Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

calendar. “How about Monday, five or five-thirty? Four Seasons.”
    “Monday’s no good. I’m doing a brown doctor seminar at the Hilton.”
    “Excuse me? Brown doctor?”
    “Yeah, you know, Indian and Pakistani doctors. Big bucks there. I’m good on Wednesday.”
    “Wednesday it is then.” She wrote it in, clicked off, copied it into her Filofax. Her first appointment! Wowee! And Phil was a huge producer, probably well into the millions by this time.
    “Big?” A benign Smith, smiling, pleased.
    “Huge.”
    “Line two, Xenia,” Max said. “Twoey.”
    Smith punched in line two. “Twoey, sugar!” A pause. “That would have been divine, sugarbun, but something important’s come up. I’m afraid we have to take a rain check. You know, business. An out of town client.” Her body language gave off scheming vibes. She looked at Wetzon, pursing her lips. “Hold on, sugarplum.” She gestured to Wetzon. “Twoey wants to talk to you.”
    Wetzon was very fond of Twoey Barnes—Twoey because of the roman numerals he was given when he was born. He was Goldman Barnes II, son of the late Wall Street legend, Goldy Barnes. Twoey had entered their lives after Smith and Wetzon were drawn into the investigation of his father’s murder. He’d fallen in love with Smith, poor soul.
    Twoey was a regular guy, not flashy, just nice, and Smith took him for granted. Twoey’s dream had been to be a Broadway producer, and it was through Wetzon’s Broadway connections that his dream was realized.
    “Just tell me,” Wetzon asked Smith before she talked to Twoey, “Are we off again or on again.”
    “Oh, for pity sakes,” Smith said.
    Wetzon pressed three. “Twoey!”
    “Wetzon! It’s sure good to hear your voice, kiddo. Xenie’s been going nuts without you.”
    “You dream, Twoey.”
    “Believe me. How’re you doing? I mean, since Veeder—”
    “I’m okay. I still don’t remember a chunk of what happened, but they tell me it’ll come back. I’m not sure I want it to.”
    “Well, look, we were going to celebrate your return tonight, but you have that client—”
    “Yes.” She looked at Smith, who was making circles with her finger telling her to wind it down. “Rain check, okay?” She clicked off. “You wanna tell me what dinner with what out of town client?”
    “It’s been a really busy morning, from which as usual you chose to absent yourself.”
    “Smith! You know goddam well I was with the FBI.”
    “You gave them the diamonds.” It was an accusation.
    “They didn’t belong to me. And that’s the last thing I’m going to say about it.” Steaming, Wetzon sat at her desk and began reading the suspect sheets Max had left for her.
    “Ummmm, sweetie, Bill’s lawyer called you about his will.” She was agitating a pink message slip.
    “Bill’s lawyer? Smith, is that my message in your grasping paw?”
    “What do you suppose he left you? That gorgeous apartment would be perfect.”
    Wetzon grabbed the message slip from Smith’s hand. “You spoke to him?”
    “His name is Lincoln Farber. Very nice, very professional. He said there were things to discuss with you relating to Bill’s will.”
    “Oh, really. If he was so professional, why would he be telling you anything?”
    “Do you know it’s very hard to talk to you since you’ve been back? You jump down my throat for every little thing.”
    “Like taking my messages? Anyway, Bill’s doorman told me that when the FBI came with a search warrant, he called Bill’s office and a man named Farber came over.”
    Smith strolled to the stairs and listened to the activity in the office. Satisfied, she turned back to Wetzon. “He must be the one Bill brought in as a partner.”
    “The one who dumped Carolyn?”
    “Well, I can see how he’d want to be surrounded by his own people, and Carolyn was too totally faithful to Bill.”
    What an opening Smith had just left her. “Yes, she was. She did everything for him. Even ... give him a son.”
    Smith flinched. “What? What did you say? A son?”
    “He’s about twenty or so and is the image of what Bill must have looked like as a young man.”
    “Son!” Smith said.
    Wetzon glanced at the phone console. All their lines were in use.
    “I don’t believe it. He told me he couldn’t—mm—mm—”
    “Yes, he told me, too. That he’d had a vasectomy. Now we know why.”
    “But how do you know about the son?”
    “Silvestri showed me a photograph of Junior and Carolyn, taken