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

next, old chum.” She started across the street.
    He called out something to her, but she didn’t hear, didn’t look back. Upstairs, she turned on all the lights and looked down at the wet, light glancing street and waved. The headlights went on, then off, then on again. The car pulled out into the street and drove off.
    Alton had sounded like Silvestri there for a minute, and she’d slipped right into the kind of spikiness she fell into with Silvestri. God, relationships with men were difficult. Why bother? The closer they got, the messier it became. She stuffed her shoes with towel paper again, hung up her clothes, washed up, brushed her hair into a soft braid, and climbed into bed.
    She dragged the phone to her, called Arthur Margolies, and let him ask her all kinds of tedious questions about her insurance, the building’s liability, the shareholder’s responsibility. He went on and on until she almost nodded off.
    “I’ll get you a copy of my shareholder’s agreement. Is Carlos back yet?”
    “He’ll be back this weekend. Is everything all right downtown?”
    “Yes. I guess it’s a little late to ask you since I’ve already talked to her, but I need some advice, Arthur, if you have another minute or two.” She told him about the visit from the assistant D.A. “Is it okay to talk to her?”
    “Do you have anything to hide?”
    “Arthur! For heaven’s sake!”
    “Leslie, this is Arthur talking.”
    “I’m sorry, Arthur, I guess I’m a bit edgy. Someone tried to break in here from the fire escape last night.”
    “I thought you said everything was all right?”
    “Arthur! Don’t give me a hard time. You sound like Silvestri.” Come to think of it, all men sounded like men when it got to basics. You could almost program their responses to given situations.
    “Do you want me to be there when you talk to the D.A.? We could do it in my office tomorrow afternoon.”
    “No, thanks. I’m not a suspect. I’ll just tell her whatever I know.” Wetzon hung up feeling that she was very much on her own.
    She played back her messages. The first was for Carlos’s previous tenant, a man from a local boutique about an unpaid bill. Then there were two hang-ups. The third was Twoey, calling from Boston about Smith’s surprise birthday party. So that’s why Smith was freer than usual. He gave her the new buffet menu, the third one in as many days. It was a good thing he didn’t have all this indecision when he traded stocks.
    Beep.Smith’s dulcet tones : Tomorrow, five-thirty in Dickie’s office in Rockefeller Center . Rona’s out on bail. Hope you’re having an exquisite night .This last was said lasciviously .
    She punched out Smith’s number, and when Smith said, “Hello,” in her sexiest voice, Wetzon said, in her sexiest voice, “I just want you to know that I’m at home and in bed—alone.”
    “Well,” Smith murmured, “I am, too, but I’m not.”
    “It might help if you’d get an answering machine.”
    Smith ignored her. “Call Joan Boley at home. Here’s her number.”
    “Wait a minute,” Wetzon grumbled, bobbling the pencil. “Okay, go.” She wrote down the number. “She’s just returning my call. Guilty conscience.”
    “Wrong church, wrong pew.”
    “Forgive me, she is a broker. How could I forget? Sorry about the interruption. I did have something interesting to tell you, but it can wait.” She started to hang up.
    Smith howled, “Wait! Tell me!”
    Wetzon smiled. “I found out that Rona’s had a long-standing— oops, long -lying-down affair with Tony Maglia.”
    “How disgusting!” Smith paused. “He’s a head shorter than she is.” She laughed. Wetzon heard another, deeper voice, and Smith’s whisper.
    “My thought exactly.” Now Smith would say it didn’t matter if they were lying down.
    “Of course, it really doesn’t matter when you’re lying down.” Smith never failed her.
    “How did I know you’d say that? That’s it for tonight. Over and out.” She hung up and tried Joan Boley’s number. “Hi, Joan.”
    “Wetzon! I’m so glad you called. I can’t really talk now, though. Can we have breakfast tomorrow—early?”
    “Like what time? Where?” Wetzon suppressed a groan. Couldn’t the woman just say she was sorry over the phone?
    They agreed to meet at the Hyatt at seven-thirty. Why did she have to pay for Joan’s breakfast, too, while she was apologizing? Damn. Because , she told herself, you never know.
    This time when she