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

he was the resolution. This is serious.”
    “What the hell does that mean?”
    “It means that he is the focus in your life right now.”
    “Oh, God, Smith, let it be.” Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she asked, “Where was Silvestri?”
    “The King of Swords is in your past,” Smith intoned ominously.
    The words were like slashes. Her lips trembled and tears flowed. “What a jerk I am.” She gulped back more tears. And in a flash, Smith gathered her in, soothing Wetzon’s sniffles, hugging her.
    “Sweetie pie, you know what your problem is? You don’t keep control of the affair. You must let them love you more than you love them. It always works out better that way. And Alton is the perfect subject. You gave your all to Dick Tracy, and see where it got you. Believe me, you will have a wonderful affair with Alton—”
    B.B. knocked, interrupting Smith’s monologue. Frowning, she patted Wetzon’s shoulder and opened the door. “Mr. Bahash from Ameribank for you, Smith.”
    Wetzon went into the bathroom and washed her face, then touched up her eye makeup. She looked at herself in the mirror. Time was marching on. The tiny laugh lines around her eyes were more pronounced, but her neck was smooth and her back was straight. She wondered if she would take reaching forty as badly as Smith was. Aging had only mattered to her when she was a dancer and knew that time was running out on her joints and sinews.
    She smiled at herself and tucked a flying strand back into her topknot. “You can still pass for thirty,” she told her reflection.
    Smith had certainly had more experience with men than Wetzon. Maybe she was right. Carlos would go out of his mind if he heard that. He could never understand why Wetzon put up with Smith. She’d explained over and over, and perhaps it was a particularly female thing, but there were people in your life who’d entered it at a particular time, when there’d been some mutual need. And they remain because they’re part of your history, and you are always having to explain them to your friends. So it was with Smith. And their business partnership worked, better than either of them had dreamed.
    Smith was hanging up when Wetzon came out of the bathroom. Where was that assistant D.A.? she wondered.
    “Are you feeling better?”
    Wetzon nodded. “I ran into Barbara Gordon in Saks. She’d hacked off all her hair, and I mean all. She looked like a pink-haired marine.”
    “That’s crazy.”
    “Precisely. She looked and sounded psychotic—red-faced, talking to herself.”
    Smith’s expression was openly doubtful. “She’s probably just upset about Tabitha and Rona.”
    “I don’t know, Smith. It occurred to me that she might be crazy enough to kill someone.”
    The phone rang once, twice, three times. Wetzon could see B.B. was talking on the other line. She sighed and picked up the phone. “Smith and Wetzon.”
    “Ms. Wetzon, please.” The voice was familiar.
    “This is she.”
    “This is Marissa Peiser, of the district attorney’s office. Can we switch our meeting to tonight? Something rather urgent has come up.”

44.
    T HE PROMENADE, CALLED the Channel Gardens because on one side was the British bookshop and on the other, the French, was a meadow of mums. Wetzon and Smith had arrived in Rockefeller Center early, and without talking, they walked down the sloping walk to the skating rink and joined the sprinkling of watchers as the ice skaters waltzed around the rink to piped-in organ strains of The Merry Widow.
    Where were her skates? What shelf had she put them on? Had they been ruined in the flood? It had been years since she’d been on skates. Wetzon closed her eyes and conjured up the memory of a much younger self and Carlos, spinning around the Wollman Rink, dancers on ice.
    She turned to Smith, eyes wide, excited. “Let’s rent skates and do a quick twirl around the ice.”
    Smith looked at her as if she’d proposed walking through the New York Stock Exchange stark naked. “You can’t be serious. We’re going to an important consultation. We’re in our business clothes.”
    “Oh, well, it was only an idle thought.”
    “Banish such thoughts from your mind.”
    Wetzon shrugged. The air was tangy with evergreens and roasting chestnuts. Her feet in their black pumps itched to dance her off, and she lagged behind a determined Smith as they walked back past the Channel Gardens to Fifth Avenue. The vendor with the roasting chestnuts was