Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

this is heaven.”
    “Different?” Cautious, he took a long swallow of beer.
    “Different. Lighter, happier—”
    He set the bottle down, serious, and looked at her. “It’s come back.”
    “Most of it,” she said. “When I cracked my head in back of your house. I remember Smith, the business, everything except what I was doing as Mary Lou Salinger and how I got there and how I ended up at Mount Sinai.”
    “You remember Veeder?”
    “Yes.” He tightened, the joy receded. “Don’t go away, Silvestri,” she said, setting down what was left of the slice and reaching out to him. “Don’t put up the wall.”
    “Les, how do you feel about him?”
    “Sad.”
    “Sad.”
    “It was comfortable being with him, and I feel terrible about how he died, but I never really thought our relationship was long term. He was fun, Silvestri. He didn’t make me crazy. That’s your department. It was easy to be with him.”
    “He loved you, Les.”
    “You can’t know that.”
    “Oh, yes, I can. I asked him what his intentions were and he told me.”
    She flushed, hot. “Shit, Silvestri, that’s humiliating. How could you have done that?”
    “I had to know, Les. But I wasn’t sure about you.” He took her hands. “I wasn’t about to give up and walk away.”
    A key turned in the lock and Rita Silvestri came through the door, dropping her purse and coat on the love seat in the foyer.
    “So, you two ... is it serious?”
    Wetzon and Silvestri looked at each other and laughed.
    “There’s pizza and beer,” Wetzon said. She stood, knocking The Voice off the sofa. The pages separated, the personals face up. She was transfixed. “My God! The personals.” She grabbed up the newspaper. “That’s it! It’s how Laura Lee got to him.”
    Silvestri leaned across her and picked up the paper. “Got to who?”
    “Jason McLaughlin. He put ads in The Voice personals for girls and she answered one.”

37
    “T HAT DOES it.” Wetzon was on her feet. “Rita, if you’ll lend me some clothes, I’m going home.”
    “I think you should stay here tonight,” Silvestri said, standing, consuming another slice. “I’ll go home and feed Izz.”
    “My home, Silvestri, not yours. I’m tired of hiding out, wearing clothes that don’t fit, tired of being a homeless fucking waif.”
    Silvestri squinted at her, raised an eyebrow at his mother.
    “I’m not a waif.”
    Rita grinned. “Okay, I have this great pair of leather pants that I can’t squeeze into any more ...”
    “Great! Lead me to them.”
    “It might be nice if you asked me what I think,” Silvestri said.
    “About leather pants?”
    “You know what I mean, Les.” He was dead serious.
    Wetzon followed Rita into the bedroom, glad she’d straightened up the bed. “You’ll want to change your sheets.”
    Rita’s raised eyebrow look was an almost exact duplicate of her son’s. “I’m shocked, shocked.”
    “Hey,” Silvestri yelled from the living room. “I want you to know I don’t go along with this.”
    She yelled back, “Don’t argue, Silvestri. The only people stalking me are the Feebs, and what can they do to me? I’m going home and I’m going to pick up my life and maybe the rest of the shit that happened to me will come back.”
    “Sure, killers, kidnappers, and all,” he said.
    “Consider this, if they are still looking for me, maybe we can flush them out.”
    “Right. God save me from amateurs,” he said.
    “You’ll need a lawyer, Leslie,” Rita said, as Wetzon zipped up the fly on the black leather pants.
    They were not skin tight. She did a grand plié. Delicious. The leather, smooth against her skin, worked with her. “God, I’m a bone.”
    “You could use some fleshing out,” Rita said, “But you look a whole lot better in those pants than I did. Don’t return them. This should fit fine.” She gave Wetzon a red cashmere sweater. “Bones always look great clothed.”
    “A lawyer?” The sweater looked good, felt good. “You?”
    “No, not me. I don’t handle criminal or federal. I know the perfect person.”
    Silvestri was working on a fresh slice when he appeared in the doorway. “Who?”
    “Clo Hightower.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding.”
    “What’s wrong with her?” Wetzon asked, taking the half eaten slice from Silvestri and finishing it.
    “She’s got a fucking chip on her shoulder, hates cops.”
    “Only when they don’t do their job. Her clients love her and she wins her cases,” Rita