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

had a flood.” Nancy was sitting, legs crossed, on the brown club chair that had appeared, with three mates, after the lobby was redecorated last month. Wetzon had never seen Nancy in other than tailored pants and a silk shirt, or a bulky hand-knit sweater. Today she was wearing the bulky hand-knit sweater in an oatmeal color.
    “Bad news travels fast. How’ve you been, Nancy? Who’s selling?”
    “Three B and ten D. Business could be better, though. I have plenty of buyers, but the sellers don’t realize they have to lower their prices. How’s your business?”
    “Recruiting is slow. Consulting is active.” Wetzon looked at Harry. “Has anyone been here tonight looking for me?”
    “A lady. She said she’d be back.”
    “Must be Laura Lee. I’m going up.” She said to Nancy, “I’m expecting a contractor who’s going to give me the bad news.”
    “Hello, Louie.” Nancy spoke to someone behind Wetzon.
    Wetzon turned. Louie was a woman, older than Wetzon, but not by much. Taller. Wasn’t everyone? Louie wore jeans and a red sweater and combat boots; a big canvas bag hung solidly on her shoulder. She was ruddy-complected, her hair brick-red and cut to just below her chin. Freckles decorated her face, in the nicest way.
    “Don’t tell me you’re going to work with Leslie? That’s wonderful. Leslie, Louie is just terrific. She gets things done.”
    “I’m glad to hear that.”
    “You’re Birdie?” Louie asked, shaking her hand firmly.
    “Only to Carlos, who’s got nicknames for everyone, in case you haven’t noticed. Please call me Leslie, or Wetzon.” She shoved her rubber-banded package of mail into her briefcase. To Harry, she said, “I’m expecting Ms. Day. Send her right up.”
    In the elevator, Louie asked, “Carlos says you’re going to want the works?”
    “I guess. It’s pretty awful,” Wetzon said. “I don’t know if Carlos gave you the details—”
    “Just flooding, right?” Louie took a flat leather portfolio from the canvas bag, balancing everything easily, and opened it to a yellow legal pad.
    “Just?” They got off on twelve.
    She grinned at Wetzon. “What I meant was, no fire. Fire and water, that’s the worst.”
    “Right, no fire.” Wetzon unlocked her door and pushed it open. Mildew mixed with something more. Mold? Rot? “Yuk.” And it was freezing cold. Carlos’s Hazels had left all the windows open to air out the place, so the stench could have been worse. She left the door ajar for Laura Lee, and turned the lights on in the foyer and the kitchen. “I don’t know about the other lights because of the water damage.”
    “S’okay. I can get an overall picture.” Louie pulled a wide-mouthed flashlight from the huge canvas shoulder bag and bent to examine the buckled floor in the dining room, then sent the torchlight about the room, past the barre, focusing on the remains of her ceiling. “Dancer, huh?”
    “Used to be. Now I’m a headhunter.”
    Louie’s eyes flicked over Wetzon’s pinstripe uniform. “Let’s see the rest.”
    Wetzon followed Louie down the hall and waited. “Pretty bad, huh?” She couldn’t look at her bedroom.
    Louie grunted and made some notes on her pad, seemingly able to see in the dark.
    “The bathroom, too.” The light danced across the caved-in ceiling and around the small room. If possible, it looked worse than it had on Sunday, in daylight.
    “Hi, y’all,” Laura Lee called.
    “Wait there, Laura Lee. It’s an obstacle course.” Wetzon looked at Louie, trying to see her expression. “Pretty bad, don’t you think?”
    “I’ve seen worse.” Louie stepped out of the bathroom and made some notes on her legal pad, surefooted as a mountain goat in her combat boots. Wetzon in her dressed-for-business pumps tottered along behind her.
    “Oh, Lordy,” Laura Lee said, her voice closer.
    “Don’t come farther, Laura Lee. It’s too depressing.”
    “I’ll get a written estimate and proposal to you in a few days.” Louie was giving the living room a tour with her big flashlight.
    “Laura Lee Day, Louie ... ?”
    “Armstrong. Where do you want me to send it?”
    “Louie Armstrong?” Laura Lee giggled.
    Louie smiled. “Thanks. No one ever mentions it anymore. Makes me feel old.”
    “Behave yourself, Laura Lee.” Wetzon and Louie exchanged cards. They stepped out of the apartment and waited while Wetzon made sure the lights were out. The door locked, Wetzon handed the keys to Louie. “You might