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

time?”
    “Can’t talk now, Wetzon. All the dogs are barking.”
    “Then I won’t keep you. Another time.”
    Joan’s “Thanks” was curt, but Wetzon took no offense because she knew none was intended. This kind of market meant you had to be quick or you’d miss something.
    She took a cab up to West Eighty-sixth Street and got out next to five minidumpsters parked in front of her building. Looking around, she almost felt like a tourist. She missed her neighborhood and her apartment. She was not a Village person; she was an Upper West Sider.
    George, the super’s son, was filling in on the door picking up extra money for college. He let her in. “I’ve got some stuff for you.” He went to the cabinet in the rear of the mailroom and returned with a load of what looked more like catalogues than serious mail. She was going to have to write to those direct-mail people to take her off the junk list. Maybe she could save a few trees in her lifetime.
    After pressing the elevator button, she waited.
    “Oh, I almost forgot.” George handed her a manila envelope. “Ms. Reitman left something here for you.”
    “She did?” Wetzon took the envelope and got on the elevator when the doors opened. She hit the button for 12, undid the clasp, reached in, and pulled out five pages of computer printout. A word-processed note was attached:
Dear Leslie,
Couldn’t reach you and I’m going up to Vermont for a few days. Figure this will get to you. Very interesting problem. If you look at the last twenty years, you can narrow everything down to one Gerald Gordon, one Jay Gordon, two Jeromes, and no Jerrys. If you look further, you’ll see that Gerald was a chem major, undergrad. No grad. The Jay was business, with an MBA, last known address, Chicago. One of the Jeromes has a Ph.D. in philosophy and teaches at Rutgers; the other is a math nerd who works at IBM. Not a psych major among them.
Then I flipped the names, for fun. Gordon Jerome. That’s my joke because this guy you’re checking out has two first names. G. J. fits into your time frame, but his degree is in accounting. He’s a CPA. Last known address is Wakefield Farms, Massachusetts.
Hope this is what you wanted,
Sheila

59.
    W HEN W ETZON GOT back to the office, the phones were quiet. B. B. was out for lunch and Max was eating sunflower seeds from a little cloth sack and reading the Wall Street Letter as if he understood all the inside-the-business trade talk for which the weekly newsletter was known. She’d stopped at Mangia on Forty-eighth Street for a mozzarella, watercress, and sun-dried tomato sandwich on cheese bread and a double dose of decaf coffee. Now she opened a paper napkin and spread her lunch on her desk.
    Smith was vivid in the garden, hands in motion, undoubtedly burdening Philip with a running commentary on his work. Smith always seemed to think she knew more about anything than anyone else did. Wetzon tapped on the window and got a brief, dismissing wave. To hell with Smith , she thought. Here I was going to offer to share. She sat down and ate her lunch, giving her thoughts over to her apartment.
    Except for the kitchen, it had been essentially gutted. Louie’s crew was still removing diseased and rotting plaster. Wetzon’s barre and mirrors were packed into a corner of the huge living room along with most of her furniture. Her bookcases—out of harm’s way, thanks be—were sealed under plastic. Everything was covered with drop cloths and more layers of clear plastic. A large portion of the living room ceiling and the wall that the living room shared with the dining room were severely damaged.
    But the essence of mildew was gone—all the windows were open wide—replaced by the cleaner smell of fresh plaster and sawdust. In the remains of her dining room, she was introduced to Jean, in gray painter’s pants, working on a stepladder with a drill, her pockets crammed with tools, and Wendy, who was collecting chunks of plaster and cinder block in a big metal drum. They were Pillsbury ghosts in white breathing masks, shower caps, and goggles.
    All the floor boards had been pulled up and covered with scraps of plywood, covered again with brown paper and drop cloths, so the floors gave and crackled under foot. “We’ll be able to save the floor in the living room,” Louie said, dropping her mask. “It’ll need sanding and restaining.” She was wearing overalls and an aura of plaster dust as she walked Wetzon through the