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

call.
    “Good work, Max.” She gave him a thumbs-up sign. “I’m off to interview Stu Beck at the Four Seasons, in case he should forget where he’s supposed to be at a quarter after four.”
    Stepping out on the brick landing, Wetzon narrowly missed bumping the woman coming down the steps to their door. “Oh, I’m sorry. Can I help you?”
    The woman had shoulder-length brown hair and was about Wetzon’s age, give or take two years. She wore a business suit under an open gray raincoat. “I’m Marissa Peiser, from the D.A.’s office. You are?” She dug a bent card out of her coat pocket, among a collection of crumpled tissues.
    “Leslie Wetzon.”
    “Good.” Peiser handed Wetzon the card and stuffed the tissues back in her pocket. “I have some questions to ask you. About Rona Middleton.”
    “I’m just heading out to an appointment. If you’d like, you can walk with me to the Four Seasons, and I’ll answer your questions, but I have to tell you I don’t think Rona murdered Tabitha.”
    Without further preamble, both began walking.
    “Why not?” Marissa Peiser had a nice, forthright face, the kind of face that didn’t judge. People probably opened up to her.
    “Because Rona cared for the girl. She was her goddaughter.” They walked across Second Avenue and west on Forty-ninth Street. The air was damp and chilly, the sky overcast. It would rain later.
    “What about her husband, Brian Middleton?”
    “Brian was a shit—to everyone. I’m sure you know from Ferrante about how Rona reacted at the M.E.’s office the day Brian’s body was found. You don’t need to hear it from me. Brian was screwing his old manager, Tony Maglia, his clients, like Penny Ann Boyd, and his new manager, Simon Loveman. Not to mention me and my partner. He was a real—pardon the expression—dirtbag.”
    “They were both killed with the same gun.”
    “Then Rona certainly isn’t guilty. Do you have the gun?”
    Peiser shrugged. Wetzon squinted at her. That probably meant they didn’t have the murder weapon.
    The women turned north on Lexington and walked up to Fifty-second Street, where the assistant D.A. stopped and confirmed the spelling of Tony Maglia and Simon Loveman, which she wrote on a ragged notepad she took from her shoulder bag.
    “I’m leaving you here, if you don’t mind,” Wetzon said when Marissa finished writing.
    “Fine. I’d like to continue our talk later.”
    “Can’t.”
    “Tomorrow?”
    “How about around this time? Call me in the office.” Wetzon looked for her cardcase in her briefcase, then searched her handbag, found it, and handed Peiser her card. “My schedule is pretty jammed over the next two days.” This was no lie, but Wetzon felt she should call Arthur Margolies to get some legal advice before she talked further with anyone. She—Wetzon—was what linked Rona to Lincoln Center and Tabitha’s death, and she had fudged with Walters, had not told the detective that she had broken into Dr. Jerry’s apartment. She hadn’t told anyone but Smith.
    “Your partner, Xenia Smith, is she still in the office? I’d like to talk to her.”
    Wetzon grinned. She couldn’t help it. “Go right back. I’m sure you’ll catch her. And I’m sure she’ll be helpful. She loves lawyers.”
    Her cardcase still in her hand, Wetzon stopped under the awning of the Four Seasons. She didn’t believe in the supernatural or tarot cards or psychics, but she ... something ... a message ... no, an idea was coming through and wanted space in her thoughts. The cardcase seemed to burn in her hand. She held it out in front of her, looked at it carefully.
    Then the scene in Dr. Jerry’s consulting room played back in her head, ratta-tat-tat. Dr. J., Hartmann, Smith, and Penny Ann finally leaving. There she was, coming out of the closet and spilling the contents of her briefcase, stuffing everything back, someone at the door, hiding in the closet again. She saw herself crawl out of the closet, heard the phone ring. Saw herself answering it. She was sitting at the desk talking to Rona on the phone, pretending to be Penny Ann. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself pick up the cardcase and slip it into her handbag. She hadn’t questioned what it was doing on the desk. She’d thought she’d gathered everything up, but she must have missed the case. And she’d been too stupidly groggy to realize it.
    Could someone have known, then, that she was there? Chagrined, she remembered now that the