Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

Okay?”
    “Okay.” He was driving uptown on First Avenue. “Where’s her office?”
    “Reebok Sports Club building. I want to stop and feed Izz before we go to Marty Lawler.”
    “That’s the plan.”
    “Where does Marty Lawler live?”
    “Washington Heights, Cabrini Boulevard.”
    “I’ve never been up there, except to go to the Cloisters. Hey, we should go to the Cloisters some time.”
    He turned west on Eighty-fifth Street and joined the crawling crosstown rush hour traffic. As they waited for a light to change, he said, “You saw it?”
    She knew he wasn’t referring to the Cloisters. “Yes.”
    “You okay?”
    “Yes. Smith wasn’t though.”
    “Oh?”
    Wetzon watched the people on the sidewalks who were making better time that the cars. Her response was detached. “She had an affair with him, right after Hartmann died.”
    Silvestri made a strangling noise.
    “Oh, go on, laugh out loud.”
    He did. “You gotta give it to him—” With an ever so slight shade of admiration.
    “Yeah? And what does that say for me?”
    “I told you how he felt about you, Les.”
    Silvestri double-parked in front of her building. “Feed, water, and a short walk,” she said.
    She picked up her mail and phoned Carlos on her way upstairs.
    His answering machine took the call. She left a message: “Had a decent day, going with Silvestri to see a lawyer tonight. I know you’re worrying. Stop. I’m okay about Bill. Maybe I’m still in shock. Love you, sweet thing.”
    As she shook dry food into Izz’s bowl, she had an inspired thought. Carolyn Dorley. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? She rinsed Izz’s water bowl and filled it with fresh water. The phone book. If a dog could have a reproachful expression, Izz would qualify. “Go on, eat. It’s perfectly good dog food, and that’s all you’re going to get. I suppose Silvestri’s been feeding you junk food.” More reproach, this with a twitching nose.
    While the dog ate, Wetzon paged through the phone book. Lots of Dorleys. No Carolyns, but one C. Dorley, at Nine Hundred West End Avenue. She called the number. An answering machine picked up. Carolyn’s voice.
    “Carolyn, this is Leslie Wetzon. Please call me.” She left her cell number.
    Now the question was, should she tell Silvestri? It might be easier to talk to Carolyn woman to woman. A short bark from Izz waiting at the door drove the thought from her head.
    She attached Izz’s collar and leash and brought her downstairs, where Silvestri, who was leaning against the passenger side door, caught the fluffy, white guided missile as she flew at him.
    “Dog food breath.” He set her down to do her business. “We’ll be late,” he told Wetzon, as she collected Izz’s outlay in the plastic bag. He opened the door and Izz sailed into the car and burrowed into small space between the seats.
    Wetzon shrugged. “We might as well take her with us. Just stop at a trash basket so I can get rid of this.”
    “I guess I’ll have to arrest you.”
    “Aw, Silvestri, you wouldn’t do that, would you? It’s my first offense.”
    “I’ll bet.”
    Izz crawled out of the space the minute the car began moving and snuggled up next to Silvestri, giving Wetzon an almost female, he’s-mine-try-and-get-him glance. “Bitch,” Wetzon said.
    Marty Lawler lived in Castle Village, a collection of high-rises on the cliffs in the northernmost section of Manhattan known as Washington Heights, for the colonial Fort of the same name that had stood at One hundred Eighty-first Street. His building was well kept, the lobby clean and spacious.
    When they got off the elevator on the sixth floor, a chunky woman, her streaked blonde hair in a ponytail, beckoned to them from an open door two apartments down. “Silvestri, right?” She wore tight jeans and a leather jacket. The red edge of a lightning tattoo showed above the neck of her tee. “I’m Mary Elizabeth, Marty’s my dad. You’re Leslie?” She shook hands. “Cute dog.” Dipping into her shoulder bag for keys. “He’s been going nuts waiting.” Stuck her head in the door. Nora barked, Izz responded. “I’m going now, Dad. You call me if you need anything.” She stepped aside, let them in, and closed the door behind them.
    “My younger daughter’s always rushing somewhere,” Marty said. “Come on in, grab a seat.” He came to meet them, swiveling his head, trying to catch what he could from his peripheral vision. “I see you brought a