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

That was worse. It sounded as if she was sneaking out on Silvestri. “I mean, he’s on assignment at Quantico for six months.” She smiled ruefully. “And I like your company.”
    “And I, yours.” He stood there for a moment looking down at her, the fine mist sparkling his gray hair like tiny sequins. Then he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips. She closed her eyes and he did it again, lingering a little longer. He dropped his hands, and when she opened her eyes, he had flagged down a taxi. “I’m not going anywhere, Leslie,” he said. He put her in the cab, and before she could protest, gave the driver some bills and she was whisked away.
    She stretched out long under the quilt. The wine. The food. The dilemma. She eased her head out from under the quilt. She’d liked his kiss. What was she to do? He was sure of himself, comfortable with himself. Maybe she could keep him as a friend. Get real, Wetzon.
    Whistling in the dark. What time was it, anyway? The bedside clock said 9:45. It wasn’t even late, yet it felt like the middle of the night.
    She crawled over to the phone and dialed Smith’s number, and when Smith answered, said, “Hi, it’s me.”
    “Weeell, tell me.”
    “There’s nothing to tell.” Her sigh was unintentionally audible, and of course Smith picked it up.
    “He’s married, isn’t he? I knew it.”
    “Wrong!” Wetzon buried her face in her pillow.
    “I always tell you everything, sweetie. Be fair. Your secret is safe with me.”
    A muffled “Ha!”
    “Who would I tell? Cross my heart. We have a bad connection. You keep fading out.”
    “And hope to die?” Wetzon gave up. “Swear. And that means Twoey, too.” Twoey, too—Twoey Two. God, it was like jabberwocky.
    Smith was silent. Wetzon could hear her thinking. Then Smith said slowly, “I swear.”
    “Alton Pinkus.” She rolled over on her back and said it fast, maybe hoping Smith wouldn’t hear, then covered her face with the pillow, hugging it.
    But she heard. “Alton Pinkus? Alton Pinkus? That old commie fart?”
    Wetzon threw the pillow aside and sat up. “Excuse me?”
    “I really thought it was someone special I don’t know, you made such a big deal over it.”
    “E-ex-excuse—” Sputtering.
    “I really hoped you’d written off Dick Tracy once and for all. You can do so much better. But really, sweetie—”
    Wetzon was outraged. “Excuse me, did you say commie?”
    “Among other things. He ran that big union, didn’t he?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, everyone knows these union people are all commies.”
    “Smith, if you say one more word about this, I’m hanging up.” She was snarling into the phone. Why did Smith always make her react like this?
    “Oh, for pitysakes. Why do you take everything so personally? I’m only being honest.” She sounded so goddam pleased with herself.
    “Because it is personal. Why do you always use the guise of honesty to hurt me?”
    “Hurt you? I love you. You’re my dearest friend. Why would I want to hurt you? You are entirely too sensitive. I only want what is good for you.”
    “Did you ever consider that what you think is good for me may not be what I think is good for me?”
    “Be that as it may, don’t you want to hear about Brian’s apartment?”
    “Please tell me about Brian’s apartment.” At least it was a change of topic, no matter how perilous.
    “Well, partner in crime, I had no trouble getting in. There wasn’t even any police tape on the door. The elevator man was obliging enough to open the door for me. I said I was Rona, and there’d been this accident, and the greaseball let me in and left me there because someone was buzzing for service.”
    Wetzon frowned. That did not sound at all like the way Smith normally talked. Of course. Smith was playing detective, so she’d adjusted her language to hardboiled. “You didn’t find Tabitha Ann?”
    “No, and furthermore, every scrap of paper was gone, and I mean every. Empty desk drawers, calendar pages ripped out.”
    Wetzon had to smile. Leave it to Smith to search the apartment, probably inventorying and tagging as she went along. “Did you find anything you wanted?”
    “What are you talking about, sweetie?”
    “I mean, where do you suppose she is?”
    “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she turned up with Tony Maglia and family, just like her dim-witted mother said. You can call him tomorrow and see—”
    “ I can? What about you?”
    “I did