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

please.”
    “He’s not in today. May I help you?” The woman’s voice gave nothing away.
    “No, thank you. I’ll call tomorrow.” So far, so good, Wetzon thought. That’s what they usually said when someone has resigned. A manager generally gave out the resigned broker’s accounts to his favorites in the office and kept some for himself, so by not telling the truth—that the broker had resigned—he was buying some time.
    With the eraser end of her pencil, she punched out the number for Simon Loveman, the manager of the Loeb Dawkins office where Brian Middleton was now going to be making his home.
    “Simon Loveman’s office.”
    “Hi, Joyce, this is Wetzon. I’m just checking to see if everything went all right with Brian.” The line seemed to go dead. “Hello, Joyce?” Something was wrong—Wetzon’s mental computer sent out an alarm: Error, error, error.
    “I’ll put Simon on.”
    Uh-oh. Wetzon’s mental alarm went into overdrive.
    “Yeah.” Simon’s voice was cold and angry.
    “Simon, Wetzon here. Has something gone wrong with Brian?”
    “You tell me.”
    What a strange thing to say. “Okay, switch me over.”
    “I don’t think that’ll do much good.”
    “Why?” What was wrong with everyone?
    “Because your prima donna was a no-show this morning.”

3.
    “T HIS CAN’T BE happening.” Wetzon’s hand was frozen on the receiver.
    “What can’t be happening?” Smith asked without turning to look at her. She was staring at herself in her hand mirror. “Damn, another gray hair. Ouch.” She pulled it out.
    “Brian Middleton. Bliss Norderman says he’s not in today, and he never showed at Loeb Dawkins.”
    “Oi.” Smith swiveled in her chair, dropping her mirror on her desk. “How much production?”
    “Three quarters of a mil. He was supposed to resign first thing this morning and go right over to Loeb Dawkins so they could get clearance today.” Wetzon’s fist came down hard on her desk top and dislodged the marble peach paperweight that Laura Lee Day had given her. “Dammit!” She caught it on the roll and kept it in her hand, absentmindedly stroking its rough texture. “He couldn’t have gone somewhere else. I spoke with him last night and everything was set.”
    “Let’s not panic,” Smith said, panic in her voice. “This is a big fee, and we haven’t lost it yet. Call him at home. Maybe he’s sick.”
    Wetzon shrugged. That was hardly likely, and Smith knew it. “Okay, what the hell.” She punched in the numbers and listened. At the fourth ring the answering machine clicked on, then Twin Peaks- y music throbbed, followed by Brian’s voice asking for a message after the beep and ending with the suggestion to “think peace.” She felt like howling at him, but she didn’t. It would be decidedly unprofessional. So she said, with just the right tone of cool urgency, “Brian, this is Wetzon. Where are you? Please call me.” She left her office number and her home number and hung up. “I don’t know,” she said to Smith.
    “That low-life sleazebag went somewhere else.” Smith was heating up to a boil.
    “Maybe, but it’s a little hard to believe. Brian put in so much time getting this move right. Hell, I put in so much time getting this move right.”
    “I can’t believe you still think they’re going to do the right thing. May I remind you about Fran Berman?”
    Wetzon held up the palm of her hand. “No, please.” Fran Berman had resigned and was packing up her car on Water Street, on her way to Wertenheimer, when she bumped into a broker she’d once worked with who was now at Dean Witter. A half hour later, Fran Berman was a Dean Witter broker. What did it matter that Wertenheimer had printed up business cards and spruced up an office? What did it matter that she had a handshake agreement with the manager? And insult to injury, she’d never bothered to call Wetzon or the manager at Wertenheimer to say she wasn’t coming. She’d never even apologized. Wetzon sighed. “When God gave out manners, I guess he left out a lot of stockbrokers.”
    “Humpf.” Smith picked up the phone. “What’s the scum’s number at Bliss Norderman?” Her long fingers danced across the digits as Wetzon called out the numbers. “Mr. Middleton, please, dear.” Pause. “Oh, well, then, I’ll call tomorrow.” She raised a finely brushed eyebrow at Wetzon as she hung up. “He’ll be in tomorrow. Ha! Try him at home again.”
    Wetzon heard the numbers