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

dense moisture. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep. Robert Frost’s lines floated up, and she shivered.
    It was cold, and she had no coat. She should have been home toasting her toes, not to mention a bagel. She was almost giddy with hunger. On her left, Christopher Columbus stood on top of his obelisk, hand on hip, lit to beat the band, gazing over the domain he had not discovered. In front of the equally well-lit Remember the Maine monument at the entrance to Central Park, five or six dealers were hawking crack, among other highs. Buyers and the curious clustered around them. Not a cop in sight.
    Wetzon crossed over to Broadway, stopped in front of the Gulf and Western Building. She parked her briefcase between her ankles, pulled one of her legwarmers out, and wrapped it around her bare neck, tucking the ends in; she felt better immediately. Before moving on, she dug out the remains of the chocolate bar and finished it off.
    Traffic was backed up on Broadway around Lincoln Center. Philharmonic Hall, the Metropolitan Opera, the State Theatre, and the Vivian Beaumont and Mitzi Newhouse must all have let out at once. A deafening cacophony of horns came from the gridlocked cars, most of which were cabs and limousines.
    Lincoln Center’s plaza was light as day, a dazzling spectacle of lights and people, many in evening clothes. Limousines were parked and double-parked on the surrounding streets and the driveway bordering the plaza. How would she ever find Tabitha Ann, or for that matter, Rona, in this chaos?
    There was a throng of people around the fountain, and jazz music bubbled up from somewhere within. She heard laughter and moved among the brightly dressed people, found a pocket of space— she didn’t need much—and insinuated herself.
    Two young men, possibly Middle European from their clothing and slouchy caps, were manipulating two string puppets to jazz music. One puppet with long scraggly hair and dark glasses was playing a saxophone, down and dirty. The equally hip second puppet was half bent, beating the keyboards. Wetzon saw a third young man keeping his eyes on the recorder, hovering over a third puppet, the drummer. They were wonderfully talented, and their audience reacted appreciatively by dropping bills into a woolen cap that lay on the ground.
    Wetzon scanned the faces around her. Across the way, a teen-aged girl with a dark mass of attack hair laughed at the puppets. Tabitha Ann? Wetzon raised her hand. But no, the girl was with her parents. The father gave her a dollar bill, and the girl dropped it into the hat while the puppet played his sax and caressed her leg with his backside. Everyone laughed.
    Stragglers were still coming from the theaters. Rona should have been here by now. And where was Tabitha? Wetzon drifted toward the State Theatre, looking for anyone who even vaguely resembled either Penny Ann or the apparition she and Smith had met at the door of Brian’s apartment.
    The City Opera was doing Sondheim’s A Little Night Music , and Wetzon saw with a start that Daisy Robera was playing Desiree Armfeldt. She hadn’t seen Daisy in years, and here she was coming toward her now. Daisy had already been a lead dancer when Wetzon was a rookie. They’d gotten to be friends in Chicago , Daisy, she, and Carlos. It had been Daisy who’d helped Wetzon make the decision to leave the business.
    “Go now, while you’re still young,” Daisy had said. “Look at me. Fewer and fewer parts, more and more injuries. More and more one-night stands.”
    “Sing out, Louise!” Wetzon yelled the famous line from Gypsy and held out her arms.
    “Leslie, my love,” Daisy cried, sailing right into her arms, a tiny bundle of bleached-blond fluff. “Did you see the show tonight?” Daisy looked the gypsy in a long wrap skirt and a huge woven shawl. Her hair hung loose down her back. “Wonderful to see you, darling.” She blew Wetzon a kiss and moved on. “Come on, Mort, I’m starving.”
    “Hello, Mort,” Wetzon said. Mort Hornberg, director of concept musicals, had come up behind Daisy. He’d been a protégé of Hal Prince when Wetzon first met him and had gone on to outconcept the master. Carlos was working on a new show with Mort—top secret, too. Wetzon and Mort had always had a moderately adversarial relationship, because, as he was fond of saying, “I can read what you’re thinking on your face.”
    She hoped that wasn’t true, because she was thinking