Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

and Sam Donaldson hair, motioned Silvestri into a private lot and had him park next to a yellow electric airport cart.
    “Between the FAA and the FBI,” Povicky said, as he settled them into the cart, Silvestri and Povicky up front, Wetzon behind, “there’s not much left to see.” He drove along the chain-link fence passing behind several huge hangars. “We have nineteen hangars and two runways and no regularly scheduled flights. We leave that to Newark. We do lease, charter, cargo. Private and business, as well as life saving operations.”
    “Four people died,” Wetzon said.
    Povicky turned his head to her, then back. “Someone got too cozy with a little C-4. But don’t ask me, ‘cause I’m only head of security here.”
    Silvestri whistled through his teeth. “So it wasn’t an accident.”
    “C-4?” Wetzon shuddered.
    “Volatile,” Silvestri said.
    “Here we are.” Povicky drove around a darkened hangar. His headlights picked up the yellow crime scene tape. He parked the cart and while Silvestri helped Wetzon out, unlocked the padlock on the splintered and charred hangar doors and swept them open. He stepped inside. A moment later overhead lights came on, casting eerie shadows over the burned out area and into the cavity created by the explosion. “I’ll wait here while you look around.”
    Overhead, another plane took off, the sound ear shattering. It made Wetzon’s teeth and cheekbones ache. She closed her eyes. She was lying on a bed trying to keep the sound away.
    The smell, carbony and metallic, was insidious. Though she covered her nose, it filled her nostrils. Silvestri caught hold of her as she swayed. “Easy,” he said.
    “I’m okay.” She was determined to be.
    Silvestri lifted the tape and they passed under. He switched on a large flashlight. The scarred tarmac was almost scrubbed clean beneath their feet.
    “Not much here to see,” Silvestri said.
    “It’s the smell. It was inside me. And the sound of the planes. I was trying to sleep.”
    “You were trying to sleep? On a bed?”
    “Yes. Yes, it was a bed.”
    “Good. Where?”
    “Where? I don’t know. I don’t know this area. I must have run away. How did I do that? There were two men with guns. They’d parked right behind my limo. The limo Laura Lee and I were going to escape in. How did I get away?”
    “The explosion. It must have stopped the gunmen, too. Maybe even knocked them out.” He took her arm. “Come on.” They passed under the tape. “Povicky!”
    “Where are we going?”
    “You hid somewhere—where there was a bed—think about it.”
    They got back into the electric cart while Povicky shut down the lights and padlocked the hangar door. “Get what you need?”
    “Did we?” Wetzon asked when they were back in the car.
    “Did we what?” He drove out onto Franklin Avenue.
    “Get what we needed.”
    “Where would you find a bed close enough to the airport to get there on foot? Thought about it?”
    “A motel.”
    “Look around. See any?”
    “Flashing neon just ahead. Bergen Motor Lodge.”
    “Don’t think so, but let’s try.” He drove up the circular driveway and stopped, thinking. “Hold it a minute.” He took out his cell and made a call. “Silvestri. Yeah. See if you can find anything on the blotter about trouble in a motel near Teterboro Airport. Yeah. About the same time as that plane explosion.” He hung up.
    “You think—”
    “I think you were running. You told Lawler about a gray Mercedes following you and men who were trying to kill you. If they followed you to the motel, they might have done some damage. Let’s see if this is the place.”
    The Bergen Motor Lodge was a two tiered U-shaped affair on the upscale side in spite of the flashing hot pink neon sign.
    “I’m not getting any vibes here,” Wetzon said, her skin prickling under Silvestri’s hand on the small of her back.
    The decor of the motel office was what could be expected after the pink neon sign. On the desk was a vase with plastic pink daffodils. A woman, big pink hair sprayed and teased to the consistency of cotton candy, was propped behind the desk. She wore a multicolored tent and rhinestones imbedded in her winged glasses. Her lips bulged a glossy red; her nails rode out over an inch from the tip of her fingers and matched her lips. She was chewing gum. “Double for the night?” she said.
    Silvestri showed his badge.
    Her lips pursed. “New York?”
    “Yeah. I have some questions