Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

Leslie’s partner. What kind of person is Leslie if she’s in business with that woman?”
    “She’s a babe,” Zoey said. “And she looks like she’s got money. What kind of business is it, do you suppose?”
    “Do you have a phone book?”
    “Under the bed.” She brought it to T.J., who blew off the clumps of dust before opening it to the business section.
    “If it’s a partnership, want to bet she’d list herself first? God, look at all the business Smiths. Let’s forget it.” She closed the directory and rested her head on the back of the sofa. Lethargy enveloped her like a deep brown fog. She didn’t want to know any more.
    “Give it here.” Zoey found the page with the Smiths and ran her finger down the names. “You’re probably right ... wait a minute. Here’s a Smith and Wetzon. With a t z. That’s pretty close. Come on, T.J., make the call.”
    T.J. shook her head. “You do it. What if they recognize my voice?”
    “Well, isn’t that the point? Don’t you want to know who you are?” When T.J. didn’t answer, Zoey punched in the numbers. “Oh, hi,” she said into the phone. “Can you tell me what kind of business this is?” She listened intently. “Well, no, I’m not. I work for the IRS. An auditor.” She thanked the speaker, hung up, and let out a hoot.
    “You’re an auditor for the IRS?”
    “He asked me whether I was a stockbroker, and I just picked the most boring sounding job.”
    “You’re probably right, but why did he ask if you were a stockbroker?”
    “I don’t know. He said they’re executive search consultants. Very fancy. What does it mean?”
    “It means that if I’m this Leslie Wetzon, I’m a headhunter for stockbrokers.” She was sweating, jumpy, as if she’d had too much caffeine. She’d known the answer, said it without hesitation. Leslie Wetzon was a Wall Street headhunter. Jason McLaughlin, the man whose plane had exploded, was a financier. There had to be a connection. “I have to get out of here.” She got up and pulled on her jacket. “I’m due at the Big Dipper at six.”
    Zoey jumped up. “I’ll go with you.”
    “No.” She softened her tone. “Don’t worry, Zoey. I’m not going to do anything crazy. I just need some time to think about all this.”
    “Listen, T.J., I’m off tonight. “Why don’t I come and have a drink and we can go home together? What time do you finish?”
    “Two-ish.”
    T.J. broke into a jog as soon as she came through the outer door. West as far as Fifth Avenue, uptown, east again, block after block, until Tompkins Square Park loomed up in front of her. Her mind was jerking her in different directions. What was she to do? She’d been relieved that Zoey hadn’t insisted on coming along. If only she could talk to someone who was not one of the walking wounded, as Zoey was, as David, as was T.J. herself. She veered into the park and sat on a bench, hardly registering the dog walkers, the mothers with children.
    It was this terrible aloneness, being swallowed up in quicksand and no one to help her. She felt the tears start, and she hated them. This was not like her. She didn’t cry at the drop of a hat. She didn’t? How did she know that?
    An almost human shriek filled the air and a small white bundle landed on her lap. A cold nose nuzzled her face and strange mewling cries came from the animal. She held the trunk of the wriggling body away from her, its leash dangling from a red leather collar. A little white dog. A Maltese.
    “Hey, I’m really sorry.” A man was hurrying toward her. “She got away from me.”
    “It’s all right,” T.J. said, scratching the little dog’s ears. “She’s very sweet. What’s her name?”
    The man sat down on the bench and the dog jumped to his lap and covered his face with kisses and then came back to T.J. and did the same with her.
    “Isabella,” the man said. “Izz.” He wore dark glasses and a Mets cap, a windbreaker, jeans and joggers. A pepper and salt stubble almost hid the small cleft in his chin. He didn’t look threatening. “She can get a little exuberant sometimes.”
    She hugged the dog. “Izz, you’re very sweet. You came at just the right time.”
    The man seemed to be studying her from behind his dark glasses.
    She buried her face in the white fur.
    “Can I help?” His voice was soft, gentle. Maybe he was a shrink. He reminded her of the doctors at Mount Sinai.
    No. She didn’t know him. She was way too vulnerable. “I’ve got