The Big Killing

by Annette Meyers

  “I didn’t know that. But anyway, what does that have to do with anything?”

  A curious expression formed on Smith’s face. “Oh, Wetzon, you are so dumb sometimes, I don’t know what we’re going to do with you.”

  39

  Wetzon busied herself making more coffee, so as not to let Smith know she was hurt. Dumb.

  “Oh, by the way,” Smith said, “Harold told me about Switzer. Maybe we can work it out on Monday. I’ll talk to Gordon Kingston. I met him last month at the Economic Round Table luncheon. Remember, it’s not over till it’s over.”

  “And even then, it’s not over,” they both said together.

  Smith took a piece of paper from the notepad on the counter top. “Okay,” she said, choosing a pencil from the pressed glass spooner. “What do we know?”

  “We know that Barry was murdered at the Four Seasons,” Wetzon said, “while he was on the phone with Mildred Gleason.” She put the bagel slices in the toaster oven.

  “Right,” Smith said, making two columns on the paper and labeling them KNOWN and UNKNOWN. “And we know that he was working for Mildred, taping phone conversations at Jake Donahue’s.”

  “None of which could be used in court,” Wetzon said slowly. “But Mildred could have made trouble for Jake with the SEC, couldn’t she?”

  “Blackmail,” Smith said, writing blackmail?? under UNKNOWN.

  “Okay, Barry got something on Jake that could hurt Jake, so say Jake kills Barry?”

  “But how does Jake know Barry was working for Mildred?” Smith asked. “He has no motive unless he knows.”

  “That’s where Amanda Guilford comes in,” Wetzon said absently.

  “And who is Amanda Guilford?” Smith demanded, throwing down her pencil. “You’re not telling me everything you know, Wetzon.”

  “Amanda Guilford is a friend of Laura Lee Day—”

  “That flake—”

  “Let’s not start anything, Smith,” Wetzon warned. “You know how I feel about Laura Lee.”

  “You are totally undiscerning when it comes to friends, Wetzon.”

  “Drop it, Smith,” Wetzon said sharply.

  “Okay, okay, don’t hit me.” Smith tried to make a joke of it.

  “So if Jake knows Barry is spying on him, he has a motive.”

  “Wetzon, you don’t know Jake Donahue the way I do.” Smith ran her fingers through her hair, preening. “Jake would never resort to murder. He doesn’t have to.”

  Wetzon gave her a sidelong glance.

  The toaster oven clicked off. She opened the door and turned over the slices, burning her hand on the hot top of the door. “Damn,” she said, slamming the door closed, “why do I always do that?” She turned on the cold water and let it run on the burned spot, then took an ice cube out of the freezer and held it to her hand.

  “Does that really help?” Smith asked, scribbling notes. “There must be a connection we’re not seeing. Georgie—”

  “Georgie could have killed Barry—but don’t you think Barry, Georgie, and Mildred had to have been killed by the same person? You know, modus operandi—the knife?”

  “What about Barry’s little girlfriend?” Smith put the head of the yellow pencil in her mouth.

  “She was with me when Georgie was killed, but wait, Smith—I think she was up at Mildred’s office before I got there yesterday because I ran into her coming out of the elevator.” Could Buffie have gone back later and murdered Mildred?

  “What would her motive be?” Smith took the pencil out of her mouth and rubbed the lipstick mark off its yellow coating.

  “Barry is supposed to have written his autobiography.”

  Smith burst out laughing. “You can’t be serious! Barry Stark could hardly tie his own shoelaces, Wetzon, let alone write a sentence.”

  “Oh, come on, Smith, he went to Bronx Science and he graduated from college.”

  “Humpf.”

  “Buffie was supposed to sell it to Mildred for big dollars, but she couldn’t find it.”

  “That’s because it doesn’t exist,” Smith hooted. “How do you know all this?”

  “Buffie told me.”

  “Maybe Mildred wouldn’t pay her so she went back and stabbed her.”

  Wetzon took out the bagel slices and put them on a plate between her and Smith. “Cream cheese? Butter?”

