Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

Silvestri said. “This is never going to be her home.”
    “Good to see you, too, Silvestri.” Agent Blue pressed her finger to the panel and a buzzer sounded. “Follow me.” She led them down a long hall and into a large open room filled with cubicles containing desks, computers, and telephones. Most of the desks were unoccupied. Two agents stood talking in an aisle, one the man who’d greeted them. The agents stopped talking and watched Leslie and Silvestri. Agent Blue nodded to them.
    Her cubicle was on the right side of the room, halfway down. It held a filing cabinet and a standard institutional desk, two chairs parked in front. A map of the city was scotch taped to one low wall. Agent Blue motioned them to the chairs. Steam rose from the coffee container when she removed the cover. She sat down at her desk, a tight squeeze, and gave Leslie a hard look.
    “So, tell me, Leslie,” she said, “what did you do with the diamonds?”

26
    “E XCUSE ME ?” At first Leslie was not sure she’d heard right, but it was as if a switch marked “trembling begin” had been thrown. She might have said more, but Silvestri cut her off.
    He put himself between her and Agent Blue, blocking off contact. “Don’t say another word, Les. You don’t owe them any explanations.”
    “Oh, but she does.” Judy Blue seemed unperturbed. “Sit down and let’s talk like professionals.”
    “Shall I step outside?” Though Leslie’d intended irony, her voice sounded squeaky, inadequate. The room pitched.
    Silvestri turning, touched her cheek. She ducked her head against him. His rage was hot. “Let’s go,” he said, taking her elbows, lifting her.
    “Sit down,” Agent Blue said.
    “What for?” He was walking Leslie out. “So you can stick a gun in her face? It’s not going to work like that.”
    “She has information we need.”
    “And she’s been through hell and can’t remember what you got her into.”
    The elevator came and they got on. No sign of Agent Blue.
    In the lobby Silvestri returned their badges to the security guards.
    “I thought I was going to pass out,” she said, unsteady, leaning on him.
    “I’m taking you home.” He looked for a cab, but there was never much activity in the City Hall area on a Saturday.
    “I don’t mind walking,” she said.
    “I didn’t like the way you looked in there.” He squeezed her hand.
    “I’m okay now,” she said. “I don’t know anything about diamonds.”
    “I know that.”
    “I would have liked to have heard what I’m involved in.”
    “They weren’t going to give us anything. I saw that right away. That’s the way they work. Shit, they’re still taking credit for breaking the first World Trade Center bombing, when we did all the work.” He stopped to light a cigarette, inhaled once, twice, with pleasure, then stamped it out. “I wouldn’t put it past them to have the whole place up there bugged.”
    “What will they do now?”
    “They know where I live. They’ll come to us this time. It’s better that way. There’s a cab.”
    When they got into the cab, she said, “I’d like to go to the precinct and tell them about Zoey.”
    “Are you sure, Les? It can wait another day.”
    “I want to get it over with.”
    The Ninth Precinct was on Fifth Street across Second Avenue. No wonder the cops were there so fast.
    “Stick to the murder,” Silvestri said. “Nothing about the FBI crap. Keep it simple.”
    Squad rooms were squad rooms, she thought. The FBI had neat little cubicles for obsessive compulsive law and order, the NYPD still smacked of a jock enclave of old desks, a few computers, typewriters, paper, chipped and scarred filing cabinets, and the pervading smell of pizza, doughnuts, and burnt coffee. The NYPD felt less surreal.
    Detective Dolores Hammond came to greet them. Everything about her was taut, including her short, tight curls. She was built like a long distance runner.
    The squad room was small, if not cozy, and grubby. Hammond’s partner, introduced as Zoot Kaminsky, pulled over a second chair for Silvestri. Silvestri knew him and they traded some information about people no one else knew.
    “Can I get you some coffee?” Detective Hammond asked.
    “I wouldn’t recommend it,” Silvestri said.
    Hammond grinned. “It’s okay. I brought the coffee maker and I make it. It’s not the usual poison.”
    After Kaminsky served up the coffee, Hammond said, “So what’s your interest in this,