Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

ask her why she retired?”
    Smith made a right on Sixty-sixth and another right to Broadway, pulling out in front of a cab. The bearded driver swerved left and with the glare of a true killer, gave Smith the finger. “Our immigration policy is too lenient,” she said.
    “Smith, you’ll get us both killed, and if I don’t eat something soon, I’ll die.”
    Smith parked in front of a fireplug near Gray’s Papaya, the cheapest, most popular hotdogs in the city. “Get two and two papayas. Mayo on mine.”
    “Mayo? No New Yorker eats a hotdog with mayo.”
    “I do.”
    Shielding themselves with paper napkins, they ate the franks without getting interrupted. Smith said, “She didn’t want to talk at first. Said she couldn’t. She’d signed something. But she’s very upset about Bill.”
    “She signed some kind of confidentiality agreement, do you think?” Wetzon licked the mustardy grease from her fingers.
    “They must have given her a lot of money.”
    “Who’s they?”
    “Ah,” Smith said. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”
    “But if she won’t, can’t talk about it—”
    Smith rolled down her window. “Give me your garbage.”
    “No, you’ll only throw it on the street. Give it here.” Wetzon took the remains of their snack and dropped it in the trash basket. When she got back into the car, Smith had the motor running.
    “So we’re going up there even though she won’t talk to us?”
    “Babycakes, you always underestimate me.”
    Carolyn lived in the Columbia University area of the Upper West Side, in a pre-World War II high-rise on the corner of One hundred and Fourth. They drove up Broadway but since One Hundred and Fourth ran east, they had to make the turn on One hundred and Fifth to come around via West End.
    “Look for a parking place,” Smith said. She made the turn onto West End and encountered flashing lights. One hundred and Fourth Street was blocked off. “Is that a fire?”
    Wetzon peered out. “I don’t think so. I see an EMS truck and some police cars. And an ambulance. Smith, I’m getting a very bad feeling.”
    “Wait until we find a parking spot.” She turned right, toward Riverside Drive, and halfway down the block came upon an opening big enough for a scooter.
    “You can’t get in here,” Wetzon said. Oops, famous last words, she thought, as Smith lined up the sports car with the car in front and with an expert spin of the wheel, backed right into the space. “Oh me of little faith.”
    “You always doubt me, sweetie pie,” Smith said.
    “You’re absolutely right, and I’m sorry.”
    “It’s very hurtful.”
    “I’ll try to do better.”
    “Flip. You always make my feelings into a joke.”
    “Smith, I swear—” Abashed, Smith was right.
    They got out of the car. While Smith checked the locks, Wetzon looked down the street at the increasing activity.
    Two cops stood on the corner, turning away the curious. A van pulled up and was waved through.
    “Crime Scene techs,” Wetzon said.
    “Come on.” Smith, cheerful now, took Wetzon’s arm and piloted her across West End Avenue, strolling them right up to the two uniforms, one a woman. She gave the man one of her radiant smiles. “Officer, what’s happened?”
    “There’s been a homicide, Ma’am.”
    “Oh, dear, how dreadful. This is such a wonderful neighborhood.”
    The cop was polite, but young. He didn’t respond to Smith in quite the way she was used to men responding. And the woman was studying both Smith and Wetzon in a way that made Wetzon uncomfortable. She was memorizing them.
    Wetzon gave Smith a nudge. “Let’s go.”
    Smith acquiesced, but didn’t walk toward the car. “We’ll try the Broadway side,” she said, studying the people on the street.
    “I think we should get out of here. This is probably where Silvestri went and I don’t want him to see us.”
    “Carolyn lives in a dangerous neighborhood,” Smith said, several paces ahead.
    “How could you possibly know that? There’s nothing wrong with this neighborhood. The apartments are huge, and it’s only a few blocks from Columbia.”
    Smith had that pitying look on her face. “You’ll have to trust me.”
    Right, Wetzon thought. She never heard the words “trust me” without remembering what a broker once told her. In brokerese, he’d said, trust me means fuck you.
    They came out on Broadway and saw the same configuration on One Hundred and Fourth Street, this time a barrier guarded by four