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

The market was very strong. Heavy volume. It was hard to talk to people. Brokers were watching their Quotrons for their trading clients, ready to take profits at an eighth- or quarter-point increase. They had to be in touch with clients, traders, and analysts; in the scale of importance on a day like today, the headhunter was down at the bottom, with the spouse.
    She walked over to Grand Central and took the shuttle to Times Square, where she caught a number 1 train downtown. Children were in costume and makeup from school parties. Clowns predominated. Later, the masked monsters would make their appearance.
    When she climbed up the narrow stairs at Sheridan Square, she had to sidestep a beggar who had planted himself near the top holding out a grimy cardboard cup. On Seventh Avenue, a man in a parked car made kissing noises at her. “Hey, babee,” he called.
    She felt herself tense up, then had the peculiar sense that someone was watching her, and it wasn’t the beggar or the man in the car. She looked around casually, careful not to show she was looking, but saw nothing unusual. It was unsettling.
    “Thank you very much,” a bedraggled wino in a sombrero said to no one in particular. “Have a nice day.”
    “Jason, you’re dragging your sheet,” a mother told a little ghost.
    Why should it unsettle her? Hadn’t Peiser told Ferrante to keep an eye on her?
    Still, it was a relief to get into Carlos’s apartment and lock the door. The bridal bouquet drooped in its glass. She dropped it in the garbage and stripped down to her underwear, then did a slow, meditative workout at the barre, turning her thoughts within. Unless something happened to change how she felt, Alton would come home with her tonight. She wanted to be seduced.
    And tomorrow? She bent forward on the barre, head to knee. Tomorrow she would deal with Silvestri, for better or for worse. She stopped in midmovement. For better or worse? What a Freudian choice of words.
    By the time Carlos and Arthur arrived, Wetzon was dressed in her basic black. For Smith, she’d added two Chanel ropes of fat pearls. She left the door ajar and went back to the bathroom to finish her makeup.
    “Birdie!” Carlos shrieked. “Where are you?”
    She came into the living room, hands on hips. Carlos was wearing a hideous Sweeney Todd mask, and both he and Arthur wore black tie and white silk aviator scarves around their necks. “You are a nut case.” Arthur looked like a bearded Fred Astaire, carrying a silver handled-walking stick.
    “Debonair, Arthur. Quite.”
    Arthur bowed and said in an English accent, “Charmed, my dear Wats—Wetzon.”
    “Enough of that. Let’s have a look at you.” Carlos took her shoulders and held her away from him, his eyes glittering through the mask. “I think I’ll just have a wee bite of your neck.”
    She rolled her eyes at Arthur. “What did you feed him?”
    Arthur laughed. Carlos whipped off the mask. “The girl has no sense of humor.” He hugged her. “My Lord, you don’t look any different.”
    “It’s only been a few weeks.”
    “Well, at least you haven’t gotten involved in a murder, so there’s that to be grateful for.” He gave her a hard look. “Right?”
    “Would I lie to you?” She certainly didn’t want to get into long explanations with Carlos, because he was sure to find fault, and she didn’t want to hear it right now.
    “Of course. And for sure. At least Silvestri used to keep you in check.”
    “I resent that. I am not some dopey little girl—”
    “Don’t get me started. Are you dressed?” Carlos demanded, sitting down in the living room.
    “Don’t I look it?”
    “Well, come and sit down and tell Uncle Arthur and Uncle Carlos what’s been happening.” He patted the sofa pillow. Arthur sat in the club chair, looking mellow.
    “Ooo, Uncle Carlos and Uncle Arthur, does oo hab a lolli for moi?” She flopped down beside Carlos.
    “See, Arthur, that dirty business she’s in has addled her brain.” He kissed her forehead. “Tell about the apartment.”
    “It’s going fine, but it’ll be another two months at least before I thank you for the use of your hall.”
    “Good enough.” He gave her a slow wink. “Who’s the new man?”
    “Alton Pinkus.”
    “Alton Pinkus?” Arthur’s face registered surprise. Shock?
    “Arthur! You know him?” Carlos hated not knowing everything. “Who is he? Wait a minute, not that union guy?”
    Arthur nodded. Was he impressed? Or was he