Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

cops. “Give it up,” Wetzon said, searching the faces in the rubbernecking crowd that had gathered on Broadway. More uniforms were canvassing the onlookers. Murderers sometimes stayed to watch.
    She would never know what it was about the man that first caught her attention. He stood in the shadows, in the back part of the crowd, watching, as everyone was. He wasn’t talking to anyone. Something about the set of his shoulders.
    Instead of stepping back, out of view, Wetzon felt herself move forward.
    “Wetzon!” Smith’s voice. People looked for the voice.
    The man turned his head. His eyes met Wetzon’s.
    “Oh, there you are!” Smith pounced on her, grabbing Wetzon’s arm, spinning her around.
    “No!” Wetzon wrenched her arm away, searching for the man. But he was gone and the crowd had filled in where he had stood. “Goddammit, Smith! That man—”
    “What man?”
    “He was in the crowd, watching.”
    “You’re having a relapse. Everyone’s watching.”
    Wetzon stamped her foot. “I am not having a relapse. He wears Gucci loafers. I know it. And he’s a killer.”
    “Calm down,” Smith said, fast-walking her toward the car. “I thought you’d recovered. Now you have fixated on some stranger in a crowd. Gucci loafers, for pity sakes. Killer? Puh-leeze.”
    Furious, she pulled away from Smith, determined to go back.
    She was trying to stay calm, but her limbs trembled, and she was having trouble with her knees. She steadied herself against a mail box.
    “We can talk about it later,” Smith said, as if she were speaking to an insane person who had to be placated.
    “No. No, Smith, you don’t understand. I recognized him. And he recognized me.”

47
    “Y OU CAN take the girl out of the theatre,” Smith said, fastening her seat belt, “but you can’t take the theatre out of the girl.”
    “What the hell does that mean?” Anger cleared the panic from Wetzon’s mind.
    “As usual, you over-dramatize.”
    “Goddammit, Smith, Carolyn’s been murdered and you are not taking this seriously.”
    Smith chortled, started the engine. “Carolyn’s been murdered? Indeed! Why would Carolyn be murdered?”
    “Because she knows something about Bill’s business.”
    “Puh-leeze. There must be a thousand ethnic types living on that block, and you say the police are there because of Carolyn?” She rolled her eyes. “You have lost it, sweetie pie, really lost it.”
    “Ethnic types? What the hell does that mean?”
    “Well, we are in Spanish Harlem,” Smith said, with another pitying look. The Jaguar hummed an accompaniment.
    “Excuse me, for what it’s worth, this is not Spanish Harlem. Spanish Harlem is on your side of town.”
    “Oh, for pity sakes.”
    Wetzon opened the car door. “Thank you very much, but I’ll find my own way home.”
    “Get back here,” Smith said, shutting down the engine. “I’m going to show you how wrong you are.” She took out her cell phone and punched in some numbers.
    “Who are you calling?”
    “You’ll see.” Smug. “Carolyn, my dear.” She didn’t bother to hide her I-told-you-so face. “This is—” Her eyes opened wide, staring at Wetzon. She disconnected, returned her cell to her pocket, and gunned the engine. “Close your door.”
    “Tell me,” Wetzon said.
    Smith pulled out and headed for Riverside Drive. “It wasn’t Carolyn. Some cop, probably.” She sent a sideways glance at Wetzon. “You may have been right, babycakes.” Her cell phone rang. Smith’s hand went to her pocket.
    Staying Smith’s hand, Wetzon said, “Don’t answer it.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because whoever you spoke to is calling you back.”
    Smith made a left on Eighty-sixth Street. “And who might that be?”
    “The murderer, though I doubt that. I’d guess, the police.”
    “Humpf. What shall we do?”
    “I don’t know what you’re going to do, but I’m going to take a nice hot shower and go to bed. And I suggest you do the same.”
    “Oh, very well. We’ll plan our strategy tomorrow.” Even in the dark Smith’s eyes glittered.
    Strategy? Wetzon shook her head. What the hell is she talking about? “I’m supposed to meet with the FBI sometime tomorrow, and my guess is they’ll want to do it first thing in the morning. I’ll call in and let the office know.”
    Smith thinks this is fun, Wetzen thought, as she unlocked her door and bent to pick up the squirming ball of white fur. I’m not the crazy one here.
    Three phone messages