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

legitimate. I’ve been told they might not be. But I don’t want to alert him—”
    “I can do that. I just have to get into the file. If I get home early enough, I’ll use the modem; otherwise, I’ll do it tomorrow and get back to you.”
    “If you know anything tonight, just call me at my regular number.” She gave it to Sheila. “The call will get transferred down here— I’m staying in the Village in a friend’s loft. Tomorrow you can reach me in my office.” She gave her that number.
    “Okay. What’s the name and what am I looking for?”
    “The name is Jerome Gordon or Jerry Gordon, or it might be J. Gordon. He’s a psych Ph.D., and it would be in the ’70s or early ’80s I think.”
    After she hung up, she thought, Now that was a wild-goose chase . Wouldn’t it be stupid of him to have phony credentials when he was getting famous?
    The telephone broke into her thoughts with a shrill ring, rattling her. “Hello?” She spoke cautiously, in a low voice.
    “Ms. Wetzon? This is Marissa Peiser. I’ve been trying to reach you for two days.” There was no accusation in her voice, just the fact.
    “Yes, I know. I was at my partner’s home in Connecticut.”
    “There are a few things I’d like to go over with you.”
    “There are a few things I’d like to go over with you, too.”
    “Good. I’m in my office. I can be up there in about three-quarters of an hour, maybe less.”
    “I was going to go out and get some dinner.”
    “If you wouldn’t mind waiting for me, we can go together.”
    “Just you and me, right?”
    “Right.”
    “Don’t surprise me with Ferrante, okay?”
    Pause. Then, “Okay.”
    Wetzon opened all the windows. A summerlike breeze jiggled the blinds. Friendly Sunday voices floated up from Tenth Street. She put her laundry in the washing machine and pulled on a clean pair of white leggings, floppy white socks, a black and white cotton sweater that came to midthigh, and her pink Reeboks. Dressed for success, all right. She’d just switched everything to the dryer when the downstairs intercom sounded.
    Buzzing Marissa Peiser in, she opened her door, heard the elevator begin its climb, and waited.
    Peiser looked tired. She was wearing stone-washed jeans and a striped cotton shirt. Her mustard suede jacket was the wrong color for her skin tone and fought with the red hair band, for she wore no makeup. At least she’d dumped the grubby trench coat. She was listing under the weight of a black shoulder bag as big as a horse feeder, with a frayed strap.
    “You look tired.” Wetzon threw her leather jacket over her shoulder and grabbed her purse. “Do you have to work on weekends?”
    “Frequently. Never getting enough sleep goes with the territory.”
    “Burger okay with you?”
    Peiser nodded.
    They walked up Eighth Avenue to West Fourth and Jane to the Corner Bistro. “It doesn’t look like much,” Wetzon said, “but the burgers and BLTs are great and the price is right.”
    If anything, the Corner Bistro was grungier than usual. It was like walking into a cave. A cave where the odors of beer and whiskey and cigars had become embedded in the old wooden bar with its brass rail, in the scarred wood tables and benches. In spite of this, almost every booth and table was filled. They walked past the bar where the regulars—locals all over the age of sixty—were planted, to the room in the back, took the last available booth, and ordered burgers medium rare and fries, club soda for Wetzon and Diet Coke for Peiser.
    “How long have you been with the D.A.’s office?”
    “Ten years.”
    “I guess you like it.”
    “I love it.”
    “You like hanging out with cops?”
    Peiser stared at Wetzon for a long minute. “Yes.”
    “I would, too.”
    They looked at one another candidly, each knowing something about the other that connected them. Peiser nodded slowly, and the moment passed.
    Their order arrived on paper plates with paper napkins, ketchup and mustard in their own-brand bottles.
    “You were in Connecticut yesterday, you said?”
    “Smith and I paid a condolence call on Penny Ann Boyd.” She waited for Peiser to say something, but Peiser seemed to be engrossed in drowning her burger and fries in ketchup. “Are you aware that Wilson Boyd had a gun collection?”
    “We are now.”
    “And that three are missing?”
    “Two. A rifle and an antique silver Derringer.”
    “I forgot. You’ve got the one that killed Brian and Tabitha.” She set her