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

and choices were Penny Ann’s.”
    “I find that pretty hard to believe.”
    They got out of the elevator and walked down a hall carpeted in gold fleur-de-lis on a navy field. Walls were in muted gold-on-gold striped paper.
    “Tasteful,” Smith said, wrinkling her nose.
    “Let’s not get carried away. Here it is. Ready?”
    Smith fluffed her hair and opened the top button of her silk shirt. A bit of lace camisole peaked through the opening. “Go.”
    “Is that really necessary?”
    “You get information your way, I’ll get it my way. They never expect us to be very smart, so they spill everything. My way is more efficient, because if you get ’em by the balls, they don’t know what hit ’em.”
    “I’ll try to remember those sage words. I’m sure they would make Gloria Steinem proud.” Wetzon rang the bell.
    A huge, blue-eyed, blond-haired teddy bear in a brown blazer and tan trousers opened the door. “Welcome. Wetzon, right?” He said it to Smith, instantly captivated.
    “No,” Wetzon said. Smith was running true to form.
    “Xenia Smith, Dr. Gordon,” Smith said, giving him her hand.
    “Oh, please call me Dr. Jerry. Everyone does.”
    He was taller than Smith by three or four inches, which put him over six feet, and broad and hulking as a bear. His hair was crinkly curly with just the right white streaks at the temples, and his face was round and jovial, his smile framed by deep dimples. He exuded warmth and kindness and modest charm, all of which somehow went with the suede patches on the elbows of his jacket.
    “I’m sure Brian must have told you all about me,” Jerome Gordon said to Wetzon.
    “Absolutely everything,” Smith answered with a flirtatious wink before Wetzon had a chance to.
    The living room was a waiting room, done in hotel Louis XV. An exhausted-looking Rona, her shoulders high and tense, was standing near the windows sipping a glass of red wine. She wore a black knit dress, a black-and-pink plaid jacket, and a sullen look on her drawn face.
    Barbara Gordon came through the swinging door from the kitchen carrying a cheese board containing a wedge of brie and a roll of water biscuits. She was in black again, a short pleated skirt, opaque hose, and a long sweater with sequined collar and cuffs. She looked like an adorable French maid, or the star of a porno film. She sat down on the couch and crossed her legs.
    “I hope we haven’t kept you waiting,” Wetzon said, and received a glare from Smith, whose motto was Never Apologize.
    Rona said angrily, “That shit Maglia gave my clients—Brian’s clients—six months free commissions to stay at Bliss Norderman.”
    “I heard.”
    “You heard? Who told you?”
    “He did. He was thrilled with himself. I thought you and Brian and Tony and his wife were still friends.”
    Rona snorted. “There’s no friendship in this business. You see money in front of your face, you grab it. You’d have to be crazy not to.”
    “Absolutely,” Smith agreed.
    God, Wetzon thought, ten years ago that sentiment would come from the men, never from the women. Affirmative action had taken hold in the wrong places. Women could be just as disgusting about money as men, sometimes more. And she had a partner who was not an exception. Wetzon sat down on the blue damask sofa and propped her briefcase under a round table next to it. On the table were a porcelain urn-lamp and half a dozen photographs of children in silver frames and at different ages. A boy and a girl, both with tousled red curls, and Barbie, looking not much older than the children. The boy had the deep dimples of his father, as well as his bulk.
    Smith sauntered over and picked up one of the photographs. “A beautiful family,” she gushed.
    Barbie smiled, but it wasn’t warm. She seemed not to like Smith, which was refreshing. Most people were completely bewitched by Smith, at least from the first meeting.
    “Thank you. I think so, too,” Dr. Jerry said, pride in his voice. “Our son Aaron will be bar mitzvahed in a few weeks.”
    “Where’s Penny Ann?” Wetzon moved to head off Smith, who had a peculiar look on her face.
    “We’re arranging bail. She should be here any minute.” He picked up a bottle of red wine from the coffee table. “I’ll get some glasses.”
    “Not for me, thanks,” Wetzon said.
    “I’ll have a glass, darling,” Barbie said sweetly.
    Jerry gave her a sharp look. He poured a glass for Smith and handed it to her. “I feel terrible about