Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

and put them in the sink. “Sorry about this,” he said, shaking a cigarette from the near-empty pack. His inhale was uneven. He leaned on the door frame, arms folded. “So talk.”
    She sighed. “You think I’m faking this.”
    “If you are, you’re really good.”
    “Look, I don’t know why Bill Veeder was there. All I know is that he’s dead, and if there was so much going on between him and me, why don’t I feel anything?”
    Silvestri grunted. “You remembered something before you passed out.”
    “It was like a scene from a movie. A man I’m assuming was Bill Veeder was going to L.A. to take over the defense in a big murder trial and wanted me to come with him.”
    “Did the movie give you your answer?”
    “I said no.”
    “What a relief.”
    Was this, she thought, what had split us up? This sarcasm, this cold act? “I take it, then, that you don’t care one way or the other.” She got up and found the phone on the sofa. “So maybe I’ll call Carlos and stay with him until this is settled and I can go home.” Her voice wobbled, rose beyond her control.
    He was at her side in a flash, taking the phone from her. “I care,” he said. “Don’t you know that?”
    “I don’t know anything any more,” she screamed. “I’m very tired and want to stop.” He tried to hold her, saying her name over and over, but she struggled in his grasp, punching, screaming, “I’ve been fighting to stay alive since the explosion. Now I’m fighting with you, or you’re fighting with me. Maybe staying alive is just not worth it.”
    “Whatever,” he yelled, shaking her. “Whatever!”
    She fell back on the sofa, pulling him with her, a snarl of arms and legs, panting, fumbling with clothing and wild kisses.
    The insistence of Silvestri’s beeper jarred them awake.
    “Christ, Les,” he said, eyes opening wide. He tried to sit up.
    “Would you kindly remove your elbow from my stomach, Silvestri.”
    He untangled himself, squinting into the semidarkness. “Keep your judgmental comments to yourself,” he told Izz, who was sitting on the floor contemplating them. He gave Leslie his hand and pulled her into a sitting position.
    Their discarded clothing lay scattered around the sofa.
    “I guess—” she said, dislodging Izz from her sweater.
    “Yeah,” he said. His beeper went off again. He grunted, felt around on the floor. “Where the fuck—?”
    Leslie found where it had slid behind one of the sofa cushions and handed it to him. His hand lingered on hers. Hers closed over his. “Silvestri—”
    The second time was slow and gentle and in his bed.
    It was pitch black when she woke to rustling noises. He wasn’t lying next to her. “Silvestri?”
    “Go back to sleep.” The rustling noises became less amorphous. He was getting dressed.
    “Where are you going?”
    “Downstairs for a cigarette.”
    “You could smoke here.”
    “Too much second hand smoke.” He bent and kissed her. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
    She dozed, waiting. Dozed. A motor revved. Woke with a jolt. “Silvestri?” No response. She got out of bed and turned on a lamp. Went into the living room. Izz was lying flat, her nose to the door. Her tail gave a despondent flop. “He’s not back?” Shit, why was she asking the dog? She gathered up her discarded clothing and got dressed.
    Downstairs, she checked the vestibule, opened the outside door and looked up and down the street, hardly noticing the chill in the air. Night was making a slow drift into dawn. The street was quiet, dark except for the street lamp across the way.
    On the stone steps lay the pristine ash of a cigarette.
    There was no sign of Silvestri.

34
    H ER HOWL rose raw, excruciating, over the empty sidewalks, the dark and silent brownstones. It came back at her like a body blow, leaving her bent over, gasping for air. Her fingers went to the pencil of ash, all that remained of Silvestri, but it fell apart when she touched it.
    She stared at her charry fingers, the shock easing, the dread pushed back a little, just a little. You’re jumping to conclusions, she told herself. He’s probably gone for a walk, he’ll bring back bagels for breakfast.
    Izz, who’d followed her, reacted to Leslie’s fear with nervous little barks. Finally, the Maltese ran to the curb and did her morning routine.
    “Good dog.” Leslie picked her up and went back into the building, closed the door, climbed the stairs. Silvestri wouldn’t have abandoned me like