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

her.
    “Thank you, Smith, but we all know what a shit he was, so let’s not wallow in grief here, if you don’t mind.” Rona made a small cutting gesture with her hand.
    Twoey’s eyes blinked behind his gold-rimmed glasses. Rona sounded pretty callous, but then, Twoey should be used to it because Smith was not that different, unless, of course, Smith was not showing Twoey that side of herself.
    Smith smiled suddenly, a radiance.
    There, she’d put it together.
    “Ah,” Smith said. “Dear Rona, what a shock for you.” She picked up her fork and dug into her Reuben with gusto. “And how are you doing, sweetie?” she said to Wetzon, but her eyes said, We will see some money on this after all.
    Wetzon nodded, responding to what Smith didn’t say aloud. “Rona and I had to identify him.” She watched the passage of the ancient waiter and their food, which was fraught with potential disaster from diners and other waiters, but miracle of miracles he made it through and with tremoring hands meticulously cleaned the edges of their plates with his linen napkin and set their orders and the check on the table. A third of Wetzon’s coffee was in the saucer. She poured it back into the cup.
    “How hideous,” Smith said, referring, Wetzon assumed, to the fact that she and Rona had to identify the corpse and not to Wetzon’s coffee procedure, but she couldn’t be sure.
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Rona said. “Black and blue and dead suited him, rather.” She looked pleased, and attacked the Reuben with a vengeance, letting her left hand feed her while gesturing almost continuously with her right. “Come to think of it, how did he die? They never told me.” Now she looked annoyed.
    You never asked , Wetzon thought, remembering the trail of blood from Brian’s ear and Dr. Vose’s remark about the .32. She took a sip of the coffee, then stuck her fork into the egg yolk, breaking it, watching yellow blood ran in rivulets over the white, mingling with the chunks of corned beef and potatoes. The image was so grotesque that she set her fork down.
    “Sweetie pie,” Smith was crooning to Rona, “just tell us how Wetzon and I can be of help.” She reached for the check. “We’ll take care of this, of course.”
    “You can get me a copy of Brian’s book.”
    “No,” Wetzon said. “There’s no way. It’s up to Simon Loveman at Loeb Dawkins. He’s got Brian’s copies of statements. I think he’ll give the accounts out to brokers in his office.”
    “Wait a minute—” Smith pointed her fork at Wetzon.
    “No, Smith. Rona, you know Brian’s book. Most of it was yours to begin with. Prepare an attitude, then get to them, because sure as hell, Bliss Norderman will also give out his accounts the minute Tony hears Brian’s dead. And don’t forget, Brian’s assets are still sitting at Bliss because the transfers couldn’t go through until he was formally at Loeb Dawkins.”
    Rona pushed her chair back. “Excuse me a sec.”
    “We’ll do all right,” Smith said the minute Rona was out of hearing. “Not great, but okay.”
    “If she can get those accounts, and I think she will. We’re going to eat off a dead man’s back.”
    “Give me a break! Did you hear her, Twoey? Miss holier-than-thou here? This is business. What do we care if any of them live or die? The important thing is do we get paid.”
    “Classy, Smith.”
    Smith smiled benignly and handed the check to Wetzon. “Pay this, sugar. I don’t have any cash with me.”
    “You never do.”
    Twoey ate the last of his potato pancakes and grinned at them. “Cool it, men. Your quarry is about to return.”
    Rona sat down again. She’d redone her lipstick and combed her hair. “You’ve been very helpful, and I thank you.” She turned to Wetzon. “When you mentioned assets, I just wanted to confirm something I was almost positive was in our separation agreement.” She raised her glass of Diet Coke. “I’d like to toast my dearly departed ex. Come on, drink with me.”
    “Did I miss something?” Smith murmured, raising her club soda.
    Rona continued, “In death the louse has finally done the right thing. Our agreement as written says that if Brian should die before we are divorced, all of his real assets, his possessions, his bank accounts, everything, come to me.”

9.
    H ER APARTMENT WAS dark and still. “Lights up,” she said, touching the switch on her right, and the blue and gold globes of the art-glass chandelier flooded her