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

wore her hair in a short, boy’s cut, shingled up the back, with a shock of blond curls from the top of her ears to the top of her head, not the most flattering do for a long, lean face.
    “I can’t go down there without you.” Rona squeezed Wetzon’s hand so hard, Wetzon winced. “You’ve got to go with me.”
    Wetzon’s stomach did a forward roll. She couldn’t.
    Ferrante’s eyes told her, Let’s get this over with .
    So it was down the stairs again. Breathe through your mouth. The memory of the smell was enough to make Wetzon gag. She held Rona’s freezing cold hand as the cloth was once again drawn back, and Brian lay there in his long sleep.
    “It’s Brian. My husband, Brian Middleton,” Rona said calmly. She withdrew her hand from Wetzon’s. “The shit finally got what he deserved.”

8.
    R ONA WAS WEARING a white Elisse jogging suit and Avias. Small gold hoops pierced her earlobes, followed by two pearl studs on the rise. No rings on her fingers, no other jewelry. She must have been on her way out to do her five miles. Dark eyebrows, dark lashes, slight tan, red gash of a mouth. A quilted Chanel shoulder bag—the real thing, not a copy—hung from her shoulder on a dainty gold-and-leather chain. But dainty was not the word for the Rona Middleton facing Wetzon. There was something tough and uncompromising about her that Wetzon had never perceived before.
    Ferrante gave Wetzon a silent order by making eye contact and jerking his head toward the door.
    “Watch your mouth, Rona,” Wetzon said sotto voce, but Rona wasn’t having any. She wore triumph like a banner as she turned to leave. Oh, Lord , Wetzon thought. I hope she has an alibi. Wetzon could just hear Smith if Rona were to get arrested for Brian’s murder and there’d be no fee on Rona’s production either.
    “Leave him out,” Dr. Vose said. “I’ll do it now. You might want to hang around.”
    Not on your life , Wetzon thought, gearing to make a break for it.
    “Don’t push, Wetzon,” Rona said. “You’re walking on my heels.” She bent to slip her heel back into her jogging shoe, and Wetzon saw a purplish bruise on her leg between her white sock and her pantleg.
    “You want to hazard a guess about cause?” Ferrante asked the assistant M.E.
    Cocking her ear, Wetzon stayed put, letting Rona go on up the stairs.
    “Sure. I can give you a guess, but again, don’t hold me to it. I’d say he had quite an earache.”
    An earache?
    “An earache?” Ferrante gave voice to Wetzon’s thought.
    “Yes. Caused by a small-caliber gun pressed to the ear. A .32, I’d say.”
    “I thought you were in such a rush to leave, Wetzon,” Rona proclaimed from the top of the stairs. “I’m going to make a phone call.” She disappeared from Wetzon’s view.
    Wetzon hung around for a few minutes at the foot of the steps, but heard nothing further. She found Rona in the small waiting room off the lobby talking to Detective Martens.
    “It was a legal separation. I’ve said only two words to him in the last four months. ‘Drop dead.’ How obliging of him. Megan, my little girl, is eight months old and doesn’t even know she has— had— a father.” Seeing Wetzon, Rona waved a hand in her direction. “Ask Wetzon. She knows what I’ve been through. The shit refused to pay support for his only child.”
    Martens was listening politely and making notes in his notebook. “When did you see your husband last, Mrs. Middleton?”
    Rona shrugged.
    “She’s tired and a bit distraught, Detective,” Wetzon offered, trying to keep Rona from saying too much.
    “I’m nothing of the kind, Wetzon. This is exhilarating. When did I see the turd last? I don’t remember. It’s been months, I’m sure.”
    “And this morning? Where were you between, say, between five and nine?”
    “You have to be kidding,” Rona exploded.
    Wetzon raised her eyes heavenward. Thank you, God.
    “You think I did it? Oh, puh-leeze. Do you believe this, Wetzon?”
    “It’s procedure, Rona. Just confirm where you were and then we can go. Right, Detective?”
    Martens nodded. “For now.” He waited, pen poised, for Rona’s statement of her whereabouts.
    “Okay, okay, well, let’s see. I woke up at five as I always do, showered, dressed. Then Megan and her nanny and I had breakfast together, as we do every morning. I usually leave for the office around seven, and I’m in by seven-thirty. I thought he was mugged?”
    “This is just routine, ma’am.