Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

a long night, and maybe, just maybe, after a healing sleep, Zoey might remember why she looked familiar.

11
    “W HERE’S THE other one?”
    T.J. snapped awake. A burly man in a yellow plastic hardhat was grinning at her. “I’m sorry.” She blinked. Coffee. The coffee bar. As coffee bar tender, she said, “I’m filling in for Zoey tonight. What can I get you?”
    “The top of the line. Tall, black, and leaded, to go.”
    She slid the cardboard collar on the steaming tower and handed it to him. “Would you know the time?”
    “Almost six,” he said. He waved off the change from his two dollars and left.
    T.J. knelt down and gave Zoey a nudge. “Zoey? Are you okay?”
    Zoey sighed, stirred.
    “What time does your shift end?”
    Eyes glued shut, Zoey crawled out from under the counter. “Six.”
    “It’s almost six now.”
    “Shit.” She listed against T.J. “Thanks for covering for me, dude.”
    “Can you open your eyes? Ah, there you are.”
    “I’m okay,” Zoey said.
    “You look a little fragile.”
    “Fragile. I like that.” Zoey’s smile was full of sleep. “But you can leave me now. I’m really okay.”
    Leave? She had nowhere to go. She came out from behind the counter and sat on one of the stools. “I’ll have a cappuccino,” she said. “To stay.”
    Zoey made cappuccino, for two. “Maurice is late.”
    “Maurice?”
    “He’s here from six. He should have been here by now.”
    The skin under Zoey’s eyes was dark, bruised. She bent down and returned the items on the floor to the shelf.
    “Where do you live, Zoey? I think I should see you home.”
    “You don’t have to—”
    “I’ll feel better if I do.”
    “What about you?”
    “Ah, that’s another story,” T.J. said. “You see, I’m running away from home.” She removed the vinyl gloves and dropped them into the trash container.
    The tardy Maurice, pumped with adrenalin, made his entrance on Zoey’s giggle. Dry snow flaked his nylon quilted ski jacket, added luster to his round, black cheeks. “You won’t believe it! Do you know what’s going on out there?”
    Grabbing her down jacket, T.J. tucked her hair into the knit cap. They were looking for her. She had to get away. But wait, she told herself. Slow down. They couldn’t know where she was.
    Zoey stepped out from behind the counter. Three people were waiting to be served. “I’m tired. I’m getting into a cab.”
    “You’ll never get a cab.” He shrugged out of his jacket, reached under the counter for an apron and gloves. “Be with you in a minute, folks.” Aside, he said, “There’re ambulances all over the place and cops. Bus skidded into the Hyatt and they closed off the street. Just get on the subway.”
    See, T.J. told herself, you’re not that important. But she had to find a place to stay until she figured out what to do next.
    Zoey grabbed her arm and steered her out of the coffee bar, calling, “Bye, Maurice,” as she struggled into her black cloth coat. The corridor was getting crowded, people rushing to work, lining up for coffee. “You’re running away?”
    T.J. nodded. “I have no place to go.”
    “Come with me,” Zoey said. “I need you to. I’m scared.”
    Not as scared as I am, Zoey, she thought.
    They got out of the subway at Astor Place and trudged through the snow to Fifth Street.
    The building was old and squat, eight stories of flat, gray stone that had once been white. Its entrance was unattended and Zoey let herself in with a key. A rickety, unmanned elevator left them on the sixth floor. “I’m house sitting,” Zoey said, as she unlocked the door. “It’s a good deal for me. All I have to do is take care of the cat and water the plants until they get back. They’ll be gone about three more months.” She stepped inside and turned on the light and called, “Chat?”
    “What about your apartment?” T.J. followed Zoey, taking in the small space, the closet of a kitchen, the tiny living room. Her eyes began to prickle. She sneezed once, then again.
    “I don’t have one, dude. I’m a professional house sitter.” Zoey threw her coat on the small sofa. “Make yourself at home. I have to feed Chat.” When T.J. sneezed again, she said, “I hope you’re not allergic.”
    “I don’t know if I am.” Her so-called Uncle Lew had said she was allergic to dogs. That is, Mary Lou Salinger was allergic to dogs.
    T.J. hooked her jacket on the knob of the front door. She stood in the doorway of the