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

Rusty Staub’s for lunch the next day, and neither of them mentioned Silvestri, although Silvestri, or rather, Silvestri’s absence, was very much there between them.
    She opened the back door and stepped out into their garden. Dry leaves, plants getting ready for winter. The sky was muffled by gray clouds. Wetzon sighed and went back to her desk. She ordered her soul food—a tuna on pita and decaf coffee—from What’s Cooking. That was infinitely better. At least she was doing something constructive. The only really important thing left she had to do was confirm today’s interview. Stu Beck’s office number was in her appointment book next to his name at four-fifteen. Her mind was full to overflowing of so much garbage, she hadn’t considered where he worked.
    Stu Beck worked at Bliss Norderman. He was one of Tony Maglia’s brokers.

35.
    W ETZON LOOKED AT herself critically in the full-length mirror. Her skirt ended about two inches above her knees, but they were good knees. “Smith, do you think my skirt’s too short?”
    Smith had just come through the door carrying a fat shopping bag from Saks. She tilted her head and studied Wetzon. “No, but I think it’s time to stop wearing black.”
    “Black? Oh, am I wearing black?” Wetzon turned back to the mirror. She was wearing a black suit with a long jacket, black hose, little black heels. “If I stop wearing black, I will decimate my entire wardrobe.”
    “Women of a certain age and all that.”
    “Oh, come on , Smith!”
    “Look at you, it’s absolutely too severe. Black suit, white blouse. No color. You’re as pale as a ghost. And you’ve got to do something about those black rings under your eyes.”
    “Couldn’t you just pretend I look wonderful? All I need is one uninterrupted night’s sleep.”
    “Well, then you shouldn’t have made a dinner date.” The way Smith said it made it sound as if Wetzon was in the middle of a triple-X-rated love affair.
    “Oh, shut up, Smith.”
    “On the other hand,” Smith continued in the same tone, “if it’s with who I think it is, you’ll probably sleep well. These old men ...”
    Wetzon showed Smith the palm of her hand. “That’s enough. I’m leaving now. If you need me for any reason, I’ll be interviewing Stu Beck at the Four Seasons.”
    “And where will you be later, sugar?” Smith was laughing at her.
    “At home,” she said firmly. She began packing suspect sheets into her briefcase.
    “Wait! I have something for you. It will jazz up your Vampira costume.” Smith was pulling tissue-wrapped items from the shopping bag, peeking into them, and setting them aside. “A little giftie-poo. Ah, here it is.” She pulled a long silk scarf in a brilliant blue, black, and crimson paisley from one of the bags and clipped off the tag with her cuticle scissors. “Stand still.” She tucked it under the collar of Wetzon’s silk blouse and knotted it loosely in front. “There now, look. It gives you some color.... And don’t go out of here without lipstick, please.”
    Smith was right, Wetzon thought. The scarf made a big difference, pulled the whole outfit together. “Thank you.” She added the lipstick. “Where were you so long? I thought we’d miss each other.”
    “There was a sale on shoes ... and I wanted to talk to Dickie. His office is in Rockefeller Center.”
    “Oh? Did you find anything out?”
    “They’re arranging bail for Rona. A hundred thou.” She was repacking the shopping bag.
    “God!” Wetzon opened the door to their reception area. Max was in the middle of a very thorough interview with a broker.
    Smith shrugged. “Well, she killed two people.”
    Wetzon pulled her Burberry from the closet and returned to their office, closing the door.
    “Watch what you say, Smith.”
    Flapping her hand, Smith said, “Oh, for pitysakes. Now don’t make plans for tomorrow night, please. We’re holding a meeting. I don’t know where yet, probably in Dickie’s office.”
    “Okay. See you tomorrow.” Wetzon closed the door on Smith and stood for a moment in front of Max’s desk.
    “Would you be willing to take a call from one of our principals, Leslie Wetzon?” Pause. “What time of day is good for you?” Pause. “Okay. Expect a call ...” He looked up at Wetzon and she mouthed tomorrow. “Tomorrow,” Max said. “It was a pleasure talking with you.” He hung up and nodded to Wetzon, placing the suspect sheet in a growing stack for Wetzon to