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

a bit blurry. She felt another yawn coming and covered her mouth.
    He signed the back of the check and handed it to the waiter. “I keep busy. I run four miles a day. I’m writing my memoirs.” He smiled. “I’m still called upon to speak now and then. I’m on several boards ...”
    “Yes, the late Luwisher Brothers was one.”
    He nodded. “And I’m part of a pool of people who are called to sit on arbitration panels.”
    Wetzon blinked. Had she heard right? “Did you say arbitration?”
    “Yes.” He rose and gave her his hand.
    “In what industry?”
    “Yours.”

17.
    C ARLOS’S APARTMENT WAS cold and still, but not unfriendly. Just not hers. Wetzon closed the windows and put the thermostat up to get the chill out. Apartments in the newer buildings and the expensive renovations had their own thermostats, a luxury particularly at this time of year when the temperatures did not go down quite low enough to warrant the use of expensive heating oil.
    She hung up her clothes and wrapped herself in her white terrycloth robe, then scrubbed her face and took down her hair. It came to the middle of her back. Laura Lee was always after her to cut it off. She stared at herself in the mirror. “You haven’t got the guts,” she said out loud, and braided it into one loose braid, tying it off with a band. It was all a smoke screen to keep her mind off the evening.
    The answering machine was telling her there were five messages. Five. One would be Silvestri, and what was she going to say to him? Did he think she should sit home and wait for him to come back? She felt defensive, angry, as if she had somehow done something wrong. But she was hungry for companionship, for conversation, and, she admitted to herself reluctantly, the physical presence of a man. Come off it, Wetzon, you miss the sex.
    She had sort of slipped into the dinner with Alton, and it didn’t have to go further. But she knew it very well might if she continued to feel so abandoned. And Alton liked her, and his approval was flattering. So there it was.
    The first message was from Carlos, and the surge of relief she felt clogged the traffic from her ears to her brain, and she had to play it back. Hi, Birdie, just checking. What are you up to, you runabout you? You’re going to get a call from one Louie Armstrong, who’s going to make everything nice for you again .
    Beep.
    Smith: Bad news, sweetie . The kitty is playing elsewhere .Pause for affect. Smith wasreally enjoying the cloak-and-dagger stuff . But she, or someone, went through the place with a fine comb. Call me, even if it’s late .She laughed an evil laugh . I want to hear about your big, hot date.
    “Sure, right away,” Wetzon told the machine.
    Beep.
    Hi, Les. Sorry I missed you again. Silvestri sounded annoyed, and he emphasized again as if it was her fault she was not at his beck and call. He left the number in Virginia.
    Beep.
    Ms. Wetzon. Detective Ferrante. Central Park Precinct. Would you call me? He left his number.
    Beep.
    Detective Ferrante again, Ms. Wetzon.
    “Oh, leave me alone! All of you!” Wetzon found herself yowling. She jumped into bed and pulled the down quilt up over her head and breathed warm air into the dark cocoon.
    She had enjoyed herself tonight, enjoyed Alton’s company. She’d been dazzled up to spillover by the illusion of reflected fame. Alton Pinkus wore power casually. It was seductive. And lying there in the warm darkness, she suddenly understood Smith’s attraction to these men. And to think, she had put Smith down for this—it had seemed so shallow. Now here she was doing the same thing. No wonder she felt scummy.
    When they emerged from the restaurant, Alton had taken her arm, tucking it into his, and said, “I’ll drive you home.”
    “No, I mean, it’s all right. Really. I’ll take a cab.” She’d stammered, wondering what she’d do with him if there should be a parking place in front of Carlos’s building. Would she have to ask him up? And then what would happen?
    “Okay.” He was looking down at her gravely, as if it really was okay.
    I’m making a fool of myself, she thought .
    “I’d like to do this again,” he said.
    A fine mist was dancing in the splash of light from the street lamp. It dappled his face.
    She’d turned to him then. “There’s—I have—I’m—I am in a relationship.”
    He didn’t seem either surprised or fazed. “But you’re here with me.”
    “He’s out of town,” she said quickly.