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

tight, white T-shirt was horizontal-parking—jockeying back and forth a maroon Rolls-Royce convertible, its top down. He negotiated it into a space that left only inches back and front. How the hell was he going to get it out without scratching one of those magnificent fenders?
    She crossed Second Avenue breathing the redolence of the best leather seat covers in the world and sympathized with the Rolls being in such a tight place.
    By the time Smith arrived at the office, Wetzon had spoken with Fred Benitos and Joan Boley. “The Boley train is back on its tracks,” she announced to Smith.
    “Well, isn’t that a treat. And isn’t Keegen going to be wild!” Smith dumped a load of newspapers on her desk. “I’d say we deserve that.” She grabbed one of the newspapers and held it up. “Look at this!” The Post’s headline:
DOUBLE MURDER
STUNS STREETERS
    It was accompanied by a blurred head shot of Rona, or maybe an ax murderess, and a snapshot of Brian with a nubile Tabitha on his lap.
    “God, Smith, Rona looks like Ma Barker. Where’d they get that picture?”
    “Probably her driver’s license.” They both laughed.
    “Do you believe Brian? That’s really sick.”
    “Babycakes, this goes on all the time. You just dance through life wearing blinders.” She threw the paper down and gave Wetzon a searching look. “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you didn’t sleep last night.”
    “Fitfully, at best. I got Tabitha’s diary back in the mail yesterday, so I stayed up and read most of it. The last two pages have been torn out.” She took the mailer out of her briefcase to show Smith, but Smith had her head buried in another newspaper.
    Smith lowered the newspaper. “You did say Tabitha’s diary?”
    “I did.”
    “Where did it come from?”
    “No return address, alas.”
    “Did you find anything out you didn’t know?”
    “Yeah. Tabitha had an abortion.” Bortion-ay?
    “Humpf.” She lowered the paper. “Whose? Brian’s?”
    “Supposedly. Dr. Jerry made the arrangements. What do you think he gets out of all of this?”
    “There are people who get off on being all things to their patients, their friends, family. He’s probably one of them. I rather like him. He’s harmless.”
    Wetzon suddenly thought, then said out loud, “Barbara wears sequins....”
    “Now what is that supposed to mean?”
    “Someone in sequins tried to break into my apartment, and Tabitha had a fistful of sequins in her hand when she died.”
    “I think we’ve been through all this before. The world wears sequins.” She grinned suddenly. “And we’ve only seen Barbie in black leather.”
    “Are they going to be at this meeting today?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “What about Penny Ann?”
    “I hardly think so. Is that the package the diary came in?”
    “I was wondering when you’d ask.” She handed the padded envelope to Smith.
    The phone rang, stopped. B.B. had gotten it.
    “This doesn’t tell us anything.”
    “It was an overnight mailing, courtesy of the postal system. No return address. And as I said, the last two pages gone.” She rose and stood over Smith. “Do you recognize the writing?” The women stared at the block letters of Wetzon’s name and Carlos’s address. Eerily, it dawned on Wetzon that this person knew she was staying in another place.
    Smith shook her head. “It’s the police. They’re trying to trick you. Do you know a really frumpy assistant D.A. was here yesterday asking all kinds of questions about Brian and Rona?”
    “I know. They got me, too, but I couldn’t talk because I had to meet Stu Beck. They’re going to try again today.”
    “Well, don’t tell her anything.”
    “Why not?” Wetzon sat down at her desk.
    “Let them do their own work. And you might incriminate Rona.”
    “Rona’s already incriminated.”
    “Oh, for pitysakes.”
    “Stu Beck brought a partner, by the way. Very nice production figures. They think Bliss Norderman is going under.”
    “Good. We’ll pull a lot of people out. I might even give Maglia a break and try to place him. ” She gave a nasty laugh. “If we don’t sub him for Rona. Don’t you think he’s our new best bet?”
    “I’d like to hear what Rona has to say about the affair.”
    “Yum, so would I.”
    B.B. knocked on their door, and Wetzon rose and opened it. She needed some coffee.
    “Twoey on one, Smith. And a Dr. Gordon for you, Wetzon.”
    “Sweetie! I miss you so much,” Smith simpered into the