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

Ritz.” Judy Garland’s tremulous voice on the recording touched off some emotional trigger in Wetzon, made her sad, nostalgic for the gypsy life she’d led before she became a headhunter, which as she well knew was unreal and unrealistic.
    Enough of this maudlin, self-indulgent crap. She’d let her mind stray from the case in hand.
    Penny Ann, in some way, was the key to this. Was she in danger, then? Would she be next? Or had she committed both murders? It was a terrible fact that parents abuse and kill their children. But with a gun?
    Her hands were freezing. She put her briefcase under her arm and thrust her hands in her pockets. The flags of the United Nations that surrounded the skating rink snapped crisply in the wind. Prometheus, washed in gold, observed all under the soaring towers of Rockefeller Center. When Perry Como began singing “You’re the Only One I’ll Ever Love,” Wetzon felt herself turn to mush. She left the skaters and started walking west, toward the subway. How silly and sentimental of you, Wetzon , she scolded.
    A D train was just coming into the Rockefeller Center station; it was seven o’clock, and the platform was no longer solid with people. She found a seat and took out Business Week. But her mind wasn’t on her reading. She kept seeing Tabitha’s turgid neck and bloated face on the page. Finally, she put the magazine away. She was tired. Her fellow passengers looked tired. Most were going home, but there were a few young people, bursting with energy, in hand-torn jeans, undoubtedly heading for the Village. And sure enough, they pushed off in front of Wetzon on Eighth Street, making a joyful noise.
    She stopped at Balducci’s, the Village’s amazing answer to Zabar’s, and bought a container of minestrone and half a pound of pasta salad, with vegetables and sun-dried tomatoes, a long sourdough baguette, a small piece of Roquefort, and a container of nicoise olives. Her last selection was a big buttery brownie. This was the kind of food that made her feel safe.
    At Schapira coffee shop, sacks of coffee lay about and a huge roaster was the objet d’art; it was a heavenly place, totally dedicated to multiblends of coffee and tea. She bought a pound of water-washed decaf, and then was homeward bound on Tenth Street with other Villagers, all carrying groceries. She walked right past Three Lives Bookshop, stopped, and retraced her footsteps. The door was open, beckoning to her, and there were friendly faces behind the counter. She stepped into the small, cozy space, packed with books on wooden bookshelves. It was just the kind of place she would have if she owned a bookshop.
    She bought John le Carre’s The Secret Pilgrim , which had just gone into paperback, to read on the train the next day, and was on her way again.
    The Village was bustling. Restaurants were filling; the narrow streets and sidewalks were crowded, but it was all alien to Wetzon. She missed her Upper West Side. As she walked west, it grew quieter: a few people out walking their dogs, some attorneys and investment bankers just getting home, and Leslie Wetzon.
    There was a note Scotch-taped above Carlos’s bell: “Leslie, I have your mail. Buzz me. Louie.” She pressed Louie’s buzzer.
    “Yes?”
    “Hi, it’s Leslie. I’m downstairs.”
    “I’ve got a shopping bag full of stuff for you.”
    Impulsively, Wetzon said, “Come on up and share my dinner.”
    “I’m a vegetarian. I just made a big fruit salad.”
    “That’ll be your contribution. Unless there’s meat in the minestrone, I know the rest is okay.”
    Her spirits lifted. She suddenly realized she hadn’t wanted to be alone. She changed into leggings and an old white cotton dress shirt she’d appropriated from Silvestri, and put the soup in a pan to heat. When Louie arrived, they spread their smorgasbord out on the trestle table and worked their way right through it.
    “Did you do anything on the apartment today?” Wetzon measured coffee into the filter, poured in the water, and turned on the machine.
    “No. I just took my crew up to see it.” Louie was wearing jeans cut off at the knee and a blue V-neck sweater, sleeves rolled up. “Aren’t you going to check your mail?”
    “Oh, I guess so.” She pulled the Bloomingdale’s bag to her. “Probably bills and junk.” Pushing the plates and cartons aside, she took everything out of the shopping bag and set the mail on the table. All that was left of their dinner was some of