Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

said. She sat back in the cab and gave Carlos’ sinewy thigh a squeeze.
    “I’m just one swell guy.” His sarcasm was belied by the tender cover of his hand over hers.
    The cab driver eyes were reflected in the mirror. “Where to, folks?”
    “Bellevue,” Carlos said.
    “Bellevue? Why are we going there?” Her first thought, Zoey is alive, wonderful, they’re taking me to her. But logic set in. Zoey was dead. Then, what if Silvestri was hurt?
    “Silvestri said he’ll meet you at the information desk in the main lobby.”
    He’s all right, she told herself, because he’s going to meet me in the lobby. “Bellevue is where they take wounded cops.”
    “You remember that?”
    “It’s events I don’t remember. And people.”
    “Here okay?” the driver asked.
    “Yeah.” Carlos gave him a ten. “Wait for me, I’ll be right back.”
    Leslie was dismayed. “You’re not coming with me?”
    “No, I’m just the delivery boy. Silvestri said he’d take it from here.” Carlos got out of the cab and helped her out. They went into the busy lobby through a revolving door. “There’s your boy,” Carlos said, waving at Silvestri. “Give us a hug, dear heart. You know where to find me?”
    She looked blank. He took a memo pad from his back pocket and jotted down numbers, handed it to her. Their hug was mutual. He shook hands with Silvestri and went back through the revolving doors to the cab.
    “Don’t yell,” she said, casting a apprehensive eye at Silvestri.
    “I’m not going to yell.” Prickliness in his voice.
    “You were. Just consider what I’ve been through.”
    “And you’re milking it. Consider this. You’re a material witness to murder. The Jersey cops want to talk to you. The Feebs’ll be back.”
    She held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Why am I here?”
    “I want you to meet someone.” He took her hand. “You look like my Les again,” he said, touching her hair, trying all the while to cover his emotion.
    “Silvestri.” She rested her head against him.
    “Come on,” he said, putting his arm around her.
    They took the elevator to the fifth floor and walked down one corridor, passing doors open, half open. No hiding the hospital odors, disinfectant and institutional food. And fear.
    The floor bustled with activity. Nurses, aides, doctors, visitors. They passed a large nurses’ station, then went on. At the end of another long hall, Silvestri stopped. A cop sat in front of a door, reading the Post . When he saw Silvestri’s badge, he dropped the paper and stood.
    Uneasy, she wondered why Silvestri was being so mysterious?
    “How’s he doing?” Silvestri said.
    “He’s tough.”
    Silvestri knocked on the door, opened it. “You up for company?”
    “Sure,” came a voice from within.
    “Come on, Les.” He pulled her in after him.
    The whine of the dog didn’t register at first. What she saw was riveting. The man in the bed had bandages that started at his shoulder and disappeared under the blanket. He was big and broad, almost overwhelming the bed. His hair was sprouted, disordered, thick and gray. The beginnings of a red streaked white beard covered the lower part of his face. His eyes were turned toward them, but she realized he was blind.
    “Back so soon, Silvestri?”
    This time she heard the whine, saw the golden retriever leave the side of the bed and move toward her. She stood stock still for a moment, reeling, flooded with baffling sensations, then dropped to her knees, arms around the dog.
    “Nora,” she said.

31
    “L ES ,” S ILVESTRI said, offering her a hand up. “This is Marty Lawler.”
    “Pull over a chair for the lady, Silvestri,” Marty Lawler said. “We have a lot to talk about.”
    Wetzon pulled off her beret. “You’re the blind man from the bus,” she said, sitting, trying to remember more. She looked to Silvestri. “Why is there a cop outside the door?”
    “Marty was shot in the Port Authority trying to prevent your being kidnapped.”
    “And it helps that I was on the job for twenty-five years,” Marty said.
    “I’m so sorry.” She stared at Marty’s bandages. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Everybody who tries to help me—”
    “Hey!”
    Marty held up his hand. “Let her be, Silvestri. She’s entitled to a little self-pity, don’t you think?” The lilt in his voice ameliorated the irony.
    “You were badly hurt,” she said.
    “I’ll have to shoot lefty from now on.”
    “He was in bad shape