Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

said, placidly plucking a black alpaca poncho from her closet. “It’s chilly out there.”
    “And shoes,” Wetzon said.
    “What size are you?”
    “Seven narrow. You?”
    “Seven and a half.”
    “Close enough.”
    “Black slides. They pinch on me. Don’t want them back either.”
    Wetzon slid her feet into the high heeled slides. “Nice. What do you think, Silvestri?” Twirling for him, she didn’t quite duck his hands as they settled on her leather clad hips. She looked up at him and fluttered her lashes. “I’ll have that beer now, dearie.”
    “I wonder,” Rita asked, “Is it too late for grandchildren?”
    They packed Patrice’s offerings into a shopping bag.
    “Thank Patrice for me,” Wetzon said, handing Silvestri the bag. “I’ll get a cab.”
    “Wait a minute,” he said. “We’ll go together. I’ll pick Izz up and—”
    “I can handle being alone, you know, Silvestri.” It came out sharper than she’d meant it, and there came that guarded expression back on his face. “Oh, damn it,” she said. “That’s not what I meant.”
    “Isn’t it?” Arms folded, he looked belligerent.
    “Okay, kids, back off,” Rita said. She wrote a note on the back of her business card. “Here’s Clo’s phone number, Leslie. I’ll alert her that you’ll be calling.”
    “Tomorrow morning, from the office. I have a ton of catching up to do. Thanks for everything, Rita.”
    “You’ll like Clo, Leslie.”
    In the elevator, she caught Silvestri’s hand. “You know I have to do this. The rest of what I lost is going to come back. I want to be ready for it.”
    “I know. I just don’t want to let you out of my sight.” He took two keys off his key chain and gave them to her.
    “I’m back and I’m staying,” she told him. “And I’m broke.”
    “Yeah, right. What do you get by the hour?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out some bills.
    “A couple of hundred minimum.” She looked at the twenties he handed her. “But I’ll consider this a down payment.”
    He kissed her and put her in a cab, waited while she gave the driver her address.
    As they pulled away, she told the driver, “Changed my mind.” She gave him another address. She got out in front of the Museum of Modern Art, and walked to the Tower, where some years earlier MoMA had built luxury condominiums over the museum to cover the rising costs of its existence.
    She stood in front of the Museum Tower building, remembering.
    A hand clamped on her arm, the smell of human waste. “I need money for food.” The derelict was filthy, ragged, his breath noxious, eyes mad.
    “Let go!” She tried to pull away.
    “Dint I tell you to get away from here?”
    Wetzon recognized Fredric, Bill’s doorman. He charged at the derelict, a baseball bat in hand. The derelict let go of her and flicked open a knife.
    Fredric swung the bat and hit the derelict on the arm. The knife fell to the pavement, and the derelict ran off. “I’m sorry, Miss.” Fredric picked up the knife and closed it. “Oh, Ms. Wetzon, it’s you.”
    “Good evening, Fredric. That man frightened me.”
    “I’m sorry about it. I’ve called the police, but he keeps coming back. I’m afraid he’s going to hurt someone. First time he’s pulled a knife.”
    “You’re well prepared though.”
    “I keep the bat under the counter, just in case. First time I’ve ever had to use it.” He opened the door for her, and she stepped into the spacious, understated lobby. The concierge was not at his desk. Wilford put the bat back under the counter and after a brief pause, the knife. “Are you enjoying California?”
    The question caught her by surprise. He thought, perhaps all the service people thought, that she’d gone to L.A. with Bill.
    No need to contradict, she thought. “It’s not New York.”
    “Mr. Veeder will be arriving later?”
    He didn’t know? Of course. There’d been nothing in the media. For some devious reason, the FBI was holding back.
    She smiled with a hint of a nod.
    “That’s good.” He lowered his voice. “It was a bit awkward, you know. They wanted to get into his apartment, but—”
    “They? Who?”
    “You didn’t know? The FBI. Mr. Markham wouldn’t let them in without a warrant? We called Mr. Veeder’s office and Mr. Farber came right over and sent them away. He went upstairs to make sure everything was okay.”
    “Oh, my.” Mr. Farber, she thought. Who the hell was Mr. Farber? Bill didn’t have an