  “Cream cheese. No to all those earlier questions.”

  “It has scallions in it.”

  “Better still.”

  “No, that doesn’t make sense. As long as Mildred was alive, Buffie might be able to get money for the autobiography, if there was one.”

  “What about this Amanda person?”

  “What about her? I don’t think she knew Mildred. She’s a broker at Donahue’s. Jake, with his infinite powers of persuasion, induced her to spy on Barry.” Wetzon gave Smith a piercing look. “I expect you to keep this confidential, Smith. That means not telling Leon or Donahue.”

  “Wetzon, you hurt me,” Smith said. “Would I break a confidence?”

  Would she? Wetzon was far from certain. “Anyway, we’re going to quickly and quietly outplace Amanda next week.”

  “You can trust me,” Smith said, her face artless.

  “I wonder if Jake has an alibi for any of the murders,” Wetzon mused. “And if he hasn’t, why haven’t the police arrested him? Didn’t Silvestri say anything about it?”

  “I tried to get it out of him, believe me,” Smith said, smiling, smearing her piece of bagel liberally with scallion cream cheese. She laughed. “But he’s not much on shop talk....” She trailed off suggestively.

  Wetzon took a bite out of her bagel, covering up a twinge of envy. Smith was not interested in Silvestri, but she was not letting go of him, either. And she seemed to be taunting her with him. Or maybe it was just Wetzon’s paranoia. Silvestri had come into Smith’s magnetic field, and he was going to be another orbiting planet, like Leon, like the other men in Smith’s life. She poured more coffee into their mugs. It made her sad.

  “Hello, hello,” Smith said, elbowing her in the ribs. “Where are you? Where did you go just now? What are you thinking about?”

  “The key, of course,” Wetzon said quickly, feeling guilty. After all, it wasn’t Smith’s fault. She didn’t do it on purpose. She had a kind heart and she meant well.

  “Right. The key. It must unlock where the rest of the tapes are. Maybe it unlocks the hiding place of the mythical autobiography.”

  “Did you ever find out what Leon was doing at the Four Seasons and near Buffie’s apartment?”

  “Oh, it was nothing—as I told you—” Smith said easily. “He was meeting with an M & A specialist from Montgomery re one of his aging clients who is looking to sell his company and retire. He left long before you found Barry, so you shouldn’t be thinking bad things about Leon.”

  “Well, of course, I never thought he had anything to do with the murder, but what about his being near Buffie’s apartment?”

  “But, Wetzon sweetie, he was never there. You probably saw someone who looked like him. Remember how tired you were, what you’ve been through. You couldn’t have seen him.” She patted Wetzon’s cheek.

  “I don’t know, Smith. It sure looked like him. I just don’t know. I’ve had such a terrible week, and then last night that derelict, Sugar Joe, was mugged—killed—on Amsterdam and Eighty-sixth and I almost got caught in it.... Actually ...” She looked down at the scraped skin on her hands. “Actually, I lost another suit last night. The mugger tore the jacket of my dark gray suit.”

  “You’re kidding,” Smith said, putting her coffee mug down with a thump. “Why would anyone want to murder a derelict?” She stared hard at Wetzon. “How was he killed?”

  Wetzon stared back at Smith. “I don’t want to be paranoid ... but Rick thinks—”

  “I don’t give a fuck what Rick thinks. How was he killed?”

  “Oh, Smith, it’s just a coincidence.” Smith glared at her. “Okay, he wa
s stabbed, and my jacket was slashed.”

  “Jesus Christ, Wetzon, there’s a nut out there with a carving knife, who’s already gotten three people you knew and possibly a fourth. How do you know he wasn’t out to get you and the bum just happened to get in the way?”

  “Of course, I don’t, but—”

  “Did you call Silvestri?”

  “No. Now really, Smith, it’s nonsense. Why would anyone want to kill me? I don’t know anything.”

