Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

and started defending the criminals—”
    Silvestri’s hand came down on Leslie’s shoulder. Leslie jumped, startled. What was she missing here?
    “Say it, Blue,” Silvestri said, the cigarette sharp on his breath.
    “The second body was an attorney by the name of William Veeder.”

32
    “M OTHERFUCKER ,” S ILVESTRI muttered under his breath. He shook his head as if after a blow, trying to clear his brain. “Les?” He knelt beside her, grasped her hands folded in her lap.
    She thought, she should feel something, something , but she felt nothing. Judy Blue just observed. Leslie Wetzon: The specimen under the microscope. Gelber ditto.
    “What the hell was he doing there?” Silvestri barked. He stood, hands gentle on Leslie’s shoulders.
    “Perhaps Ms. Wetzon can tell us? After all, he was her lover.”
    Silvestri’s hands went rigid.
    “I don’t remember him,” Leslie said. “I’m sorry he’s dead, I’m sorry for his wife.”
    Agent Blue inhaled, tilted her head back, and not hiding her triumph, blew smoke into the air. “You don’t remember him, but you know he was married?”
    “Carlos told me about him, about the affair. It just doesn’t mean anything to me.” But it should, she told herself. What kind of unfeeling person are you? She looked into the middle distance, tried to conjure up a face, but others intruded, Marty Lawler, David Lumare, men in cashmere overcoats, Bruegel-faces.
    The carryall was near the door when she came in. He was standing in front of the windows looking out at the view. He knew she was there but didn’t turn around.
    “You’re taking the case, then?” she said.
    “Come with me,” he said.
    “You know I can’t.”
    “We’ll sell Xenia on opening a branch in L.A.”
    “Fat chance with the economy in recession and the aftermath of 9/11.”
    “I could be out there for months.”
    “What about Evelyn?”
    “She won’t notice I’m gone.”
    “And me?”
    “I’ll take a house on the beach.” He turned to her now. “I want you with me, I need you.”
    “Here’s the scenario. Bill Veeder moves to L.A. lock, stock, and mistress, to defend Dooney Bellemore, Nascar racer, wife beater, and murderer.”
    “Leslie—”
    “Excuse me. Innocent until proven guilty.”
    “If you love—”
    She cut the air with the side of her hand. “It’s not about love. I just don’t see myself as a camp follower. Not in this life.”
    His response surprised her. “Would you marry me if I was free?”
    “That’s not the way it is, is it?”
    “You haven’t answered me.” Cool blue eyes, sharp cheekbones. The lawyer on cross.
    True, she hadn’t answered him. Would she marry him if he were free? I don’t know, she thought. He was great looking, caring, sensitive, a wonderful lover, easy to talk to, established and successful, with all the collateral material like money, cars, apartment above the Museum of Modern Art. He was a whole generation older, stalwart and reliable. “I don’t know,” she said.
    “Well then maybe some distance will be good.” He tipped her chin up, intent, as if memorizing her face. His breath was warm and Scotch scented.
    “Sounds as if you’re cutting all ties.” She was confused by her feelings. Disappointment? Maybe. Heartsick? Good question.
    “Does it?” A gentle kiss, another, and another.
    She softened. “I’ll visit, but you’ll be too busy to spend time on us.”
    “Try me, little package.”
    He wrapped her in voluminous black cashmere and carried her off.
    The voices were distant, intrusive.
    “Les, can you hear me?”
    A woman said, “She remembers more than she’s letting on.”
    “Get the hell out of here, both of you.”
    “Hey, catch her.”
    “Shit!”
    “Call an ambulance, Silvestri.”
    “Didn’t you hear me? Get out of here.”
    A door slammed. She was lifted, carried, on a bed, gone.
    “Leslie?”
    The hand was on the curtain. Not yet, she thought. It’s not safe.
    “Leslie, it’s Sonya. Come back. You know you can trust me.”
    Sonya. The voice, soft, almost hypnotic, drew back the curtain. Don’t open your eyes all the way. Wait till you’re sure.
    “Ah, there you are.”
    The woman called Sonya, sitting on the bed facing her, gave a tiny nod. Silvestri kissed Leslie’s forehead and left the room, closing the door.
    “Sonya?” Leslie said.
    “Sonya Mosholu. We’ve known each other a long time.” Broad-shouldered, short dark hair, dark eyes highlighted with mascara and taupey