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

sleep I’ve had since Friday night, Brian is dead, I got flooded out of my apartment, and I’ve had to move into a friend’s place in the Village.”
    “I know,” Ferrante said. “Your doorman told me.”
    “How helpful of him.” She didn’t even try to keep the sarcasm out. “What do you want?”
    “Police business,” Ferrante said, not reacting to her tone. “I’d like to come up.”
    “Now? Tonight? Can’t it wait?”
    “There’s something I want to show you, Ms. Wetzon. It’s important.”
    “Oh, all right.” Why not just let all the shit hit her at once? She hung up and got out of bed. She’d have to get back into her clothes.
    The downstairs buzzer rang.
    What the hell? She shambled into the kitchen and pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”
    “Detectives Ferrante and Martens,” Ferrante’s voice crackled.
    “Oh, fuck,” Wetzon said, not even bothering to cover the mouthpiece. He must have been downstairs when he called her. The hell with it. She tied her terry robe tighter and pressed the button to open the downstairs door. Almost immediately, she heard the elevator go into action, groaning its ascent.
    She poured water into the coffee maker and measured coffee into the filter, then turned it on. Moments later when the doorbell rang, she let them in.
    “Sorry to disturb you,” Martens said, not looking sorry at all.
    Ferrante let his eyes run over her robe down to her bare feet. He grunted and looked around the apartment. He was carrying an envelope.
    The coffee maker burbled, filling the kitchen area with aroma. Martens’s nostrils flared. He leaned against the wall.
    Wetzon took three mugs from the shelf and set them on the table. “Sit down, please. What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait? And why not on the phone?”
    “Are you alone?” Ferrante shifted his eyes toward Martens, who wandered casually into the living room and then on into the bedroom. Ferrante pulled out a chair and sat down, placing the envelope on the table. He studied her openly, and she felt he knew she was naked under the robe. She tightened the belt again.
    “You should have asked me that before you came up.” She poured coffee into the mugs. “Sure, fellas,” she said to the ceiling, “go ahead, have a look around.”
    Martens could be heard opening the bathroom door and the closets. She heard him open the window, checking the fire escape, no doubt, to see if someone was hiding there. “You ought to have a gate put on this window,” he called.
    “Thanks a lot.”
    “Do you own a gun, Ms. Wetzon?”
    Her eyes skimmed back to Ferrante. “I ... uh ...” She thought of Silvestri’s gun in the drawer under her panty hose. “No!” It came out too precipitously, too explosively. He had to know she was hiding something. Well, technically it wasn’t her gun, was it? “What are you guys up to?” Wetzon planted herself, hands on hips, in front of Ferrante as Martens returned and reclaimed his wall.
    The phone on the butcher-block counter rang. She looked at it, at Ferrante, who didn’t react, then walked over and answered it.
    Rona said breathlessly, “Wetzon. Did Dr. Jerry reach you? They had me in for questioning. Do you believe it?” She sounded frightened. But why?
    “He did, and I’d like to talk with you further about this, but I have someone here right now. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
    “Wetzon—”
    Wetzon hung up, but not before Rona’s shriek burst from the phone. It settled in the air between her and Ferrante. She shrugged.
    “That Mrs. Middleton.” Martens grinned. “She’s one piece ... of work.”
    “Ms. Wetzon—” Ferrante began.
    The phone rang again. She smiled a phony apology and answered it. “Grand Central Station.”
    “Les? What kind of answer is that? Where have you been? I’ve been trying you all evening.”
    “Oh, God, Silvestri, what delicious timing.” A slightly hysterical laugh burbled up into her throat.
    “Are you all right?”
    “As can be expected, what with a broker I was working with being murdered and my getting flooded out of the apartment. I’m in Carlos’s loft on West Tenth Street.”
    “Jesus, Les, I don’t understand why there’s always turmoil.” He sounded angry with her, as if it were her fault, and she felt her shaky composure collapse.
    She pressed her lips together. “Look, there are two detectives here from New York’s Finest, and they’re asking me if I own a gun—”
    He snapped, “Put one of them on.