Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

about—”
    “Well, we don’t do that shit here.”
    “I don’t care what you do. I just want to know if you had any problems here the night of the plane explosion at Teterboro.”
    She looked relieved. “Only the dust and junk that came down on us. Coupla cars got damaged.”
    “Thanks.” They turned to leave.
    “There was some trouble, I hear, over at the Golden Blossom, but them Arabs always have something going on.”
    “The Golden Blossom?”
    “Yeah, a dump a little ways down on Route Seventeen.”
    Silvestri’s cell went off as soon as they got back into the car. “Yeah? Hey! I owe you.”
    “What?” Why had she asked? Something in the pit of her stomach was telling her this was it.
    Silvestri tucked away his cell. “Guess where there was a shooting on the night of the explosion?”

52
    T HE G OLDEN Blossom Motel was a bleak place about a half mile, as the crow flies, through woods and brush from the airport. One of several such on Route Seventeen, all reporting vacancies, its yellow sign, on a stilt, was lit from behind.
    Wetzon was chilled. She pulled her beret down over her ears. “Someone was killed here?”
    “There was a shooting, but no one died.” Silvestri parked in front of a brown shingled box marked OFFICE by a flashing sign.
    “Who was shot?”
    “The manager. It got put down as an attempted robbery.”
    “Attempted?”
    “Nothing was taken.” He unfastened his seat belt, then hers. She didn’t move.
    “I’m afraid,” she said.
    “I know. Bite the bullet.”
    She smiled at him. “Easy for you to say.”
    He took her hand. “Let’s go.”
    The office was well lit. She’d been here. She knew that. “This is it,” she said.
    “Easy, Les.” He opened the door. The whine of sitar music spilled out.
    Behind the desk sat a bushy-bearded and mustached man, dark skin accentuated by a white turban. His left shoulder wore a cast, the arm in a sling. He was a Sikh, not an Arab, as his trashy competitor had labeled him. A cup sat to his right.
    “You need a room?” he asked Silvestri. He pushed his registration book toward the front of his desk and spun it around for a signature. He looked up from his routine only after Silvestri stepped aside without signing the book. “Miss! You are the one!” He eased himself from his chair.
    Wetzon stood immobile, looked to Silvestri. He was not helping. Her mouth was dry, but words came. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    “No, Miss, no. You saved my life. They said a woman called 911 for help. It was you, wasn’t it? I might have bled to death otherwise.” He spoke in clear American, with a faint sing-song.
    “Sit down, please. You don’t want a room?” He lowered himself back into his chair.
    Silvestri pulled over a metal folding chair for Wetzon, but remained standing.
    “No.” She sat down, looked around the small office. Yes. She’d come here after the explosion. “I lost my memory after what happened. This is my friend. He’s helping me remember by taking me back to places I might have been.”
    “You’re a cop,” the Sikh said to Silvestri.
    “This is personal,” Silvestri said. “Not police business.”
    Yet, Wetzon thought.
    “Rajiv Singh,” the Sikh said. “This is my place. I sometimes get strange guests. I don’t ask questions.”
    “Mr. Singh. You recognized me.”
    “You look better than you did when you came here. It was the same night as the explosion at the airport. You were afraid, I saw. You wore a big black coat and your face was ... ” His smile was apologetic. “ ... dirty.”
    It was as if she were watching a movie. They were going to kill her. Who was going to kill her? “Silvestri?”
    “Hang in there, Les.”
    “Mr. Singh. My name is Leslie.”
    “I know that.”
    “You know that?”
    “You signed the register.” He flipped back the pages and then turned it around again for Wetzon and Silvestri to see.
    “Oh, my God,” she said. She had scrawled, almost illegibly, “Leslie”—just “Leslie”—in his book. It had been instinctive.
    “You wanted a room, you said, for a few hours. And you asked me to ring you if men in a gray Mercedes came looking for you.”
    “And you did?”
    “I did and they shot me.” Stoic. No blame.
    “They?” Silvestri said.
    “Two men. When the car drove up, I rang the room like the lady said. They shot me when I wouldn’t say which room.”
    “It’s my fault you got shot,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
    “But I’m still here,”