Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

Singh said.
    “What room was she in?”
    “Four. You want to have a look? They made a mess there, but they didn’t get the lady, did they?”
    “No,” she said.
    He took a key from a large key chain and handed it to Silvestri. “Go and see. Cabin Eight. They did plenty of damage. I had to put on a new door and have the mattress turned to the other side.”
    They drove to the last cabin, number eight.
    The door was new, its paint fresh, the room, nondescript, dingy, the bed neat, awaiting a guest. Wetzon walked around the room. She remembered her fear more than any physical pain.
    “They broke the door down,” she said.
    “You saw them?”
    “No.”
    He scanned the small space. “Where could you hide?”
    The bed. It was so close to the floor. No one could get under it. But she had. She sat on the bed to quell the residual panic, face in her hands. “Under here.”
    “Jesus, Les.” He capped her head with his hand. “No human can fit under there.”
    “I wasn’t feeling very human, Silvestri. When you’re scared enough, and I was.”
    “And they didn’t look?”
    “Check the bathroom. There was a window. I caught some threads on the coat on the sill to make it seem as if I’d crawled out.”
    “And then squeezed under the bed. With that oversized coat.”
    “I took it off and pulled it under after me.”
    He had that thoughtful look on his face again. “Singh said he had to have the mattress turned.” He gave her his hand up. “Let’s have a look.”
    “You’ll mess up the bed. Ooops, I don’t believe I said that.”
    “Here, help me.” He’d pulled back the bed cover and lifted the mattress. “What do you see?”
    She bent to look. “A big hole with burns around it.”
    “I’ve got to have a look. Can you stand here and hold this?”
    “I’ll try.”
    He settled the foot of the mattress on her arms, and ducked his head under, then up, measuring her.
    “I won’t drop it, goddammit.”
    “Shit!” He began pulling on the underside of the mattress.
    “What are you doing? I can’t guarantee much longer.”
    “Okay, I got it.” He backed out and stood up, his hand clenched on something.
    “Got what?”
    He opened his hand. “The bullet. Shot into the mattress.”
    She stared at the bullet. “One of them shot into the mattress. It wasn’t that they thought I was under the bed. One of them was crazier than the other.” She rubbed her eyes. “Not the one with the Gucci loafers. The other. They were angry I got away.”
    Silvestri was watching her. “Let’s get out of here, Les.”
    She stood stock still. “The papers. They’re under the bed.”
    “You mean McLaughlin’s stuff?” He didn’t wait for conformation; he was already on his knees, groping under the bed.
    She waited, tense.
    He pulled them out, put them on the bed, and got to his feet, disgusted. “Great police work. No follow up. Attempted burglary? Bullshit.” He picked up the papers and dusted them off. “Hardly the worse for wear.” He gave her a searching look. “Let’s go, Les.”
    “We have to remake the bed.”
    “Forget it. I’ll tell Singh he has to remake the bed. You get in the car.”
    “Give him something, Silvestri. Twenty, I think. Please.”
    Sitting in the car, she felt detached, floating above herself. She leaned her head on the headrest.
    After stashing the McLaughlin papers in the trunk, Silvestri got back into the car.
    “What are you going to do with them?”
    “I’m a cop, Les. What do you think I should do with them?”
    “I guess they should go to the FBI.”
    A cell phone burbled. “It’s mine,” Wetzon said.
    “Do you want me to take it?”
    “No.” She pulled out her cell and responded.
    “Where are you!” Smith screamed in her ear.
    “Stop screaming. I’m in New Jersey.”
    “I don’t care where you are. Where is Silvestri?” Smith was hysterical. “Find him.”
    “He’s right here.”
    Smith stopped screaming. “Put him on and snap to it.”
    Wetzon rolled her eyes. Nothing like Smith to dump one back into reality. She handed her cell phone to Silvestri. “She wants you.”
    “Xenia? Yes. Calm down. Just tell me what happened.” He listened, comprehension dawning. He nodded at Wetzon. “Okay. Where are you?” He started the car. “We’re on our way.” He clicked off and returned the cell to Wetzon.
    “Silvestri?”
    He pulled out onto Route Seventeen. The side of his mouth twitched.
    “Are you going to tell me what that was