Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

of my own, you know. And this may come as a shock, but I don’t always sleep in my own bed.”
    “Arthur! I want you to hear this. She said she doesn’t always sleep in her own bed. Dear heart, for me, I don’t give a hoot who you do it with, so long as you take precautions. But let a person know—”
    “Lord, I have a mother.”
    “You better believe you have a mother. We are each other’s family. I thought you knew we are responsible to and for one another. Birdie? Are you listening? This is serious.”
    “I’m listening. You’re depressing me.”
    “Arthur, do you believe her? Now she’s telling me I’m depressing her.”
    She heard the rumble of Arthur’s voice in the background. “I’m sure Arthur agrees with me.”
    “Arthur says you’re a grown-up adult person. But you and I know no gypsy ever grows up.”
    “Thank you very much.”
    “You don’t have to tell me where you were.”
    “Good.”
    “Where were you?”
    “I thought I didn’t have to tell you?”
    “I lied.”
    “Oh, all right, then. I went up to Westport and spent the night.”
    “You are really desperate. You spent the night with the Barracuda?”
    “Carlos—” It was their usual routine, Carlos attacking Smith and Wetzon defending her.
    “You’re all right, Birdie?” His voice became sober. “I mean, the prowler—”
    “Louie scared him off. He was on the fire escape.” He? Why not she? “Louie’s great, incidentally.”
    “That damn fire escape. I’ll get a gate put in. I’m glad you like Louie.”
    “Good. Are we finished?”
    “No, we’re not, darling. Carlos wants you to tell him something deeply personal.”
    Wetzon groaned. “Like what?”
    “Like what’s going on with you and the cop?”
    “Nothing. Nothing is going on. It’s off, that’s what.” Her anger and hurt spewed out.
    “Hey, easy—” Carlos sounded shocked.
    “He’s down there in D.C. and he thinks he can keep a girl in both ports. I’ve had it, Carlos.”
    “Birdie, I’m sorry.”
    “I’ve met someone else who thinks I’m terrific. Someone successful in the real world—”
    “Dear heart, when you say that, why do I think you mean the Barracuda’s world? The question is, who do you love, Birdie? I mean, besides me.”
    She felt her throat contract and her eyes fill. Who would care if someone killed her? Laura Lee, yes. Smith, possibly, but she’d get over it fast. Alton? They didn’t know one another well enough for him to care. Certainly not Silvestri. He’d already forgotten her. Only Carlos would really care. She knew that. “I love you, Carlos. I’m having a tough time with this. I feel as if someone I loved died.”
    “Birdie, I—” He seemed suddenly at a loss for words. “I—uh—I don’t know how to say this. I wasn’t alone when I was there this morning.”
    “What do you mean? You and Arthur?”
    “No. Silvestri called me last night. He couldn’t find you. He’d been up to your apartment looking for something he’d left there and saw that mess.... He was pretty upset.”
    “Yeah, I’ll bet.”
    “Listen to me, Birdie. He was really blitzed by the apartment, and he was worried about you.”
    “I told him.”
    “Seeing it was worse.”
    “That’s too bad. So let me get this straight. He was here with you this morning and saw I hadn’t slept in the—”
    “You got it.”
    “Well, good. Was he upset?”
    “He was.”
    “Tsk, tsk.”
    “I see how it is. Who’s the new man—if there really is one.”
    “There is, Mother. Maybe we can double-date some time.”
    “That does it.” He got serious again. “You’re okay?”
    “Fuhgeddaboudit.” She hung up and rushed over to the dresser, opened the drawer. Felt under her underwear. The black box was gone.
    Damn him! How dare he go through her drawers. She stamped back to the bed and reached over to turn off the radio. It had just gone from glorious Mozart to some dreary German fugue. An announcer was saying, “This program was recorded earlier in the day …”

53.
    W ETZON WAS THOROUGHLY confused. She’d been doing barre work to the score of Pippin for the twenty minutes, but her concentration was ragged. She kept stopping and starting, unable to break out into a good, drenching sweat.
    Conceding, she stopped. She was spooked. Maybe as you get older you lose your nerve, you hang on tighter to every minute you have. The best thing would be to call Marissa Peiser and dump it all on her. Let her check Dr. Jerry’s call-in