Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

“Good, eyeliner, mascara, shadow ... Will the FBI be open?”
    “Those intrepid guardians of our shores? Oh, sure. And I’ll bet Special Agent Blue will turn up as soon as she knows we’re there.” He buttoned the shirt and tucked it into his jeans.
    She shook out the black skirt. Not too creased. Skirt, sweater, blazer, okay. “May I use your shower?”
    A long moment passed. Her question was a stranger’s question. It had unsettled him, and she was sorry. She opened her palms and shrugged.
    “Make yourself at home,” he said.
    Dressed, her hair dried and pulled back from her face with a band, she made up her eyes. It was an imperfect job and she let it go. The bathroom was steamy, forcing her to keep wiping the clouds forming on the medicine cabinet mirror.
    When she stepped into the living room, Silvestri was drinking coffee and eating another sandwich. The newspapers were spread out on the table. He folded them, put them under the table.
    “Zoey?”
    “Yup. The tabloids love this stuff.”
    “I should look.” She didn’t want to.
    He finished the sandwich, rinsed his hands in the sink. “Later.”
    “What about the explosion?”
    He made a tiny measure with his thumb and forefinger. “On the business page. This Jason McLaughlin guy was—is—a piece of crap. He ran a big financial empire out of a mansion surrounded by electric gates—on the Jersey shore. Secretive verging on paranoia.”
    His words as she was drifting into the Valium haze came back to her. “The bodies. Do we know who they were?”
    “The pilot, three other bodies. The pilot and co-pilot have been identified. They were in the plane. The other two—a man and a woman.”
    “McLaughlin?” She opened the cabinet over the sink and took down a mug, perceiving she’d known it was there. Filled the mug halfway with coffee.
    “Maybe. The man would have been around six feet.”
    She made a strangled sound, dropped the cup into the sink. The cup exploded, coffee splashing.
    On his feet, Silvestri turned her to him. “What’s wrong?”
    She closed her eyes, shaking her head back and forth, back and forth. It was the not knowing that frightened her, as if the memory had skulked past, leaving only a backwash of dread.
    “Les, talk to me.”
    “It’s not Jason,” she said, unable to find words for the dread. “Jason is not much taller than I am.”

25
    T HE SUN was high, brilliant. As they left Silvestri’s brownstone, he stepped out first to check the street. Leslie shaded her eyes and lifted her chin, absorbing the rays. Refueling. Until the shriek.
    “Oh, fuck,” Silvestri said, throwing up his hands.
    “I might have known,” the shrieker screamed. “I’m her best friend and I’m the last person to know. Thank God for the Tarot.”
    “Huh?” Was this the missing Laura Lee? “Did she say Tarot? What did Tarot cards have to do with this?” Leslie peered around Silvestri. It was the awful woman she’d seen on tv. Her partner. Decked out like a fashion model, oval-lense shades, tight-fitting brown jodhpurs, high-heeled boots and a dark chocolate suede jacket over a black turtleneck, she was posed against a sable Jaguar double-parked across the street.
    “I have been trying to carry on our business, doing your work as well as mine, and let me tell you, sweetie pie, it hasn’t been easy. It’s time you stopped this ridiculous charade and got back to work. You have no idea how stressed I am.” She crossed the street and stood in front of them, a Valkyrie from Fashion Week.
    Leslie balled up her fist and tried to step around Silvestri. She was going to bop this bitch one right in her perfect face. Silvestri held her back.
    “Shut up, Xenia. This is exactly why I didn’t call you. Leslie has amnesia. She has been through some sort of trauma we don’t know anything about, and her life is in danger—” He was getting edgy, as people passed by dog walking, or with laundry or shopping carts, giving them curious stares.
    “I don’t believe any of this. After all we’ve meant each other, Wetzon, you’re going to treat me this way.” She burst into tears.
    “I don’t know you,” Leslie said, softening, coming out from behind Silvestri. “I’m sorry if I caused you any pain ... Xenia.”
    “Xenia? Xenia?” The Fashion Statement whipped off her sunglasses. “Oh, God help us, it’s true.” More tears. “You never in your life called me Xenia.”
    “Xenia, look,” Silvestri said. “We’re on our way