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

We’ll know more after the autopsy.”
    “Ugh. I don’t want to hear any more. Have you had dinner, Wetzon?” Rona took her arm.
    Ringo was beating a solo in Wetzon’s head, and she was starving. She shook her head slowly.
    “Good. Let’s go get something to eat. I’m famished.” Rona looked down at her running costume. “Someplace informal.”
    “I think I should go home,” Wetzon said, but her stomach reminded her there was nothing in her fridge except nicoise olives and half a tomato. Without Silvestri around, she forgot about having food in the apartment. She certainly was not about to cook a meal for one, so when she had dinner at home, she dined splendidly on bagels with a choice of topping. But she didn’t even have a bagel in the freezer.
    “I know—” They were on the street, having declined Martens’s offer of a lift. “Let’s go to the Carnegie.”
    “The Carnegie.” Wetzon smiled. Why not? She hadn’t been there in ages.
    There was a short line in front of the Carnegie Deli on Seventh Avenue and Fifty-fifth Street, and it would get longer after the theaters let out, but now it was moving fast. The deli counter was jumping; waiters were pushing, demanding attention, while customers waiting for take-out orders grew restless. The rest of the restaurant was moderately crowded, but the noise might have been coming from a football stadium. It was bedlam. Everyone was shouting.
    They were led to a table in the rear.
    “Look who’s here,” the man at the table said.
    “Good grief.” Wetzon found herself looking at Twoey and Smith. “We have to stop meeting like this.”
    “Oh, for pitysakes.” Smith was halfway through an enormous Reuben.
    “Do you know each other? This is Smith, my partner, and this charming man is Goldman Barnes Two. Rona Middleton.”
    Twoey smiled at Wetzon and nodded to Rona. “We’ve met.” Twoey was a managing director of Rosenkind, Luwisher, where Rona was a broker.
    Smith frowned. Taking stock of Rona’s jogging clothes and Wetzon’s suit, she said, “Hi, Rona.” She folded her eyelids into slits and put down her fork. “Should I know something?”
    Damn. Wetzon saw this was going to be tough. She spoke fast and got it out quickly. “Brian was mugged and murdered this morning in Central Park.”
    “Brian? Brian Middleton?” Smith shrieked, and even in the blare of conversation and clattering of dishes, people looked over at their table.
    “The husband,” Wetzon explained to Twoey, who looked taken aback by Smith’s reaction.
    “The ex -husband,” Rona corrected. She’d sat down next to Twoey, picked up the menu, and was studying it.
    “I’m so sorry.” Twoey had a platter of potato pancakes with sour cream in front of him. He’d put on some weight since he’d been seeing Smith, probably because Smith had that enviable metabolism and indulged it.
    “Wetzon ...” Smith muttered.
    “Right,” Wetzon whispered. “No fee for us, old dear.” She stared hungrily at the huge plate of french fries between Twoey and Smith, then filched one and ate it. It was deliciously greasy and salty.
    “How, pray tell, did you get involved, or is that a dumb question?”
    “The police were waiting for me in my lobby after I left you tonight. The only thing Brian had on him besides his clothes was my business card. They thought I might be able to identify a mugging victim.”
    An ancient, slow-moving waiter in a shiny black suit, a white linen napkin over one arm, seemed to be making his way in their direction. His progress was mesmerizing; he was moving like a rusty-jointed Tin Man.
    “So what I can get for you?” he asked in a weak voice. He looked as though he would never make it back with their food.
    “I’ll have what she’s having,” Rona said, pointing to Smith’s Reuben, “and a Diet Coke.”
    “Corned beef hash with one poached egg, black decaf.” Wetzon knew she’d ordered the best thing on the menu at the Carnegie. It was like a trade secret, and the enormous choice on the menu never tempted her away.
    “I’m sorry about this, Rona,” Smith offered glumly, but Wetzon understood the subtext. Brian was a big ticket that they’d lost. Sooner or later, Smith would figure out that Rona had a shot— a shot? —at getting Brian’s book, since most of it had been Rona’s to begin with.
    Wetzon picked a sour tomato from the stainless-steel pot on the table and bit into it, inadvertently splashing Smith, who looked daggers at