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

March, April, May, June, July, and August.
    “All right, sweet thing, call me back—”
    Blast. Smith was about to hang up the phone. Wetzon quickly folded her Times business section around the statements and withdrew to the privacy of the bathroom. She sat down on the lid and inspected the statements with more care.
    Brokerage statements were the hardest thing in the world to read, probably on purpose. It didn’t seem to matter which firm; not one was clear and to the point, and the abbreviations were impossible to decipher.
    Either this Mrs. Foley was a trader or Brian had been churning her account. That was obvious. In and out. In and out. Some stocks were sold only a few days after purchase. Small amounts of money invested every month. $7,500 in January, $8,750 in February, $8,000 in March—
    “Wetzon!” Smith rapped on the door. “You’ve been in there forever.”
    “I’ll be right out.” Wetzon folded the statements back inside the newspaper, flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and opened the door, newspaper under her arm.
    Smith eyed her suspiciously. “You were reading the newspaper in there. You never do that.”
    “‘A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.’” Wetzon sallied forth and sat down at her desk.
    “Humpf,” Smith said. “You’re really not as funny as you think you are.” She went into the bathroom and slammed the door, came out a minute later, and flounced to her desk, just as B.B. announced that Mr. Hartmann was on the phone again. She picked up the receiver and purred, “Where were we?”
    Wetzon put the newspaper stuffed with Mrs. Leonora Foley’s brokerage statements into her briefcase. This required some concentrated thought ... later.
    All things considered, she was feeling pretty good. This new puzzle energized her. Where was she? She scrutinized the suspect sheets in front of her and started with the top one, a broker at Smith Barney she’d been trying to get to for the past two weeks.
    She picked up the phone and punched out his number. Gary Friedman was a nice guy with a good business. Wetzon had been talking to him for three-plus years. He was intelligent and fairly well read. And he took brokering very seriously. For him it was a profession.
    “Hi, Wetzon. What’s happening?”
    “Same old stuff, Gary. What’s happening with you? How’s business?”
    “Um, ummmm,” Smith was purring into the phone. She sounded as if she was having an orgasm.
    “Business is steady. I’m up about thirty percent over last year.”
    “Hey, that’s great! You’re one of the few, you know.”
    “Ummmm, hummmm” Smith said.
    “Read any good books lately?” Wetzon asked loudly, trying to drown out Smith.
    Gary proceeded to tell her he had just finished Martin Gottfried’s book about Bob Fosse, All His Jazz, and then they chatted on about the state of the musical theater and the good old days when Wetzon had been one of Bob Fosse’s dancers. Finally they got down to business.
    “Listen, Wetzon, I know I told you to call me toward the end of October, but I’m just not motivated to do anything right now. I’m in line for Chairman’s Club and I’ll get my V.P. title if I hit half a mil, and I will. And I’m getting married in January.”
    “Mmmmmmm, ummmm.” Would Smith never quit?
    “That’s super. Congratulations.” Cross Gary off for at least six months. It was too traumatic for most people to make two huge changes in their lives at the same time.
    “But listen,” he said, “stay in touch. And send me another card. You’re the only headhunter who calls me who has a brain.”
    Wetzon hung up and shot Smith a menacing look.
    Smith moaned one last “ummmm,” bestowed a Mona Lisa smile on Wetzon, and replaced the receiver tenderly. She opened her mouth to say something, and Wetzon exploded.
    “I don’t want to know. Twoey—”
    Smith brushed her off. “You said yourself Twoey’s too hung up on his mother.”
    “I love how you rearrange what I say to rationalize your behavior.” Wetzon took a deep breath. “Can we talk about our case?”
    “Of course.” Smith looked disappointed. She’d obviously wanted Wetzon to coax more about Richard Hartmann out of her.
    “Have you seen the papers this morning or heard the news?”
    Smith frowned. “No.”
    “Well, Tabitha turned up last night—”
    “Oh, good.” She didn’t sound very enthusiastic.
    “Dead.”
    “Dead?”
    “Dead. She was murdered—shot—in front of the Vivian