Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

the counter in front of her. “Go on.” When she hesitated, he took her hand and thrust it into the ice.
    “Yow!”
    “Swelling’ll go down.”
    “Thanks.” She looked at her hand. “What a mess.” She patted it dry with a napkin. “What time is it?”
    “Almost three. You live around here?”
    “Staying with a friend. She was supposed to meet me here tonight. I have to find another place, if you know of anything. I just need a room.” Zoey must have found something better to do, she thought. She handed Wally the empty bottle and collected her jacket. “I’m on my way. See you tomorrow.”
    “Six,” he said, shaking the ice from the bowl into a towel. “Wrap your hand in this.”
    If she’d expected empty quiet streets, she was wrong. Groups of young people were standing in front of bars, smoking, though temperatures had dropped. It was Friday night, actually early Saturday morning. The weekend had begun. Car traffic was steady. Restaurants and cafes were beginning to empty out. She walked down Avenue B to Fifth Street, then cut west.
    The side streets were deserted and she quickened her gait, looking back over her shoulder. No one seemed to be following her. Fifth Street was like a painted set she’d wandered onto. The Twilight Zone. She’d seen those old television dramas. For all she knew she could have entered another dimension. She wrapped the ice laden towel tighter around her hand.
    Avenue A was back in the real world again. Fifth Street again, more darkness and quiet. A car rolled slowly past her. She didn’t realize she was running until she reached First Avenue and had to stop for the red light.
    She was only a half a block from home. When the green “walk” signal came, she rushed across the wide street. The wind lifted her hat; she grabbed it. The Mets cap. She hadn’t returned it.
    She tucked her hair up under it to hold it tighter. All she was thinking about when she unlocked the outside door was a hot shower and washing the smell of beer from her hair.
    The building was still, the lobby barren except for an empty grocery cart to the left of the elevator, which was waiting for her. Weary, her hand throbbing, she walked down the hall to Zoey’s apartment, fumbling for the key.
    It wasn’t necessary. The door wasn’t locked. It locked automatically when the door closed. She was sure she’d closed it when she left. No. Zoey was careless about the door. When she threw the garbage in the incinerator, she shifted the lock so she could get back into the apartment without her key. She’d forgotten to put it back when she went out. Damn.
    T.J. pushed open the door. Something brushed her face. Zoey’s coat. It was hanging where she always left it—on the hook behind the door. The lights were on. The cloying smell of orange juice mixed with others, more acrid, more terrifying.
    “Zoey?” She moved past the door. The living room looked as if a cyclone had hit it. Sofa cushions gutted, foam protruding. The refrigerator door hung open, food containers smashed. Orange juice under foot. “Zoey?” The extent of the ruin stupefied her, but only for a moment. Zoey. She dropped the towel. Ice cubes spattered over the debris.
    Zoey lay in a fetal position amid the devastation of the bedroom, her head against the radiator. In her rush, T.J. stepped into something slippery and came down hard only inches from Zoey. Urine, vomit, blood, the rest. “Zoey?” She rolled Zoey onto her back. Had she had a seizure when the burglars came? Her face was so battered she was unrecognizable. No pulse. Who was she kidding? These were no burglars. They were looking for T.J. And they’d killed Zoey. Dear, kind Zoey.
    Beer rose bitter in her throat. Leaning over the toilet, she threw up bile. She drove back her tears. Call 911. What if Zoey was still alive?
    After a quick search she found the phone under the bed and crawled under for it. Under the bed. She froze. A fragment of memory filtered through. No. Not now. She punched in 911. “She’s not breathing.” She gave the address, Zoey’s name. “The apartment’s been burglarized. She’s been beaten up. And she’s an epileptic.”
    “What is your name?”
    “Please come right away.” T.J. hung up. Zoey was dead. It should have been you, she told herself. She bent down over Zoey and touched her battered face. “Dude. Oh, dude.”
    Where was Chat? “Chat?” She had to leave, run, get away. What if they discovered she was still alive? A