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

on the corner, and choking smoke spewed from his roaster. So much for quaint; the chestnut roasters were polluters.
    They crossed over to 630 Fifth, Atlas’s building. At a quarter past five, workers, particularly the bridge-and-tunnel crowd, were rushing from offices to get their trains and buses home. This was Friday, so even executives were eager to start their weekends.
    Wetzon trailed after Smith through the revolving door, past the escalator leading to the subterranean world of shops and restaurants and intricate passageways beneath that connected all of Rockefeller Center’s buildings to one another.
    “Well, hello, look who’s here,” Smith said in a husky voice, saturated with curiosity.
    Wetzon peered around her partner and saw Neil Munchen coming toward them from one of the elevator banks.
    “Smith, Wetzon, how nice to run into you.” His stilted tone belied his words. The head of retail for Rosenkind, Luwisher looked exceedingly uncomfortable.
    They shook hands all around, then he quickly made excuses and left.
    “What do you suppose Neil is up to? He was acting as if we caught him at something.” Smith pursed her lips and frowned.
    “Why does he have to be up to anything? He’s Rona’s manager. Maybe he was talking to Hartmann....”
    “Didn’t you see how guilty he looked?” She was staring after Neil thoughtfully. “And he wasn’t seeing Dickie either, because he got off the wrong elevator bank.”
    Smith could very well be right. Bernard Freres, the international investment bank, had offices in this building. Was Neil thinking of making a move?
    At that moment, Barbara and Jerry Gordon came through the revolving doors; Barbie caught sight of them and waved. She was wearing the same black leather costume and gold raincoat, but her ragged hair was covered by a gigantic black sequined beret. Her eyes were hidden behind small, round-lensed dark glasses. In the artificial light her face was a skull of tight pink skin.
    Smith and Barbara greeted each other by barely touching cheeks and kissing the air. “You look so smart, sweetie,” Smith gushed.
    Spare me , Wetzon thought, looking for Dr. Jerry. He had disappeared. She strolled over to the newsstand and caught a glimpse of him in the well near a bank of telephones. He was talking to Neil Munchen, as if they were old friends.
    Wetzon turned her back and bought a copy of Business Week, then returned to the women. Jerry Gordon appeared from the other side of the elevator bank.
    “I thought you were right behind me.” Barbara was whiny but did not appear unbalanced as she had earlier in the day when Wetzon ran into her at Saks.
    “I was right behind you, dear.” Dr. Jerry was carrying a distended briefcase. He took a package of chewing gum from his pocket. “I stopped to buy you some gum.” His gray suit was tight across the shoulders and arms, wrinkled across his belly and upper legs, and needed a pressing badly. There was an oily stain on his tie.
    “You’re so lucky to have such a sweet husband,” Smith burbled. Smith and Wetzon got on an empty express elevator car and the Gordons followed. Jerry pressed 41.
    “You can have him if you want him.”
    Jerry gave an embarrassed laugh. “You’re such a tease, Barbie.”
    Smith rolled her eyes at Wetzon. Wetzon brushed Smith’s elbow, trying to steer Smith’s eyes to Barbie’s head. As close as she was, with that huge beret, Wetzon could not tell Barbie had a crew cut.
    The entrance to Hartmann, Veeder and Kalin, P.C., was on the left of the elevators. Two secretaries in dress-for-success suits were leaving and the one behind the glass-enclosed area was setting up the phone system for night calls. In the small waiting room, a large man-eating plant took up all the space on a side table to which a Naugahyde banquette was attached on either side. The same arrangement, sans plant, appeared against the opposite wall. This table had the latest issues of Fortune, Forbes , and The American Lawyer —Hartmann featured, story on page four—and of all things, Spy , laid out neatly.
    Dr. Jerry tapped on the glass, and they were buzzed in through a door of bleached walnut, set into glass bricks. The secretary put them in a conference room that, although the ashtrays were empty, reeked of cigarettes. Sections of the Wall Street Journal lay in flagrante delicto with the Post , which featured Rona Middleton as Ma Barker. The Journal reference to Rona’s case was:
BROKER DENIES
DOUBLE