne,” Wetzon said, “where’s Ellie?”

Dwayne tilted like a leaning tower. “Don’t know.” He swayed. “Sofa,” he said, pointing to the overstuffed floral chintz affair drowning in pillows.

“What happened to the lights?” Carlos had his arm around Dwayne and was half carrying him. “Lean on me.”

“The dirtbag must have thrown the main switch,” Dwayne mumbled.

“He did just that.”

“It was dark when I got here. Ellie must have gone out and left the door unlocked.” Dwayne collapsed on the sofa.

“I can’t believe she’d do that.” Wetzon heard the sharpness in her voice. In the back of her mind she heard herself saying the same thing to David Kim.

“Oh, yeah?” Dwayne rubbed his head. “Well, that lady does a lot of things you wouldn’t believe.”

“Forget it, you two.” Carlos spotted the phone on the floor near a side chair. He picked it up, listened, and shook his head. He stared at Wetzon. “Birdie, there’s blood on your knee.”