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

destruction.
    Wetzon was dazzled by the activity, but she felt again as if she’d lost a dear friend. Her apartment had died, and something new like this was difficult to adjust to. There was almost nothing left of her nest. There was almost nothing left of her life with Silvestri. If one were to believe in symbols, wasn’t this an apt one?
    She forced her thoughts back to the printout in the manila envelope hugged tightly under her arm.
    “I know it doesn’t look like much right now,” Louie was saying.
    “Au contraire. It’s already an improvement from the mess I ran away from.”
    “Would you consider knocking down the wall between the living room and dining room? We can open up a lot of space.”
    “But I want my barre and mirrors on the remaining wall. Won’t it look strange if it’s all open? What if I have a party...?” Although when had she given a party?
    “Well, think about it. You can use a painted screen or a nice coramandel.”
    “Sure, Louie, spend my money.”
    Louie grinned. “Don’t lock yourself in. You’re got a great opportunity here. Change is food for the soul.”
    “Okay, I promise I’ll think about it.” And they left it that way. Maybe she should do something different, open up the whole space, open up her life. Change was food for the soul, huh? Well, she needed a spiritual uplift.
    Her sandwich eaten down to the last crisp crumb, she sat twirling the cardboard coffee container, taking sips, thinking. She’d better call Twoey and get “Dickie” Hartmann invited to the party before Smith gave her more grief. Setting the phone between neck and shoulder, she punched up Twoey’s private line.
    “Goldman Barnes.” This was the other Twoey, the trader. Wetzon could hear the furor of excitement and the shouting on the trading floor, where Twoey had his office, spill out over the phone lines at her. It never failed to turn her on.
    “Twoey. Wetzon.”
    “Hiya, Wetzon. I’m jammed. Call me later.”
    “Twoey, wait. I want to put someone on the invite list.”
    “Call Maribelle.” He was gone before she could say another word.
    What the hell , she thought. Makes it easier. No baroque explanations. She called Twoey’s assistant, Maribelle, gave her Hartmann’s office number, and told her to issue an invitation.
    That out of the way, she turned her attention to Sheila Reitman’s note and the printout. Was it possible that someone had fallen through the cracks? No psychology Ph.D. at all? Jerry Gordon seemed like a fairly common name. Then there was the last thing in Sheila’s letter. Gordon Jerome. Wakefield Farms, Massachusetts.
    In her mind’s eye she saw a small New England village with its center green and Civil War soldier statue, farms and homes separated by low stone walls. So why did the name of the village give her a jangle?
    She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers for Massachusetts information and asked for the village of Wakefield Farms.
    “We have no listing for a town called Wakefield Farms in Massachusetts.”
    She replaced the receiver. “Now isn’t that strange?” she murmured out loud. “A phony address. He’s a CPA, though, and CPAs have to be licensed.” Oh, hell and damnation. Why was she getting hung up on a weird detour? She had enough on her plate without following trails that led nowhere. But it continued to plague her.
    Ruth Abramson was a CPA. Ruth, a single practitioner, fastidious to the core, had been Wetzon’s accountant since pre-Smith and Wetzon days.
    When Wetzon got her on the phone, Ruth said, “Gordon Jerome? God, that’s a familiar name. If he’s licensed in New York, I can find him for you. Give me a couple of days.”
    Studying the printout, Wetzon saw that maybe she had narrowed it down too much. Maybe he got his Ph.D. in the ’60s. Of course, that was it. In the late 1960s he could have gone straight through school to stay out of Vietnam. That would put him still in his forties now. Certainly, Jerry wasn’t older than that, maybe even younger. But didn’t a Ph.D. in psych have to do clinical work? Could he really have gone straight through for his doctorate? And hadn’t he told Smith he’d spent two years in the army? In intelligence, no less. She shoved the printout and Sheila’s note into her briefcase. When Sheila came home, she’d ask her to check back another ten years.
    Meantime, she had to find out why Wakefield Farms was burning a hole in her brain. Marissa Peiser. Wetzon tried her office