Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

job, Rita had put herself through law school.
    “If you hadn’t shown up, I probably would have left.”
    “And they were waiting for you. If you wouldn’t let them in, they would grab you when you got to the street.”
    “So what do we do now?” She got the coffee pot and poured coffee into two mugs.
    “First, let’s have a good look at you, Leslie. Sit.” Rita took a sip of coffee. “How are you dealing with this news about Billy Veeder?”
    “Dealing? I’m not. I don’t remember much about him, Rita. Just a few scraps that came back, but it’s like there was nothing there.”
    “Poor Billy. He’d hate that he didn’t leave a lasting impression.”
    “Billy. You knew him, too. Everybody knew him.”
    “He was something, Leslie. Larger than life. All that stuff—power and sex. I knew him when he was just another one of the boys on the job, granted a little more ambitious. After Joey died and I decided to go to Fordham Law, who should be there, but charming Billy.”
    “Ah—” Leslie squinted at Rita. “So he really was a good lover.”
    Rita smiled. “Some things recede with time, but not that.”
    Leslie returned the smile. It was a girl thing, she knew. “I love your son, Rita.”
    She took Leslie’s hand. “I know that. And he loves you.”
    “He told you?”
    “He doesn’t have to.” She took another sip of coffee. “Let’s get out of here.”
    “But if we go downstairs, Madam Special Agent Blue will pick me up.”
    Rita rummaged in her purse and handed Leslie two keys. “My apartment. Eighteen Fifth.”
    “That’s new, right?”
    “Yes. About six months. It’s a penthouse. Four tiny rooms and a three way terrace. My treat for reaching senior status. I told the concierge your name is Isabella.”
    Leslie laughed and patted Izz.
    “Well, it was the first name I could think of. Here’s what you do. There’s a back door on the ground floor that leads to an alley. A lot of the houses in Chelsea have back alleys, just keep opening doors to the right and watch out for the garbage cans. You’ll come out near Seventh Avenue. Grab a cab and go straight to my place. If you run into a problem, in case someone’s blocking the alley, come back and we’ll figure out something else. I’ll wait a half hour and then go out the front door.”
    “Do you have a computer?”
    “A laptop, why?”
    “I need to do some research on Jason McLaughlin, because all this crap is about him and his business in obscure way.”
    “Jason McLaughlin. The missing financier.”
    “Yes.”
    Rita frowned. “How odd.”
    “Odd?”
    “I won a lawsuit for a client several years ago. We sued her former employer. He was a piece of work. Used a lot of different aliases to cover his past. Jason McLaughlin was one of them.”
    “Could it possibly be the same man?”
    “Possibly. The one we sued was hirsute, mustache, beard, hair in ponytail. Grubby looking. The coincidence did make me wonder, but the pictures in the papers these last few weeks show someone clean cut, clean shaven.”
    “What did you sue him for, can you tell me?”
    “Sure. Sexual harassment.”

35
    T HE FIRST sensation: Hammering in her head. Her shoulders locked into her neck. She willed her eyes open, dreading. No one standing over her. No voices. Raise your head, she thought. Be wary. Don’t let them see. Them? Pain in her chin, jaw. She was lying on her stomach, splayed, nose in the dirt, blood on her lips. Where the hell?
    Groaning, she took inventory, moving each limb, spitting out dirt, not teeth, thank God. Memory came slithering back, some, soon more than she was prepared for.
    It was a large emerald, sandwiched between two hearty diamonds. He’d pulled her down on his lap, taken her unsuspecting hand in his, and slipped it on her finger. She couldn’t pull her eyes away. “It’s beautiful.” What was this with emeralds? Four years ago another powerful and attractive older man had presented her with an emerald, and the assumption of a marriage, and she had tried on the first, thought about the second, felt uncomfortable with the fit of each, and rejected both.
    Smith’s voice lilted into her head. “If they give, you take, if they take, you scream.” Would Smith scream and run from Bill Veeder? Not on your life. Not on anyone’s life. Would Wetzon?
    He was trying to read her, arms caging her, eyes winter blue.
    “What does this mean?” she asked.
    “That we have an after life,” he said.
    “After life?”