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

Louie’s fruit salad, the Roquefort, and the brownie, which Wetzon had cut in two equal pieces.
    While Louie poured the coffee, Wetzon began opening envelopes and throwing things away in the shopping bag. “See what I mean?” There were bills from New York Telephone, Con Edison, and American Express, and her monthly brokerage statement from Oppenheimer. Her maintenance bill on the apartment she wasn’t living in. New York magazine, Forbes , and under everything, a thick, stiff envelope postmarked Washington, D.C., and addressed in Silvestri’s crabby handwriting. She took it into the bedroom and dropped it on the bed. Not now, she thought.
    Slowly, they drank their coffee, not talking very much, and ate their way through what remained on the table. Then they looked at one another over the debris and laughed.
    “I guess we were hungry,” Louie said.
    “Sort of. I had a pain right here.” Wetzon put her hand under her breast. “Funny how certain food can make you feel better.” She smiled at Louie.
    “You seem sad tonight.”
    “I am, a little. I’m glad you were here.”
    “So am I.” Louie stood and began cleaning up.
    Wetzon watched her for a few moments. “Louie, may I ask you something personal?”
    Louis stopped scraping a plate. “Fire away.”
    “Is it easier to love women than men?” She paused. “God, I hope I’m not offending you.”
    Louie smiled. “I wouldn’t give you an unbiased answer. And no, you haven’t offended me.” She tied up the plastic garbage bag. “I’ll take this down with me. It has to go out tonight for a pickup tomorrow morning.”
    After Louie left, Wetzon showered and put on the white shirt again while she blow-dried her hair. The package from Silvestri was waiting for her on the bed. She sighed and sat cross-legged and opened it. It was a compact disk. Harry Connick, Jr. They had heard him sing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and it had given her goose pimples. This young man who sounded like Sinatra had a voice so full of tenderness, it made you cry.
    No note was enclosed. Damn him. He was manipulating her. She threw it down on the bed. She wouldn’t play it. But Carlos had a really nice stereo unit that included a CD player.
    She slipped the disk into the slot and fiddled with the buttons. “Let there be music,” she murmured. And there was. Closing the blinds, she danced dreamily around the room. He was singing to her, and that’s what Silvestri had wanted. A stand-in. When Connick got to “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” she came apart, dropping to the floor. Damn him. She smacked the carpet with a fist. No, this wouldn’t do. This was some kind of psychological brainwashing that Silvestri was learning at Quantico.
    The downstairs buzzer sounded. Who could that be? Louie?
    She got up and walked over to the monitor. There were two people crowding the tiny entranceway downstairs.
    The buzzer shrilled again.
    Wetzon sighed, and pressed them in.
    It was the assistant D.A., Marissa Peiser, and she was accompanied by Detective Ferrante.

46.
    M ARISSA P EISER WAS wearing a gray suit with a red turtleneck sweater under the same grubby gray trench coat. Little puffy bags under her eyes made her look older than she probably was, but her straight brown hair had a nice sheen and she was wearing lipstick. There was blusher on her cheeks. The hand she offered Wetzon was cold and tight as a coiled spring. “Sorry it’s so late,” she said, giving only lip service to the words. “You know Detective Ferrante?”
    Ferrante came right in behind her and closed the door.
    “So nice to see you again, Detective Ferrante.” Ferrante’s mustache twitched. He gave her a sharp was-she-being-snide look, but Wetzon kept her face expressionless. “You might as well sit down. Do you want coffee?”
    They did.
    “Nice apartment,” Peiser said. She ranged around the living room, stopped, peered into the bedroom. There was a run in her black panty hose.
    “It’s what you might call a loaner. What can I do for you?”
    Ferrante ran his hands through his curly hair, jiggled from one foot to the other, and finally sat down at the trestle table, an intimidating bulk in a brown tweed sports jacket and tan slacks. He pushed out a chair for Peiser with his foot, and she took the hint.
    “We want to walk you through both murders to see if there’s something you’ve forgotten,” Peiser said, slipping out of her coat and dropping it over back of the chair. She sat,