Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

bathroom neatly arranged. No musty smell from a closed in space.
    On the kitchen counter she found a notebook listing the messages that had accumulated on her answering machine. Carlos.
    And a shopping bag held her mail, a note attached, saying: Bills paid, catalogues tossed. You owe me. XXX
    Oh, boy, did she.
    Everything looked the same—except—except, what was that on the shelf near the kitchen window? A big white thing with a huge red ribbon, a gift card attached. Dear heart, you are no longer the only person in New York without a microwave.
    Carlos!
    She picked up the phone and punched in his number.
    “Birdie! You’re home!”
    “You knew it was me. Spendthrift! You’ve got that caller ID thing. Boy, Verizon saw you coming.”
    “Indulge me, dear heart.”
    “Consider yourself indulged.” She choked up. “Thank you for taking care of everything.”
    “Everything except you, Birdie.”
    “Carlos—”
    “Birdie listen, I’m coming right over.”
    “No, no. I’m okay. Just more emotional than I used to be.”
    “Ha!”
    “Ha, yourself, my dear bud. I remember everything now from my sordid past except for what happened to me. Silvestri didn’t want me to come home, but I had to. I’ve got get my life back.”
    “I know, Birdie, darling, I know. And you have to believe we’re all with you in this.” He paused. “I hope that doesn’t mean re-enter the Barracuda, too.”
    “Carlos, get over it. She’s part of my life.”
    “The worst part.”
    “And you gave me a microwave, you monster.”
    “So I did. Try it, you might like it.”
    She weeded through some of the papers on her desk, tossing invitations to events that had already happened, memos she’d written herself about things to do. Lists. “I’m reserving judgment for now, mostly because I’ve had the fight knocked out of me.”
    “Sure. And if I believed that, I’d be buying that bridge to Brooklyn. Listen, Birdie, be honest. Are you going to be okay by yourself tonight?”
    “Of course. Do me a favor and call Silvestri and tell him I’m okay.” She hung up the phone and emptied the old copper stock pot she used for paper waste into a garbage bag, which is when she saw the jagged scrap of newspaper. It must have been resting in the bottom of the pot. She reclaimed it. Personal ads from the Village Voice . Circled was one: Executive seeks kindred female spirit—future guaranteed—for assistant position. Send photo and résumé. There was a post office box number in Deal, New Jersey. In the margin Wetzon had written Laura Lee and a phone number with a New Jersey area code.
    She punched in the number.
    “The number you have reached is not in service. For further information—” A new number was given. She dialed that one, but as soon as she heard the voice, she hung up, hoping it would be some time before the New Jersey branch office of the FBI shared the call-in numbers with New York, and Special Agent Judy Blue.
    Laura Lee had answered an ad and had gone to work for Jason McLauglin. This was about her uncle’s insurance company and the fraud she thought McLaughlin was perpetrating. She had jumped into a snake pit of huge proportions. And somehow, for some reason, Leslie Wetzon had gone in after her. Had Laura Lee called for help? Or, was the FBI the prime instigator from the very beginning?
    And what the hell did Bill Veeder have to do with all this?
    She turned off most of the lights, inspected her refrigerator. Empty except for a half dozen cans of Amstel Light. She opened one, shed Rita Silvestri’s sexy duds, and got into a steamy shower, balancing the can and the soap and doing a poor job with both.
    The can slipped from her hand and suds mingled with suds down the drain.
    The hair dryer was heavy in her hands and she had no energy to finish. She gave it up and crawled into bed.
    Coffee. It floated into her senses. A small whine and a cold wet nose nuzzled hers when she came out from under the covers. “Izz!” It was all a dream, a rotten dream.
    But it wasn’t. She saw that on Silvestri’s face when he came into the room. “How’d you get in?”
    “Made an exchange with Patrice.” He parked the guitar case and a Wall Street Journal on the floor near her closet. “Your things. Are you awake enough to hear me?”
    “Yes,” she said, with trepidation. “What’s happened?”
    “They’re releasing the news about Veeder later today. So be prepared, the press is going to come after you.”
    She sat up.