The Groaning Board

the office.”
    “Good. I presume you’re heading west
anyway, so why not join me for a drink?”
    “I don’t think—
    “The Rainbow Promenade? In half an
hour?”
    “It’s been a long day, Bill. Maybe
another—”
    “I won’t take no from you, Leslie.
Come on. Where’s your spirit of adventure?”
    Yes, where, she asked herself. Laura
Lee would say yes. “Okay,” she said. “In a half hour.”
    But she regretted it immediately.
Bill Veeder’s voice, his inflection, everything about him was seductive. So why
had she agreed? She’d agreed because Silvestri had withdrawn from her and she
was confused. She could understand his upset about Sheila Gelber’s death, but
he was a cop, a homicide cop at that. Didn’t cops detach themselves from death?
Usually. But this time Silvestri’s involvement was personal, no matter his
protests to the contrary.
    So she’d let Bill Veeder intrigue
her. What was wrong with a mild flirtation with a man who wore the mystique of
power casually? She felt the sweet tremor of danger, and she liked the feeling.
    Yes, she would meet Veeder for a
drink. And the Rainbow Promenade was a stunning place for... just that.

Chapter Sixteen

     
     
     
    The Rainbow
Promenade, on the top floor of 30 Rocke- feller Plaza ,
although elegant, even glamorous, attracted tourists, squares, and seniors with
nostalgia. It was not one of those inside places with cachet, like the Mark Bar or the bar at Oceana, that fast-track New Yorkers frequented.
    It was also the perfect place to meet
a lover because it was a given that you’d never run into anyone you knew.
Lover? Is that where her mind was? What on earth was she thinking of?
    Unsettled by her train of thought,
Wetzon folded her trench coat over her arm and took the express elevator up to
the sixty-fifth floor with five Japanese tourists loaded down with cameras and
blue Tiffany shopping bags. The other passengers were two German-speaking men
in casual clothes, and a couple dressed for a night out... in Savannah. The man
Wore black tie and the woman was in aqua Southern-belle chiffon, her hair a
lacquered bubble about a fading pretty face.
    The headhunter, Leslie Wetzon,
carrying a black briefcase and the trench coat, wore, of course, New York
black: a wool crepe suit, black-and-white silk blouse, and at her throat a long
silk scarf in a pin-drop pattern, white on black.
    The Promenade was dimly lit, the
better to show off one of the most spectacular views of Manhattan. Or hide
one’s companion? There it was again.
    Regardless, the experience of a drink
here at sunset might be old-fashioned corn for jaded New Yorkers, but Wetzon
had never quite lost her awe for her city—her land of Oz—and its magic was
immediately apparent from the windows of the Rainbow Promenade.
    Responding to the maître d’, Wetzon
said, “I’m meeting William Veeder.”
    “Ms. Wetzon?”
    She nodded.
    “Mr. Veeder just called. He’ll be a
few minutes late. He asked that you be seated at his table.”
    She thought, his table? For drinks?
Give me a break.
    “He has a favorite table,” the maître
d’ said, as if she’d commented aloud.
    On second thought, maybe he always
said that to Bill Veeder’s girls.
    “May we bring you a cocktail while
you’re waiting?”
    “An Amstel Light, thank you.”
    The favorite table looked out over Manhattan as the sun was setting. Wetzon’s heart caught in her throat. How lucky she was
to live here! Her anguish over Silvestri began to recede, her restlessness
calmed. She wanted to put her arms around her city, clasp it to her. Tears
pooled in her eyes.
    “Well, I see I chose the perfect
place for our rendezvous.” An immaculate Bill Veeder tucked his tall frame down
in the chair opposite hers. With long, slim fingers, he adjusted his French
cuffs. You couldn’t miss the gold wedding band.
    “Rendezvous? What an odd choice of
words,” Wetzon said, brushing her tears back with her fingertip. “I thought
this was to be a business drink.”
    “More of a get-acquainted drink.” His
eyes inhaled her; she caught herself leaning across the table toward him and
jerked back. “I understand you call it in your... business... exploring the
possibilities...” A waiter set a martini in front of Veeder and poured Wetzon’s
beer foaming into a large glass.
    When Veeder raised a dark eyebrow,
she was glad she’d ordered the beer. His passing resemblance to Paul Newman—
his craggy face, close-cropped white hair with