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

Brian’s apartment. Now it’s your turn. I can’t do everything.” There was a click-click on Smith’s line. “Sorry. That’s probably Twoey. Hold on, sugarplum.”
    Call waiting made Wetzon insane. “Smith! Remember your promise.” She was talking to air. Damn Smith.
    There was another click, and Smith came back. “It’s Twoey. Maybe he has money.”
    “Who, Twoey?”
    “No, not Twoey.” There was resignation in Smith’s voice. “Alton Pinkus. It grieves me, but I rather think Dick Tracy is safe this time around.”
    “Smith, you’re making me angry.” Wetzon’s voice was tight. “Alton is a friend. That’s all.” Liar , she thought. Liar, liar, liar.
    “Too boring, sweetie. Anyway, just keep in mind naked old men are not a pretty sight.”
    “How the hell would you know?” Wetzon slammed the receiver down, fury propelling her off the bed like a rocket. “This is it! I’ll kill her! I’ll kill her!” Wetzon thumped through the apartment in her bare feet. Why do I let her do this to me? Shadowboxing, she KO’d Smith with a mighty right to the jaw and gave her—in the guise of a tufted hassock—a karate kick when she was down. The whirring noise of the phone off the hook in the bedroom stopped Wetzon from totally annihilating the helpless hassock.
    Nursing sore toes, she hopped into the bedroom and replaced the receiver. At once the phone began to ring. She was absolutely pissed. She grabbed the phone and shrieked, “Just a minute!” Then got back into bed, pulling the phone with her and the covers over her head. She was angry with Smith, angry with Silvestri, angry with Brian Middleton, who had had the nerve to get himself killed, angry with Rona and the pea-brained Penny Ann Boyd, angry about her apartment, angry about Alton’s self-assurance, and angry with herself. What was happening in her life that she’d suddenly lost control? One thread unraveled—Silvestri—and her world had turned topsy-turvy. Hot tears stung her eyes, and she angrily wiped them away with the quilt.
    She put the receiver to her ear and barked, “Who is this?”
    “Wetzon? I’m sorry to bother you so late. This is Jerome Gordon.” The voice was warm, full-bodied bourbon, laced with a shot of unfiltered cigarette. It rumbled in a friendly way.
    “Jerome Gordon?” Who the hell was Jerome Gordon? What firm did he work for? Merrill, maybe. The name was vaguely familiar. How else would he have gotten her home number? “What can I do for you ... Mr. Gordon?”
    “Doctor. Call me Dr. Jerry, please,” he said. “I suppose you’re wondering who the hell I am and how I got your phone number.”
    “You suppose right.”
    “I’m a friend of Rona Middleton’s and Penny Ann Boyd’s. I was a friend of poor Brian’s, too. They are in my group.”
    “Ah, the therapist.”
    “In a manner of speaking.”
    “What manner of speaking? Please get to the point, Dr. Gordon. I’m expecting a call.” She saw that this “consulting” job Smith had taken on for them was getting more convoluted.
    “Jerry.”
    “Jerry.” She was not about to call him Dr. Jerry.
    “The point, Wetzon, is that Rona would appreciate your not talking to the police until you talk to her.”
    “Fine. Put her on.” She didn’t understand why Rona needed this Jerry to do a preamble for her.
    “I seem not to be making myself clear. Forgive me. I’m calling for Rona, who is unable to talk to you now.”
    “Why?”
    “I am here with her at the Central Park Precinct. The police have invited her to come in and talk about Brian’s murder.”

18.
    W HAT DID THE police want with Rona at this time of night? Wetzon yawned, then reached over and turned out the light next to the bed. And what do they want with me? she wondered, yawning again. Whatever it was, it would wait till tomorrow, for sure.
    She lay on her back under the quilt in the sponge position and meditated, feeling the beginning puffs of sleep creep over her limbs, moving slowly to her brain.
    A siren clanged. God, where was she? Clanged again, but now the sound was recognizable. The telephone. It had sounded like a siren next to her head. Carlos. She was at Carlos’s apartment, in his bed. She sat up, tight as a wire; the muscles in her back scrunched. Three more rings. She reached over and answered it.
    “Detective Ferrante, Central Park Precinct, Ms. Wetzon. Is this a good time?”
    “Is this a good time? You have to be kidding. You woke me out of the first sound