Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

themselves special agents? Only the FBI. Well, that makes sense. It was an explosion. Maybe it was an international terrorist thing.
    “Yes?” Special Agent Blue prompted.
    “Um, I think I saw that woman you’re looking for.”
    “Where?”
    “Grand Central Station. This morning. Leaving a coffee shop.”
    Special Agent Blue paused, as if she was thinking. “And you are?”
    “Special Agent Blue, what is your first name?”
    “Judy. Judy Blue.”
    Her hands spasmed. “I can’t talk any more. I have to catch a train.” Maybe they were tracing the call. “Just tell me, what has she done?”
    “It’s okay,” Special Agent Blue said, “It’s okay to come in now.”

17
    S HE WALKED eastward at first, toward the river, then uptown, savoring the sun on her face, trying not to think about how she could have known the name of the FBI agent, Judy Blue. What had Judy Blue said? It’s okay to come in now . What did that mean? Was she an undercover agent for the FBI? Or was it like Robert Redford in Three Days of the Condor ? Did they want her to come in so they could get rid of her? Were those two men chasing her with the FBI? CIA?
    Her mind was as mushy as the melting slush piles of snow. It wasn’t fear she felt, but a small kernel of anger. And maybe this was good. It was part of her character, being slow to anger.
    She stopped in her tracks. Part of her character was slow to anger? Hold on, she told herself. It’s coming back.
    She needed coffee and a real breakfast, bacon and eggs and a toasted bagel. The Big Dipper was a small restaurant cum coffee shop on Avenue B, near Tenth Street. It had a sign in the window: HELP WANTED: NIGHT CASHIER, PLUS.
    She sat at the counter, behind which was a myriad of liquor bottles, and ordered the breakfast special. “What’s the plus mean?” she asked the counterman when he came back from the kitchen. He was an aging, freckled, motorcycle type with a buzz cut and a couple of gold hoops in one ear.
    “You know, fill in when it gets busy at night.” He gave her the once-over.
    “I need a job.”
    “You’re hired.” He set the coffee mug down in front of her and grinned. “Minimum wage and you keep your own tips.” He gave her a sharp look. “I pay cash, no benefits.”
    “What are the hours?”
    “Six till closing. I try to close around one, Monday through Thursday. On Friday and Saturday, I’ll need you till two or later. My girlfriend does Sundays.” He returned to the kitchen and brought back her breakfast.
    “Okay. When do I start?”
    “You can start tonight. I’m Wally, Wally Dipper.” He held out his hand. “Dress hip.”
    “Hip?”
    “You know, cool. Show us a little.”
    She grinned, shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Wally. I’m T.J.,” she said.
    “T.J. what?”
    She hesitated. “Just T.J.”
    “Yeah. Okay, T.J. Go on and eat, it’s on the house.”
    After breakfast, she wandered around the neighborhood looking for a place to buy used clothing, but didn’t see any. She didn’t have much money left. She’d have to borrow something from Zoey until she had her own money. And she had to replace the money she’d stolen from Lucy at the hospital.
    On First Avenue, she found an army navy store and bought camouflage pants and used jeans, each in as tight a fit as she could handle. After adding a black tee-shirt to the mix, she was close to the end of her money. Maybe Zoey would have a sexy top and slides so she could dress up the costume. Afterward, she wandered through the big drug store discounter, Duane Reade, and found a package of three cotton panties, an eyeliner pencil and mascara. That left her with just ten dollars, a pocketful of change, and the MetroCard. She stopped at a small grocery and bought a can of Melitta coffee.
    Zoey was sleeping, but Chat greeted her, nestling against her legs, purring. T.J. put food out for the cat, stayed with her black leggings, but added the new black tee-shirt, and borrowed joggers from Zoey. She made a pot of coffee. David had said twelve. There was no point in antagonizing him, and besides, she’d rather enjoyed herself as a mime.
    He’d been waiting for her, although his surprise was artful. He wanted her to like him. She saw that was the way it would be. She hung up her jacket, aware this gave her some control of her situation.
    He took her hand. “Here,” he said, indicating one of the stools in front of the mirror wall, “let’s see how you do with the makeup.” He set a