Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

jacket.
    “No, no, wait a minute. Maurice told them I was the only one working there at that time, that I’m Zoey Kantor, not Mary Lou what’s-her-face. Look at us. We’re the same height, same coloring. Just the hair style is different.”
    “But they’ll come here and find me.”
    “Maurice didn’t tell them where I live. He doesn’t know anyway. And he didn’t give them my phone number. But he thinks they’ll be back when it’s my shift.”
    T.J. leaned against the front door, winded, afraid. “What am I going to do?”
    But Zoey was elated. “First, we’ll do your hair like mine, and then we’ll talk to David. He’ll know what to do. He always does.”
    “Who’s David?” She didn’t move from the door, didn’t take off the jacket.
    “He’s our master.”
    “Master?” T.J. thought, what am I getting myself into?
    Zoey giggled. “Chill, dude, we’re not an S&M cult, we’re mimes. We work out of David’s loft on Avenue A.”
    The loft was in a former commercial building, its fundamentals hidden under a century plus of soot and layers of black paint. Tall, almost cathedralesque windows looked blearily down on Avenue A. The entranceway was stubby and narrow, walls institutional gray, floor laid with colorless rubber squares, so threadbare that the concrete beneath was visible.
    An elevator designed for freight rather than people took Zoey and T.J. to the fourth floor.
    “Just follow me,” Zoey said. “David’s at the other end.”
    To get to the other end of the floor, they had to walk a circuitous route through open areas, crowded with furniture, belonging to other residents. No privacy here.
    “Shouldn’t we be dropping crumbs?” T.J. asked.
    “Huh?”
    “You know, Hansel and Gretel.”
    Zoey paused, looked back at T.J. “Oh, I get it. It’s a joke.”
    I guess, T.J. thought. Whoever I am, I have a sense of humor.
    They came upon a large open area, sparsely furnished, except for the man who stood on his head in the middle of the floor, watching them. Some mattresses lay along the far, windowed wall. On all the other walls, mirrors, including the one set behind a makeshift galley kitchen. The smell of good coffee scented the air.
    When the man righted himself to face Zoey and T.J., the motion was fluid. He was short, but well built, with lean hips. His tight Gortex shirt showed well developed chest and upper arm muscles. His gaze was potent.
    “Les Deux Columbines,” he said.
    “David,” Zoey said, “This is T.J.”
    David bowed with a flourish. “Welcome.” All the while T.J. felt his eyes on her. He’d seen the newspaper.
    “T.J. has a problem, David.”
    “I should think so,” David said. He took three mugs from a cabinet and set them on the galley countertop. “Coffee is almost ready.”
    “See, I told you,” Zoey said. She hung her coat on one of the wall hooks and gestured for T.J. to do the same. “David just knows. Tell him, T.J.”
    T.J. hesitated. Besides amnesia, did she have, she wondered, some other brain injury that made each day a totally new experience, as if she were constantly stepping off the girder of a tall building under construction? Yet what else was she to do? She couldn’t go back because there was nothing there. She had to go forward.
    She hung her jacket next to Zoey’s coat and reached into a pocket for the newspaper clippings. She handed the clippings to David, who put them on the counter without looking at them. He poured coffee into the mugs and expertly brought all three to the center of the room, set them on the floor and lowered himself tailor fashion. Zoe and T.J. joined him in an almost identical motion.
    “We’re having a pow-wow,” T.J. murmured to the tune of “We’re Having a Heat Wave.” She took a sip of the strong coffee, didn’t know where to begin.
    Again, the sharp, contemplative look from David.
    “T.J. doesn’t know who she is,” Zoey blurted. “She woke up in Mount Sinai and ran away because someone scary came and said she was this what’s-her-face?”
    “Mary Lou Salinger,” David said. “This morning’s news said there’s a reward for information. We can use the money.”

14
    D ESPAIRING , T.J. wilted over her crossed legs, registering Zoey’s, “David!” So he had known. It was over. Mary Lou had won. She hid her face in her hands.
    A roar of sound filled her ears, her brain. She was flying through the air, tumbling, rolling on tarmac. A soft landing, soft and giving, blood sodden,