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

the Pope Catholic?” Smith said.
    “He’s a five-hundred-thou producer. Most of the firms, including our dear clients, would work around it. I’m sorry to say, ethics—”
    “We’re not in the ethics business,” Smith said tartly, pulling her chair out and sitting down.
    “Go for it, B.B.” After he left, Wetzon said, “I’ve sold out.”
    “If you felt that way,” Smith said, “you should never have even mentioned it.”
    Wetzon frowned. “You’re right.” Why had she mentioned it? She could have just let the information die. Perhaps because she’d wanted Smith to make the dirty, money-grubbing decision. She rubbed her eyes, then stared at her pink message slips, not seeing. God, she was tired. She could hardly keep her eyes—
    “Wetzon!”
    “Huh? What?” Wetzon’s eyes popped open. Her head was on her desk.
    Smith grinned at her. “Where were you last night? You look as if you could use some sleep. How is he, anyway? In the sack, I mean.”
    “Who is he?
    “Alton Pinkus, babykins. Don’t pretend.”
    “Smith, I was up at my apartment with a contractor last night. And for your information, I have had dinner with Alton only once. I have not heard from him since. I am not, repeat, not, having an affair with him.”
    “Why not, sweetie?” Smith opened her eyes wide and put on her most ingenuous air.
    “Can we not talk about this now, please?” Wetzon said, feeling more annoyance than she was willing to show. “Those two detectives were waiting for me when I got home last night.”
    “Oh?”
    “They said that Forensics thinks Brian was shot by a lefty.”
    “Why would a Communist shoot Brian?”
    Wetzon snapped her fingers. “Smith, wake up, the Cold War is over. I meant a left-handed person.”
    “Humpf.”
    “Penny Ann, it seems, is right-handed.” She thought for a minute, pictured Rona at the Carnegie attacking her Reuben, and said, “Rona’s left.”
    Smith clapped her hands over her ears. “Don’t tell me any more. I don’t want to hear. Rona’s just got to stay her year at Rosenkind or we’ll never see a penny more on her.”
    “But what if she did it? She certainly had the best motive.”
    “No jury in its right mind would convict her, but she would lose her job, her license, and we would be out a bundle.” Smith groaned.
    In her mind’s eye, Wetzon saw Tony Maglia scrawling his signature on the papers. “Then again, Maglia is also left-handed.”
    A knock on the door interrupted them. “Yes?” Smith sounded combative. She crossed one long leg over the other and picked at a nick in the heel of her new black patents. “It never fails. These crummy city streets.”
    Max put his head in. He was wearing a white-on-white shirt and a large yellow paisley bow tie. He never showed any fear of Smith, treating her more like a wayward daughter. The surprising thing was that Smith seemed to like it. “The Park Royale for Wetzon.”
    “Oh?” Smith said.
    “Nothing.” Wetzon picked up the phone. “Leslie Wetzon.”
    “Rogers here, Ms. Wetzon. I’m afraid nothing of that description has been turned in.”
    “Thank you for checking.” She hung up and looked at Smith.
    “You didn’t lift Tabby Ann’s diary from my bag for some light reading, did you?”
    “Why would I do that?”
    “Then I’m sorry to tell you, Tabitha’s diary has been purloined.”
    “Speak English, please. No jokes and games. Are you trying to tell me you lost it?”
    Wetzon gnashed her teeth. She couldn’t help it. Smith was always placing blame. “I had it when I went to see Maglia, when I met you, when we were with Jerry Gordon and Rona, not to mention Richard Hartmann. And I left my briefcase and purse on the kitchen counter with Ferrante and Martens while I checked the answering machine. Anyone could have taken it. And I’d only read about fourteen pages or so.”
    “Rona wouldn’t have taken it. She was the one who said we should have it.”
    “She didn’t know it was written in code until I told her. It’s pretty farfetched, but Rona might have found that unsettling for some reason. Even so, it’s just very strange that someone would want to take it.”
    Smith shrugged. “What real difference does it make in the long run?”
    “Maybe none. Maybe a lot. I feel terrible about it. It was my responsibility. How are we going to tell Penny Ann?”
    “Why would we tell her anything? Forget it.”
    “Smith, you were in the room with Jerry, Rona, and that egomaniac Hartmann.