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

MURDER
    Wetzon threw her coat on a chair and sat down. She could think of a hell of a lot of places she’d rather be right now than here. She closed her eyes and listened to Dr. Jerry tell Smith things about his group-therapy clients, which seemed entirely inappropriate to Wetzon. Smith asked about his training and Jerry launched into a lengthy, pompous oration about his undergraduate and graduate years at Columbia with a two-year intermission for army service. Intelligence, of course. Wasn’t everybody? Wetzon opened her eyes. They were sitting directly across from her, Smith’s hand resting on Jerry’s arm.
    On the conference table were a stack of yellow legal pads and freshly sharpened pencils. A sideboard featured a phone system and a television set. The surrounding walls held bookshelves crammed with law books.
    Barbie, who had gone off to the ladies’ room, returned carrying a can of Diet Pepsi. “There’s more if anyone wants any.” When no one responded, she said, loudly, “I’m talking to you, fat boy.”
    Smith looked up, genuinely startled.
    Jerry Gordon rose and put his arm around his wife, leading her to a chair next to Wetzon. “Have you taken your pill?” he whispered. “Take it now.”
    Barbie sank into the chair, a look of terror on her face, but she reached into a leather pouch around her waist and took out a small bottle of pills, shook one into her palm, and popped it into her mouth. She put the bottle back into the pouch before Wetzon could see the label. Dr. Jerry patted the sequined beret and returned to his seat next to Smith, picking up the threads of their conversation, while Barbie simmered next to Wetzon. The whole scene gave Wetzon the creeps.
    A door across the room opened, and Rona appeared with Dick Hartmann. Rona was wan and nervous. Dark roots streaked her blond hair. She was wearing a black wool crepe suit and a green sweater that contrived to make her skin look even more washed out than usual.
    “How are you doing?” Wetzon asked, because no one else spoke.
    “My brain is fried.” Rona took a seat on the other side of Wetzon and gave her hand a squeeze.
    A young Asian woman in a gray suit came into the room and closed the door. Her black hair was clipped back at the nape.
    “My associate, Robin Huang,” Dick Hartmann said. He introduced everyone by name.
    Hartmann sat down at the head of the table and placed Robin to his immediate right. He wore an obviously expensive made-to-order suit and was clearly in his element.
    “For the record,” Rona said, looking slowly at each of them, “I did not kill Brian or Tabitha.”
    “Of course, sugar,” Smith said.
    “We know,” Wetzon said.
    “No question in our minds,” Dr. Jerry said.
    “Fat boy,” Barbie Gordon said.
    Hartmann gave Barbie an inscrutable look. “The evidence they have is all circumstantial.” He took a legal pad from the pile on the table and a Mont Blanc pen from his inside pocket. “Rona has an alibi, so we may be able to get the indictment thrown out.”
    Good, Wetzon thought. Can I go home now?
    “But he’s refused to come forward,” Hartmann continued.
    It came to Wetzon in a flash. Maglia.
    “Tony Maglia,” Rona said, looking at Wetzon defiantly. “We’ve been lovers for years, since before Brian. I was with Tony when Brian was murdered.”
    “That gives him an alibi, too,” Wetzon said.
    “I suppose so.”
    “And what about Tabitha?” Smith asked.
    “I waited at that fountain for over half an hour, and then I figured she wasn’t coming. I’ve never even held a gun in my life. This is all ridiculous.”
    Wetzon reached over and patted Rona’s hand. “Was Tabitha staying with the Maglias?”
    Rona nodded.
    “If we have to, I’ll hit Maglia with a subpoena,” Hartmann said.
    “What can we do?” Smith asked.
    “You two can fill in the blanks for us. I want to go over everyone who might have had something against Brian.”
    “Get on line,” Rona said.
    “That’s enough, Rona.” Hartmann’s tone was sharp and final.
    “Then there’s Penny Ann Boyd,” Smith said.
    Almost as one, Rona, Hartmann, and the Gordons all said, “Leave her out of this.”
    “Well, okay,” Wetzon said, exchanging glances with Smith. But it wasn’t okay. “Simon Loveman, the Loeb Dawkins manager, gave Brian twenty thousand dollars to cover Brian’s debt at Bliss Norderman. I’m sure Brian resigned, although that slimebag Maglia denies it.” She looked at Rona. “I’m sorry.”