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

want to check my messages.”
    In the bedroom, drained, she sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, took off her shoes, and flexed her toes. There were four messages on the machine.
    Carlos : I’m off to La-La-Land, pet, for a few days of sitting around the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel and looking famous. Hope everything went well with Louie.
    Silvestri: Call me, please. Cold, gruff. Not a happy camper. She wrote the number down again, could never remember it. Freudian, she thought.
    Smith: Don’t call me, please. I’m going to sleep. Talk tomorrow.
    Twoey: Twoey? Now what was that about? “I’ll be right with you, fellas,” she called, punching out Twoey’s number.
    “Hello.”
    “Twoey? Wetzon. You called?”
    “Yeah, Wetzon. I need your help.”
    Uh-oh. Trouble between Twoey and Smith. “Is anything wrong? Is Smith okay?”
    “Sure. Why wouldn’t she be? Are you girls up to something I should know about?”
    Why did she feel that Twoey didn’t take them any more seriously than other men on the Street? “We girls,” she stressed, “we girls are always up to something, Twoey. Don’t you know that?”
    He laughed. “Yes, I do. I called because Xenia’s birthday is coming up.”
    “The thirty-first, Halloween. Yes.”
    “It’s the big one. The big four-o.”
    “It is indeed.”
    “Well, I’m making her a surprise party.”
    Wetzon choked and held the phone away from her. “Excuse me. You are?”
    “At the Odeon. I want to go over a list of people with you.”
    “Are you sure you should, Twoey? Not the party, I mean the surprise part.”
    “Oh, she’ll love it. I know her.”
    Oh, no you don’t buddy , Wetzon thought. “Famous last words, Twoey.”
    “Oh, come on, Wetzon. I can just see her face when all her friends yell, ‘Surprise.’”
    “Yeah, so can I.” Smith would hate it, for sure. And to have the world know how old she was, bad news. “If you’re really determined, you can count on me, Twoey.”
    She hung up. What a mistake. This would not be pretty. In fact, it could sound the death knell to a fine romance.
    “Whenever you’re ready, Ms. Wetzon.”
    She looked up. Martens was standing in the doorway. She had quite forgotten about the two detectives in the kitchen. Weary, she rose and followed him. One of them had poured coffee into the mugs.
    “I see you found everything.” She felt wrinkled and grungy. A strand of hair slid from its knot, slowly down her nape; a hairpin fell to the floor, and she picked it up. Her back ached. She came up slowly. “What do you want? I’m tired to the point of collapse.”
    “We could use your help.” Ferrante took a sloshy sip of coffee. “The Chief says you’re all right.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket with his free hand and blew a clarion blast on his nose.
    “Oh, have you decided I’m not a suspect?”
    “No,” Ferrante said. “According to Anthony Maglia, Middleton had no intention of moving from Bliss Norderman. That could have made you awfully unhappy.”
    “Unhappy, yes. Enough to kill him? Come on. Only someone crazy would do that.”
    “Or scared. Or angry.”
    “Or angry. You don’t think Penny Ann Boyd did it?”
    “The vic was shot in the right ear and the slug came out the left eye. The angle of the bullet leads the M.E. to suspect that the shooter may have been left-handed.”
    “Gee, the things science comes up with these days.” She brushed the hair out of her face. “Is Penny Ann left-handed?”
    “No,” Martens said. “Are you, Ms. Wetzon?”
    She said, “Sorry to disappoint you, boys,” in her best Bogart imitation. “Drink up. I want to catch some shut-eye.”
    Martens’s mouth twitched, but Ferrante didn’t find her funny. These Italian cops were all alike. No sense of humor. She couldn’t squelch a bubble of laughter.
    Ferrante said, “Just because you think you’re connected to the department, Ms. Wetzon, doesn’t mean you didn’t commit murder.”
    That did it. She stood up. “Listen, I’ve tried to be friendly. I’m cooperating, but you’re making me mad. Out, please.” She pointed to the door, then marched to it and opened it. The men exchanged glances, shuffled to their feet, and tramped out.
    “The Chief sends you his best regards.” Ferrante was not even covering up his laughter.
    “Do give him my love,” Wetzon snapped, furious, and slammed the door. The nerve.
    She sleepwalked herself through a shower and stood in front of the medicine