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

business, the murders, the crazy cast of characters. Then there were Leonora Foley’s statements from January through August, which Wetzon had back-burnered, but which were obviously troubling her since they’d turned up in the dream. What the hell were they doing in a hatbox in Dr. Jerry’s consulting-room closet?
    She poured the rest of the coffee into the mug, then went into the bedroom, took the statements from her briefcase, and laid them out on the kitchen table. Maybe, just maybe, somewhere in all of this was the answer to why Brian Middleton was murdered. But she saw nothing more than she’d seen before.
    Perplexed, Wetzon dug about in the mail Louie had dropped off and found her most recent statement—September’s—from Oppenheimer. She placed it next to Leonora Foley’s August statement and compared them.
    On her own statement she saw the notation of the check she’d sent to Laura Lee. Its entry was followed by the abbreviation “CHK.” That would mean check, of course. Her eyes ran over Leonora Foley’s statement, and there it was. The entry after the $8,500 was “CSH.” The thrill of recognition was like a shot of caffeine. She raced through the rest of Leonora Foley’s statements. The monies received were all marked “CSH.” Cash.
    “My, my,” she said aloud, “this Mrs. Leonora Foley is laundering money.” So long as cash amounts received were under $10,000, they did not have to be reported to the Exchange or the Feds. She clucked her tongue on the roof of her mouth and took a sip of coffee. How was she going to deal with this? She had the statements illegally. That was fair. Dr. Jerry had had the statements illegally, too. Hadn’t he?
    Was Mrs. Foley another of Dr. Jerry’s patients? Was he more than Mr. Nice Guy? Her mind was going click, click, click. Why not call her and ask her? Wetzon knew this was her forte. She could coax information from people.... The Nynex white pages. She’d seen them on the floor of the bedroom closet. She brought the fat phone book to the bed and tore through it, running her finger down the F’s.
    Her watch said 9:00. She was going to have to move it to get the train. Leonora Foley. She was listed! Wonderful. Wetzon picked out the numbers carefully and heard the call go through.
    “Mrs. Foley’s residence.” The voice was a woman’s, with a Jamaican lilt.
    “Hello. I know it’s early, but this is Mary in Dr. Gordon’s office. May I speak to Mrs. Foley about her appointment?”
    “You must have the wrong Mrs. Foley.”
    “Mrs. Leonora Foley on West Seventy-second Street?”
    “Yes, but Mrs. Foley can’t talk.”
    “It’ll only take a minute for me to verify—”
    “No, you don’t understand. Mrs. Foley had a stroke....”
    “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She’d hit a brick wall. “Was it sudden?”
    “Mrs. Foley, she been paralyzed for four years. Hasn’t moved or said a word since I been here, three years now. You got the wrong party for sure.”
    “I don’t know how that could have happened.... I’m really sorry.” How could Mrs. Foley have been making regular cash deposits in her brokerage account if she was non compos? “Well, thank you…. Is there anyone else there I can talk to? Mrs. Foley’s daughter, perhaps?”
    “Maybe you want to talk to Mrs. Foley’s grandson. He usually comes on Sunday afternoon. He handles all her business.”
    “Okay. I’ll call back on Sunday and talk to Mr. Foley.”
    “Not Foley, Hartmann.”
    Good God! “Hartmann? With two n’s?”
    “Yes. Richard Hartmann.”
    Twenty minutes later, in heavy black leggings, boots, a long red sweater over one of Silvestri’s sleeveless undershirts, she was out on Sixth Avenue looking for a cab uptown. Her carryall was stuffed with a change of underwear, John le Carre, and the Times from the corner newsstand. Brittle fall sunlight warmed glancingly but not well.
    Westport was always a touch cooler than Manhattan, so she’d worn her lined black leather jacket with a long leopard silk scarf she could wrap twice around her neck. She was worried. She was going to have to warn Smith not to get more involved with Hartmann. But would Smith listen? Unlikely.
    A cab pulled up beside her, and she got in. “Grand Central.” The driver looked familiar, but he wore his brown hair long and shaggy. She leaned over to see his name. “Perry Carlino,” she said out loud. The name tickled her memory.
    Carlino cocked his head and looked at her in his rearview mirror.