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

leaving out mention of Artie Metzger and Sheila Reitman. And Leonora Foley.
    Ferrante put his notebook in his inside pocket and stood up, reached over and snared the last slice of pizza.
    “Have you ever heard of a town in Massachusetts called Wakefield Farms?” Wetzon slipped off the counter and followed them to the door.
    Peiser farrowed her brow. “Maybe. Can’t place it. Why?”
    “It just came up in conversation.”
    “Whose?” Ferrante said.
    “Rona’s.” Rona, she thought. It hadn’t come up in Rona’s conversation, had it? Was that what was bothering her?
    “I’ll check it out,” Peiser said. She paused at the door. “Don’t meet anyone alone for a while.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Just that.”
    “I’m a recruiter. I am always meeting people alone, in secret, in confidence. You’ll be wiping out my business.”
    “Is it worth your life?” Ferrante asked impatiently. “Stay in public places where there are a lot of people.”
    They got on the elevator and the door closed. Wetzon stood staring at the elevator. Sounds of arguing came up from the car as it traveled downward.
    “Fucking waste of time.” That was Ferrante.
    And then Peiser’s voice: “I don’t agree. Keep it loose, but I want someone on her.”

61.
    I F THERE WAS truly someone keeping an eye on her, Wetzon never saw him. Wednesday and Thursday were lost in a haze of appointments and interviews. On Thursday, she’d heard from Ruth Abramson that there was no CPA licensed in New York State by the name of Gordon Jerome.
    “Was there ever? Is there any way of checking? Tell me if I’m being too pushy.”
    “What are you looking for?”
    “If I knew, it would be easy.”
    Halloween Friday rolled in, snappy cold, clear as the best fall days in New York. The minighosts and -witches would be out in force, accompanied by parents in the City version of trick-or-treat.
    Smith was in a bitchy mood. She accepted Wetzon’s happy birthday wishes ungraciously and threw her card in the wastebasket.
    “And I had such a lovely present for you, but I guess you don’t want it.”
    Flinging herself in her chair, Smith fastened angry eyes on Wetzon, who stood before her holding a plastic plate on which a honey bran muffin sported a little lit candle in the center. “I hate this birthday, and you know it. Why are you torturing me?”
    “Will you give me a break? Just blow out your candle, and I’ll give you your goddam present.” She set the muffin down on Smith’s desk.
    “Oh, very well.” Smith came out of her slump and blew out the candle. “Now are you happy?”
    “You look exactly the same as you did five years ago, better even. So I don’t know what you’re bitching about.”
    Whipping out her ready mirror, Smith stared deeply into it. She fluffed her curls with her fingers, then pointed to almost invisible lines around her eyes. “See these. What do you call these? Lines!”
    “Everyone has them. They’re laugh lines. Laugh lines!”
    “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you? There’ll be a payback. There always is. Just wait.” She smiled. “Okay, where’s my present?”
    Wetzon thrust a Bendel’s box into Smith’s grasping hands.
    “I love presents.” Smith opened the box and tore through the tissue paper, pulling out a silk scarf in streaks of pink, lavender, and yellow, fully fringed. “It’s just beautiful, sweetie.”
    “Isn’t it? My friend Rita Morgan designs a whole line of them for Bendel’s.”
    “Well, she’s really talented.”
    “Yes, and to think she used to be a stockbroker.”
    “No!”
    Wetzon grinned. She loved needling Smith. “What are you wearing tonight?”
    “A white sequined handkerchief.”
    “That doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”
    “That’s the idea, sweetie pie. And I suppose you’re wearing your basic black?”
    “Yup.”
    “You might treat yourself to something new.”
    “Nope.”
    “You could liven it up a little. It looks like a leotard with a skirt.”
    “How about silk underwear?”
    “How about some big, gloppy strands of pearls?”
    “What time is Twoey picking you up?”
    “Eight.”
    “Well, be gracious and act surprised.”
    Smith did a cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die. “Trust me, sweetie,” she drawled.
    “That’s what scares me.”
    Smith left the office at midday for a massage and a facial, swearing she was ready for plastic surgery. And finally, at three o’clock, Wetzon put her pen down and quit. It was Friday.