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

important item in the room, which was, otherwise, incongruously, decor by Conran’s.
    The aroma of chili wafted in from the left, and she could hear someone in the kitchen talking. “Just a minute, please,” a male voice called. Her stomach growled.
    The owner of the voice appeared almost immediately: a man, thirty-something, wearing an apron over walking shorts and a plaid shirt. His dark, kinky hair was tied back in a ponytail. He was wiping his hands on his apron.
    “I’m sorry, Ms. Wetzon, but Judith is meditating.” He pronounced it “Judit,” in a clipped New Yorkese street accent. He looked at his watch. “Do you want to have a seat?” He indicated the TV room. “She’ll let us know when she’s ready.”
    How? Wetzon wondered. Oh sure, mental telepathy. She smirked, eyeing the narrow staircase with its threadbare carpet. Rubber treads had been nailed down over the carpet shreds. What the hell was she doing here anyway? Okay, she’d be a good sport. She sat down on the love seat in front of the TV. The floor of the cottage sloped, making the love seat slope. She planted her feet firmly on the floor to keep from sliding off. She felt as if she were in one of those nasty fairy tales, Hansel and Gretel about to meet the witch.
    A phone rang somewhere, and she heard the answering machine pick up. It was a Panasonic like hers; she could tell by the parade of cute clicks. But no, this one had a tinkle bell at the end of its serenade.
    “Ms. Wetzon.”
    She looked up.
    “Judit will see you now. Just go on upstairs. It’s the door on the right.”
    Wetzon didn’t know what she’d expected, maybe a gypsy with a lot of colorful scarves and beads, but Judith looked as if she’d just come from Bloomingdale’s active sportswear department. She was a woman with soft, rounded edges, thick chestnut hair governed somewhat by a black hairband. She wore loose black leggings and a baggy wine silk shirt. And black Reeboks that looked like space shoes. Only her earrings spoke of other dimensions, huge blue metal moons that hooked through long thick lobes and grazed her shoulders. Her eyes were dark behind slightly tinted red-framed glasses.
    “Close the door, Leslie Wetzon,” Judith said in a husky voice but with the same New York street accent of her companion. She was seated at a rickety card table covered in an old linen tea cloth. A large octagonal mirror lay flat on the tabletop. An empty chair stood half turned toward Wetzon. “Sit, please.” She was wearing a smoky topaz emerald-cut ring on her right hand, and on her wrist was one of those stupid Cartier love bracelets that you needed a special screwdriver to remove.
    “Gimme your hand,” Judith said.
    Wetzon settled into the chair and extended her hand. Judith’s was dry and warm. Wetzon’s was cold. Judith closed her eyes.
    This is silly , Wetzon thought. So why was her heart pounding? Her hand tingled with a warm current. Their hands were reflected magnified in the octagonal mirror.
    “You have a strong will, a long life line,” Judith murmured. “You are air.” She opened her eyes. “Aquarius.”
    Yeah, big deal, Wetzon thought . Smith gave you to me in January for my birthday.
    “In one of your other lives, you were a prima ballerina.”
    Not a bad guess about a woman who wears her hair in a dancer’s knot on top of her head, Wetzon thought.
    “In this life ... you do not dance now. You are very successful. Money. I see a lot of money. Friends ...” She paused.
    A little stab of hunger caught Wetzon under her rib cage and distracted her.
    “... difficult relationship. Fighting ... a separation.”
    “Smith and I always fight.”
    “This is a man.”
    A man? Did she mean Silvestri?
    “Awg—” Judith’s hand turned to ice. Her mouth twisted. “Blood!” Judith released Wetzon’s hand and backed her chair away from the table.
    Wetzon looked at her hand. “Blood? Where?” There was no blood.
    “Where?” Judith sounded dazed. Her eyelids closed. “I’m ... sorry. Come back another time.”
    This was nuts, Wetzon thought. The psychic had sunk into some kind of stupor. Wetzon rose, settled her purse strap on her shoulder, picked up her briefcase from the floor.
    “Be careful,” Judith muttered.
    Hand on the doorknob, Wetzon tried again. “I don’t understand. I’m sorry. Where do you see blood?”
    Judith didn’t respond.
    Wetzon shrugged and left the room, going down the stairs. She could hear Judith come out of