Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

stopped at a newsstand and bought the News and the Post , folded them under her arm. Better to read the stories in Zoey’s apartment than on the street.
    “David will tell you he lost it.”
    “David didn’t like him.”
    “David likes you.”
    “What?” T.J. was startled.
    “He likes you. You’ll be part of the troupe.”
    “He likes me for the troupe, you mean.” She was uneasy.
    “No, more, I think.” Zoey stared straight ahead. “He was different with you.”
    “How different?”
    Zoey thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Tender, sort of.”
    “Zoey, this is all wrong. I’m not sure I can handle any of this. It might be better if I left.”
    “No, please don’t go.” Zoey clutched her arm. “It’ll work out all right.”
    She sighed. “Where would I go?” But it was in the front of her mind that she might have to leave, sooner rather than later. She could call the cop, Metzger. She didn’t need his card. David had read the card out loud. The Twenty-first Precinct. It was personal, he’d said. About Leslie.
    There was some good news: her photograph on the front page of both newspapers had shrunk to the size of a passport photo. No one could think it looked like her. But there was a little more to the story. Yes, a ten thousand dollar reward was being offered for information leading to Mary Lou Salinger, the only known witness to the explosion of the executive jet on the Teterboro runway. The explosion had now been pronounced deliberate sabotage. Three bodies had been recovered but not yet identified.
    “It says I either escaped or was kidnapped from the psychiatric ward of Mount Sinai and was spotted in Grand Central Station at a coffee bar during the night.”
    “If they come looking for you tonight, they’ll find me,” Zoey said, yawning. “That should take care of it.”
    “I hope so.” She read on. “Calls have been coming in from all over the city with sightings.”
    They both laughed. “Like Elvis has left the building. Let’s get some sleep,” Zoey mumbled. “You can look for a job tomorrow.”
    But sleep for T.J. was not easy to come by. She lay on the sofa staring up at the ceiling. Her eyes began to itch and she sneezed. “Chat,” she whispered. “Come out, I know you’re here.”
    Before long she felt the warmth settling at her feet. It was strangely comforting, and at that point she must have drifted into sleep. The comfort ended quickly.
    She was running, somewhere, anywhere, away from the noise and blood. But it followed her, swooping down, forcing her to her knees. Up again, running, the huge overcoat tangling her feet. Fear parched her throat, numbed her lips.
    She was dreaming, knew she could stop it, but if she did, she’d be back to T.J. So she let it run with her. Bells rang. She was under a mattress. They were standing on it, crushing her. She couldn’t breathe. Then the shot—
    “Damn!” Zoey said.
    T.J. woke shuddering. Chat was heavy on her chest, purring.
    Zoey stood over her, pieces of broken crockery in her hand. “I woke you. I’m sorry. I dropped a mug.” She dumped the pieces in a garbage bag.
    T.J. pushed Chat off and sat up. “I’m glad you did. I was having a horrible dream.”
    “I’m leaving now. Go back to sleep. We’re out of coffee, I’m afraid.”
    “Zoey, will you be okay?”
    “Sure.” She smiled a crooked smile. “Last night was just last night. It won’t happen again. At least not so soon.”
    After Zoey left, T.J. found teabags and made herself a cup of tea. She cut the articles on Mary Lou and the explosion from the newspapers and read them through again.
    A phone number was provided, for information, which if it were correct, would get the caller the ten thousand dollar reward. A local number. She folded the articles and put them aside. Unfolded them and looked at the number again.
    The phone was in the bedroom. She took it back to the sofa with her and punched in the numbers from the article.
    “NYPD Hot line.” A man’s voice. Bored.
    “Hello, I have some information about Mary Lou Salinger,” she said. “I know where she is.”
    “Hold on, I’ll patch you through.”
    Patch me through? Who was going to take the call? Mary Lou’s pseudo uncle? The burr of a ring.
    She started to hang up, stayed when the burr stopped and a woman answered, “Special Agent Blue.”
    “Special Agent Blue?” Code blue. Judy Blue. Judy Blue? Where had that free association thread come from?
    “Yes.”
    Who call