Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

friend for Nora.” He and Silvestri shook hands.
    “Isabella, Izz for short,” Wetzon said.
    While the dogs circled each other, sniffing rear ends, then noses, Silvestri, Wetzon, and Marty sat down at Marty’s dining table, in a windowed alcove near the kitchen.
    “Wow,” Wetzon said, gazing out the window. It was a spectacular view of the bridge that crossed the Hudson River, the one New Yorkers called the G.W., its brilliant lights defining it against the darkening sky. The first president was well represented up here.
    “Looking good, Marty,” Silvestri said.
    “Yeah. Feel pretty good. Can’t do much yet. They’ve got me with a goddam visiting nurse, would you believe? And a physical therapist. There’s coffee, Leslie, and cups set up on the counter. Milk in the fridge. And bring over that envelope you see there.”
    “What’s up?” Silvestri said.
    After Wetzon filled the cups and set them on the table, Nora came over and put her head in Wetzon’s lap. Izz growled and tried to push Nora away, butting one golden leg and then the other. Good natured Nora’s legs moved, but her head didn’t budge.
    “Okay, okay, girls,” Marty said. “Nora, here.”
    With a jump, Izz stated her claim to Wetzon.
    Marty emptied the envelope on the table. Coins, bills held with a paper clip, a braille watch, a bunch of keys on a chain. And a single plastic card. “The hospital forgot to give me my stuff when they discharged me, and I clean forgot to ask. They took it off me when I was brought in. Lucky Mary Elizabeth has a key. Anyway, don’t get antsy on me, Silvestri. I’m getting to it.”
    Silvestri grinned. “Well, get to it then.”
    “They gave Mary Elizabeth the lot when she went back.” Marty held up the plastic card. “You see this? Well, it’s not mine. I never seen it before.”
    “So what are you getting at, Marty?”
    “Hold out your hand, Leslie,” Marty said. Wetzon took the card. “What do you think? Seem familiar to you?”
    Nothing came from the card. No vibes, tremors, nothing. “It looks like a hotel room key card, Marty.”
    “You think Les passed it to you before you were shot?”
    “More likely slipped it into my pocket.”
    “Damn, I don’t remember any of this.”
    Silvestri took the card from Wetzon. “It’s for one of the Port Authority lockers.”

44
    A FTER DROPPING Izz off at Wetzon’s apartment, they drove down Ninth Avenue to Forty-second Street. Silvestri circled the blocks near the Port Authority Bus Terminal until they got lucky: a car pulled out of a space near the Al Hirschfeld Theatre just off Eighth Avenue on Forty-fifth Street. It was quarter to eight.
    Wetzon was nervous. Standing on the sidewalk waiting for Silvestri to lock the car, her knees felt fragile, as if they wouldn’t hold her up. What if, she thought, what if—
    “Hey,” Silvestri said, hands on her shoulders, “Don’t keep jumping ahead. Your imagination is worse than reality.”
    They walked the short distance down Eighth, clogged with evening traffic, to the huge, hideous buildings that make up New York’s Port Authority Bus Terminal. From here buses left for New Jersey, upstate New York, and all points of the compass, serving both commuters and long distance travelers. A continuous, though moving, line waited in front for cabs.
    While technically it was past rush hour, commuters were still pouring into the terminal to catch their buses home. The main lobby ran the length of the city block, from Eighth to Ninth, and was lined with shops and indented areas for particular bus company ticket counters. People of all colors and in varieties of costume hurried to their buses, like Alice’s rabbit. Her head spun.
    Silvestri steered her off to the side, where he was greeted by a burly, gray haired black man in a business suit standing in front of a Krispy Kreme doughnut shop. Obviously, a cop in plain clothes. They shook hands and clapped each other’s backs. Like old home week, she thought. Silvestri introduced him as Jimmy Baker. “We were at the academy together.”
    Wetzon wanted to scream as the two exchanged bits of information. Jimmy was with security at the Port Authority. Yeah, yeah.
    Something about the Krispy Kreme shop agitated her. The smell should have made her hungry, but she fought off a wave of nausea.
    “Yeah, Lois ... psychiatric social worker. Four grandkids.”
    “Hey,” Silvestri said, doing the shoulder punch again.
    Oh, yes, she thought. I’m going to