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

“Clean.”
    “Clean?” He smiled at her. “I suppose so. Arbitrators are chosen by the New York Stock Exchange and the National Association of Securities Dealers, so the process might be called biased, but speaking for myself, it’s not. And now that our awards are no longer secret and how the process works is not a mystery, I think we’re on the right track.” He paused. “And then I went out and robbed a bank.”
    What had he said? “Robbed a bank?” She was having trouble opening her eyes.
    He shook his head, laughing at her. “Just checking. I once sat on an arbitration between Middleton and a client.”
    Her eyes snapped open. He’d moved. He was sitting next to her on the sofa. Had she slept? What had he said about Middleton?
    “You weren’t listening,” he accused.
    “I was,” she protested weakly. She was so tired, and the fire made the room cozy. “You said ...” She blinked.
    He put his arm around her and she rested her head on his shoulder to keep from sagging forward. “I said I once sat on an arbitration between Middleton and Bliss Norderman and a client, and it was a beaut.”
    “Um.” She lifted her head and separated herself from him. “I heard the client’s daughter testified against her mother—”
    “Where did you hear that?” His voice was cool. “Come on, I’d better get you home.” But he was looking at her with stern eyes, waiting for an answer to his question.
    “Oh, around.” She rose and got her shoes, throwing the towel-paper stuffing in the garbage and slipping her feet into the damp leather. Ugh.
    “Around where?”
    Stop pushing , she thought, angry with herself, with him. “Tony Maglia told me. Remember him? He was Brian’s manager. It is true, isn’t it?”
    Alton stared at her from some remote place, and she saw his jaw tighten. It felt longer, but it was probably only a few seconds before he said, “I’m not going to comment on that, Leslie.”

40.
    T HE RAIN HAD slackened to a light drizzle. Alton pulled up in front of a fire hydrant across the street from Wetzon’s temporary home on Tenth Street and left the motor running. There were no legal parking places on the street, for which she was thankful. They had spoken very little since leaving his apartment. Now she said, “Alton, I’m sorry if you think I was pumping you for information—”
    “The process is supposed to be confidential.” He turned off the gas, put his arm on the back of the seat, and studied her.
    “You told me you were on the arbitration. You opened the door. It’s my nature to go through open doors.” That’s who I am, she thought. You’d better get it straight.
    “I did, and I was wrong.” He was almost, but not quite, smiling.
    “And I was pumping you for information.”
    The almost-smile disappeared. “Why?”
    “Because I’m trying to keep Brian’s ex-wife out of jail for his murder.”
    He frowned. “What does that have to do with you?”
    “I have a sideline, my dear Alton,” she said in an upper-class English accent, “that of consulting detective.”
    He laughed then, and cupped her cheek. “Leslie, I—” But she slid away from him and opened the door.
    “I did not see you tonight because I knew about your role in the arbitration.” She got out of the car and closed the door. When she came around to his side of the car, he was on his feet on the street.
    He said, “I know that.”
    A car, driving too fast, shot past them, trapping them in headlights, backing them into each other against his door. Although the danger was over, he did not release her, and she stood for a moment in his arms, feeling her body begin to respond. She wrenched herself away with more force than necessary, and gave him her hand, formally. “Good night. Thanks for dinner.”
    For the first time she saw confusion in his eyes, and she felt an inane pleasure. He took her hand. “I’ll see you to your door.”
    She shook her head, then pointed to the loft building with her free hand. “See those dark windows on the top floor? That’s me. If you could just stick around until you see the light go on ... ”
    He nodded. “I’ll call you.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, then got back in his car and lowered the window. “Who’s the woman’s lawyer?” he called.
    “Richard Hartmann.”
    Alton whistled. “I know Dick Hartmann. He’s good.”
    “Two people connected to your precious arbitration are dead, Alton. Who knows who’ll be