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

doing?”
    “Float, Leslie,” he said. He caught her flying hand and held it. “Don’t ask questions. We’re going to have dinner. And we’ll talk.”
    “What will we talk about?” She was insecure, like a freshman dating a senior BMOC. It wasn’t going to work.
    He smiled at her. “I think we’ll find something.”
    They ordered risotto and the tuna.
    “Wine?” He was looking at the wine list.
    She shook her head. “I’m not drinking.”
    He ordered a glass of a California chardonnay and turned his attention to her, asking about her day. She brushed this aside with a word. “Boring. Tell me about the conference.”
    She heard about the University of Chicago, the panels, the issues discussed, the people he’d met. When he finished, they were working on the tuna. He looked at her for a moment and said, “Your turn.”
    Her appetite had quit on her. She would take the rest home. She listened to her heart thumping. How could he not hear? Haltingly, she began to tell him about Brian’s death and Tabitha’s, how everyone’s lives were entwined around the Gordons. “It’s all about the aftermath of the arbitration decision.”
    Puzzlement disturbed his assurance. “What if it has nothing to do with the arbitration?”
    Wetzon shrugged. “Then we have to look for other motives.”
    “We?”
    “We,” she repeated firmly. “I want you to know what I do beyond recruiting. And if it bothers you, we should break it off here— before both of us get too involved.”
    He put his fork down and grinned at her. “I like where this is leading.”
    “I’m serious. I like the process of detecting. It’s puzzle solving.”
    “You could get hurt.”
    “Yes. I try to be careful, but I tend to work by instinct. Someone once said I fly by the seat of my pants.” Get out of here, Silvestri , she thought. “I guess I would have liked to have been something in law enforcement. They tell me I have an overdeveloped sense of injustice.” She stopped to let him say something. When he didn’t, she asked, “Does my getting involved in murder bother you?”
    “Leslie, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t. Let me try to handle it. I’m not going to tell you what to do.”
    Amazing, she thought. She had a prize. A man who wouldn’t tell her what to do.
    “Alton, I work with people who are engined by power and greed, passions that make people kill.”
    “Passions don’t always lead to murder.”
    “Oh, Alton.” She pushed her plate away.
    “Finished?” the waiter asked.
    “Pack this up. We’ll take it with us. Do you want dessert?” He didn’t seem the least bit troubled, and he made decisions quickly.
    She shook her head. Was she sick? No dessert? No chocolate? What kind of lover would he be, this lovely man?
    “I don’t have the car tonight,” he said, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm.
    “Good.” It was a beautiful evening. An almost-full moon was surrounded by haze. They walked down Fifth Avenue to Tenth Street, then turned west. He carried her briefcase. The siren of an ambulance wailed close by, then stopped with a burp as it reached St. Vincent’s on Twelfth Street. A jogger passed them, breathing hard. Tenth Street was quiet.
    “This is not the night, is it?”
    “Close, but no cigar.”
    “I’ll take close.”
    In the small vestibule, he set down her briefcase and put his arms around her, holding her for a few moments. Then he was kissing her, tasting of wine, and she was responding. His lips touched her throat. She was losing it. All her reserve. Her control. She was clinging to him. “Oh God, Alton—”
    He stopped. “I’d better get out of here.”
    “Friday,” she said. She’d made up her mind.
    Touching her cheek, he said, “Okay.”
    She watched him walk out on Tenth Street and get a cab. Then she got on the elevator and went upstairs.
    Dangerous. Alton was dangerous. Or maybe Wetzon was. She put the tuna in the fridge, hung up her coat, and checked the answering machine, pressing the playback button.
    Beep. Birdie, you are never home anymore. Ever. Arthur and I are going to the parade on Friday, so no excuses, you’re going with us and then we’re going out to dinner. Carlos was talking about the annual Greenwich Village Halloween parade of bizarre costumes. She’d go with them, but not to dinner. That was the night of Smith’s birthday party.
    Beep. Les, it’s me. God, Silvestri. Gruff. Emotional. We’ve got to talk. I’ll be up this weekend, and I