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

know.”
    “Insurance,” Arthur said.
    “I’ve got a homeowner’s policy. Do you have a camera? I’m supposed to take pictures.”
    “My Hazels will do it. Not to worry. Write that down, Arthur.”
    “Telephone. What will I do?”
    “We’ll get it repaired later. Right now, we’ll have call forwarding to my number on Tenth Street, and my answering machine is still hooked up there.”
    Carlos had bought his loft apartment in the Village when Princely Service began to be profitable. It was a huge one-bedroom on tree-lined Tenth Street, west of Hudson. It consisted of a big, open kitchen, designed for cooking, with a long maple trestle table that could seat twenty, down the middle. The bedroom was gigantic and comfortably held a king-sized bed, with a profusion of pillows, linen designed by Ralph Lauren, an armoire for giants, a double bureau in the Herman Miller design of the ’50s. On the floor was plush wall-to-wall carpet in a creamy terra-cotta. A spacious dressing room with a hardwood floor held a freestanding barre, lined up in front of a wall of mirrors.
    The living room was an Olympic expanse, decorated English informal with a flat woven carpet, big overstuffed chairs in ruddy chintzes, and two fat garnet sofas at right angles. A gleaming baby grand piano wore a paisley shawl. On tabletops everywhere were what Carlos called his chotchkas , mementos of shows, road tours, photographs, opening-night presents, the heady accumulation of the theatrical life.
    By the time she got there, her clothes were hanging in the closets. Her suitcase stood at the side of the bed. She’d get to it later. She changed into black leather pants and a red silk shirt, put her feet into laced-up boots, and gave herself up to Carlos and Arthur.
    They took her to John Clancy’s for dinner and plied her with oysters on the half-shell. Seated in the step-down dining room with the whitewashed brick wall amid the jolly noise of happy diners, they feasted on swordfish grilled over mesquite and shared the chocolate mousse cake, which was too rich by far for even two people. And Carlos presented her with a set of house keys in a Gucci holder.
    After dinner, at her insistence, they deposited her back in the vestibule of her new home with the Sunday Times , and she took the elevator to the fourth floor and let herself into the apartment. Light spilled down from the small art deco chandelier in the broad slate-tiled foyer. A cinnamon and vanilla potpourri scented the rooms.
    On the kitchen table, leaning against a huge Lalique bowl, was an envelope of photographs with a note from Carlos urging her not to look tonight. Her fingers worried with the flap, but she set it down unopened. She was exhausted. She left her clothes on the bedroom floor and took a bath in Carlos’s majestic black-marbled and mirrored bathroom, letting the Jacuzzi soothe her aching muscles.
    She felt like a new person when she came out wrapped in a sarong of one of Carlos’s bath sheets. He always found the softest towels. She stretched out across the bed and looked up at the ceiling. High up were the pipes and the vast sprinkler system distinguishing the loft from an apartment.
    Something flashed across her peripheral vision. She turned her head and saw the answering machine was blinking at her from the skirted table next to the bed. Calls for Carlos, his departed tenant, perhaps for her. She sat up, crawled to the far side of the bed, and pressed the replay button.
    Babycakes, where are you? Smith, sounding breathless . I’ve been trying you all day. I must talk to you.
    Beep.
    Leslie, this is Roger Levine. Please call me at your convenience .He left his number . She’d call him tomorrow .
    Beep.
    Sweetie, this is not funny. Call me. I’m worried about you .The voice faded, but Wetzonheard Smith say , This is so typically selfish of her.
    “Grrr,” Wetzon growled. “Call you? In your dreams, babycakes.”
    Beep.
    Wetzon, this is Rona . Rona’s voice was tense. Ice rattled against glass. Please call me tonight, if possible, or tomorrow. Something unexpected has come up.

12.
    H ER PERCEPTION ON awakening was of another dimension, and as she lay there she had no sensation other than tranquillity. The bedroom windows (there were six in all) faced south and west, so it was still too early for direct sunlight. The landscape, although unfamiliar, was rather like being in a secret garden.
    She limbered up at the barre and took a leisurely shower. In the