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

She retied the belt on the robe firmly and unlocked her door.
    The first officer off the elevator was a man with a bulbous nose, black pores, and deep-set tired eyes. He was accompanied by a young, powerfully built man with skin the color of cordovan.
    “Officers Drucker and Heminway,” the man with the big nose said. “I’m Drucker.” His dyspeptic eyes examined them, two women, barefeet. “You reported a prowler?”
    “I did. Louie saw him.” The cops exchanged a look. What the hell was that supposed to mean, Wetzon thought.
    Louie stepped forward. “I live downstairs. I heard him because he knocked over one of my pots.”
    “She screamed and made a lot of noise and scared him off.”
    “I’ll give a look-see,” Heminway said. “Which window?”
    Wetzon led all of them back through the bedroom to the window, which was still open from Louie’s entrance. Heminway pulled his flashlight and lit up the fire escape, sending the light above, around, and below. “You better get a gate on this window.” He slipped through the window and walked the fire escape, his heavy footsteps clanging on the iron steps.
    “Did you get a good look at him, Miss—er?” Drucker’s voice was a bored monotone.
    “Armstrong. I’m afraid not.”
    Heminway slipped back through the window. “Nothing there.”
    “Thanks for coming,” Wetzon said. She let them out.
    “You better keep that window bolted till you get the gate.” Drucker flicked his eyes over Louie.
    Wetzon closed the door. “What was that all about? I felt as if I was missing the subtext.”
    Louie sighed. “He thought we were lovers.”
    “Really?”
    “I’m gay.”
    “So? I’m not. Do you want some coffee? I’m wide awake.”
    Louie smiled at Wetzon, and the reserve Wetzon had noticed about her dissolved. The sharp blue eyes softened. “I have a better idea. I have a pint of Haagen-Daz’s chocolate chocolate chip in my freezer, and I have the proposal for your apartment ready. Why not come down to my place?”
    “You’re on.” Wetzon closed and locked the window, then slipped on her Keds, grabbed her purse, and followed Louie.
    The loft directly below Carlos’s, although the same size, was radically different. Such was the advantage of loft space. The entranceway was four feet of rust quarry tile, then one step down to wood floors the color of unbleached muslin. A wide, open kitchen on the right, and straight ahead, a huge living room with a comfortable arrangement of tan leather sofas and chairs. In a far corner, near the windows, was a drafting table and a wall of bookshelves. Large, vivid paintings covered every bit of bare wall space with extraordinary splashes of color. Wetzon found herself staring openmouthed at the one closest to her, a turbulent mixture of red and black slashes on a stark white background. She found it so disturbing, so enthralling, she backed away from it, and caught Louie watching her.
    “Complicated, isn’t it?” Louie looked embarrassed, almost shy.
    Then it dawned on Wetzon. “They’re yours. They’re beautiful.”
    “You don’t have to say that.”
    “I know, but I mean it. They make me feel—I don’t know—as if I were—this is crazy—falling, losing control.”
    Louie smiled. “Thank you.” She touched Wetzon’s arm and steered her into the kitchen area.
    Here were a wide relative of a parsons table in bleached wood with white Formica squares inlaying the surface and six sturdy chairs with red tie-dyed cushions attached. Louie marched right over to the big white refrigerator, opened the freezer, and took out the pint of ice cream, which she set on the table. From a drawer under one of the glass-doored cabinets, she lifted two long-handled spoons—iced-tea spoons—and from another drawer, a package of paper napkins.
    “Dig in,” she said, lifting off the cover. “I’ll get the proposal.”
    Wetzon sat down and reached for the container. “Oh, boy.” She scooped up a spoonful of the dark-chocolate ice cream. “What a good idea.”
    “Hey, leave some for me,” Louie called.
    “You’d better move fast, then.”
    She brought the proposal in a manila file folder and handed it to Wetzon, taking the pint of ice cream from her and spooning some into her mouth.
    All the estimates were neatly printed out for plastering and painting, as well as new floors. The price for replacing parquet was outrageous, but Wetzon consoled herself that the insurance should cover most of it. Automatically,