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

burger down on the plate. “Look, Marissa, Ms. Peiser—”
    “Marissa’s fine.”
    “This is going to sound crazy, but I think someone took a shot at me last night with one of them—the rifle, I guess.” She took a bite out of her burger, amazed at her cool. The truth was, here in the Village, today, it all seemed unreal.
    Peiser took her seriously. “You have the bullet?”
    “No. Whatever it was smashed into the shingle behind me.” She walked Peiser through the events from their arrival at Penny Ann’s home to meeting Barbie Gordon, the gunshot, while Peiser took notes. “There was a splintered hole in the shingle. I’m not sure Smith will have notified the local police, because she thought I was over-reacting.”
    “Let’s not jump to any conclusions till we know it’s a bullet. I’ll take care of it.” Her notebook was smeared with what looked like blood but was only ketchup. She licked her fingers.
    “Incidentally, Rona and Megan were supposed to be spending the night with the Gordons, so anyone could have done it, except possibly Jerry Gordon, who does his call-in show in the afternoons and from ten to midnight on Saturday ... unless it was recorded together with his afternoon show. I haven’t been able to find out how that works. And what if Maglia drove up to see Rona—I know that may be farfetched—but he could have done it.” Slow down , she thought, you’re babbling like an hysteric. She took a bite of her burger. “I still don’t think Rona did it.”
    Peiser picked up a fry with her fingers and munched it thoughtfully. “We don’t either.”

54.
    “I ’VE DONE EVERYTHING I can to shake him out, Seth.” Seth Doolittle was the New York manager for A.J. Wickers, a regional firm out of Chicago and a client of Smith and Wetzon’s. Wetzon and Seth had been working on a Shearson broker for the past six months. “The kid is dying. Five years in the business and instead of going up the last two years, he’s been sinking. He’s got a lock on failure. By resisting this move, he’s boarding up his breakout. One more year and he’ll be out of the business. I told him that. I don’t know why you want him.”
    Seth grunted. “He works his tail off, but he doesn’t work smart. There’s something we used to call a clangbird in the air force. It’s a plane that flies in concentric circles, smaller and smaller until it disappears up its own anus. I guess I think I can turn him around. Let me try him again.”
    “He’s all yours.” Wetzon hung up. It was a waste of time. The kid was a loser and shouldn’t be in the business. Even she could see that. He had no wife, no kids holding him back from taking a chance. He ought to take the ball and run with it, but he couldn’t get himself out of his failure track. She sighed. She was getting as tough-minded as Smith.
    The phone rang, and she could see B.B. was on the other line. She answered, “Smith and Wetzon.”
    “Leslie?” She loved the way he said her name, giving each syllable emphasis.
    “Hi, Alton. Are you back?”
    “I’m at O’Hare waiting to board. How about an early dinner tonight?”
    “Alton—I—”
    “I know you said no late weekdays, but I’ll get you home before eight.”
    Why not ,she thought . Why the hell not? “Okay.”
    “That’s great.” He sounded jubilant. It was so weird. What did he see in her? “How about six at the Union Square Cafe?”
    The door opened and Smith blew in, smashing in a red-and-white checkerboard blazer and a short red stretch skirt.
    “That’s fine. I’ll see you there at six.” She put down the phone and waited. Smith would want to know whom she was making an appointment with.
    Smith flipped casually through her messages. “Who are you meeting at six?”
    “Alton. Tonight for dinner.”
    “Is this the night?” The question came with a mocking raise of eyebrow.
    Amused, Wetzon said succinctly, “Just dinner.”
    “You are a major—”
    “Rona’s off the hook. Isn’t that great?”
    “Really?” Smith’s attention refocused.
    “She is. Marissa Peiser, the A.D.A., told me last night. It seems that Maglia confirmed her alibi, and they think someone planted the gun.”
    “Now that’s more like it. Did the legal frump say who they think did it?”
    “No.”
    She wrinkled her forehead and dropped her messages in her wastebasket. “I would have said Maglia. Maybe they’re just alibi-ing each other. Of course, the tarot says it’s a strong woman ... and