  “It’s not nonsense, Wetzon. You’re in danger. I knew it. The cards have been saying so. Someone thinks you know something. It’s that key—”

  “No, it couldn’t be. No one knows I had it except—” Wetzon floundered. “Except you, Silvestri ... and Leon. Leon?”

  “No,” Smith said hotly. “Leon is totally trustworthy. You ought to know that.”

  “But Leon represents Jake Donahue.”

  “I know, but ...” Smith looked down at the counter and absentmindedly brushed some bagel crumbs onto the floor. “There’d be no reason….”

  “Oh, Smith you didn’t....” Wetzon was furious. Smith’s face reddened.

  “I did it for us,” she said defensively.

  “Did what? Just say it—did you give Leon the key?”

  “Well, not exactly.” Smith did not meet Wetzon’s eyes.

  “What exactly?”

  “I sold it to him.”

  “Oh, no, Smith, my God, how could you?”

  “It’s okay, it really is. No one will ever know about it. I did it for us. Twelve and a half thousand each. Come on, Wetzon,” Smith said, smiling seductively. “It was-easy money.”

  “Illegal, unethical money, Smith!”

  “It’s done. We’ll buy ourselves something nice. You can buy a fur coat,” Smith said, cajoling. “You’ve always wanted one, and now you can get yourself a big, beautiful, dark mink.” She was being cloyingly sweet. “We deserve it. We work very hard. It’s only right.” Seeing Wetzon’s anger, her face hardened. “Come on, you knew what I was going to do when I made a copy of the key, so don’t get holier than thou with me.”

  “I don’t want the money, Smith. It’s dirty. It’s not the way I live my life, and it’s not the way I want to live.”

  “Money is money. You’ll change your mind.”

  “No, I won’t. Where did you put it? Not in the office, I hope.”

  “No, I have it at home. I’ll hold your share for you. You’ll come around. It’s part of doing business. A lot of cash always changes hands. I don’t see why we shouldn’t get some of it. You’re so naive, Wetzon. And smug. Grow up. Everyone has a price. Even you.”

  Wetzon felt sick to her stomach. She pushed away the rest of her bagel. “I’m tired,” she said, “and I’m scared.”

  “But you shouldn’t be scared of Jake. Don’t you see, there wouldn’t be any reason for Jake to try to kill you. He already has the key. But I think someone else is scared that you may know something.” Smith stood up. “I’ve got to get home before Leon and Mark do.” She took Wetzon’s hand gently. “I want you to promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to call Silvestri and tell him about that derelict. It may be nothing, but let him make that decision. He knows more about the case than we do.”

  “Oh, Smith—” At this juncture Wetzon didn’t think Silvestri knew more about the case than she did. How could he possibly put all the pieces together?

  “Promise me.”

  Wetzon looked into Smith’s eyes. There was honest concern for Wetzon in them and Wetzon accepted it. “Okay, I will.”

  “Now,” Smith insisted. “As soon as I leave.”

  “Okay.”

  “And lock your door after me.”

  “Okay. Just leave.”

  Wetzon poured the rest of the coffee into her mug and turned off the burner. She had forgotten to tell Smith about Howie Minton. And she had forgotten the silk tie with the cabbage roses. Or maybe she was too chicken to deal with it. She had just wanted to be alone, as quickly as possible. She took her mug of coffee into the bedroom, setting it on the old painted washstand she used as a night table. She opened her closet door and stared at her shredded jacket.

  Enough. Where had she put Silvestri’s card? She could never find it when she needed it. Screw it. She picked up the phone and asked information for the precinct phone number and then punched the buttons.

  “Seventeenth Precinct, Dombrowsky.”

  “Detective Silvestri,” she said, then waited for the switchboard to put the call through.

  “Hollander.” There was laughter in the background.

  “Detective Silvestri, please.”

  “He’s not here right now. Can I help you?”

  “Please just tell him Leslie Wetzon called

  Wetzon hung up the phone. All right, she’d done what she’d promised. She started to make the bed. Stopped. Gave a little cry, got into bed and pulled the covers up over her head. She’d done what she’d promised. She always did what she promised. She always did the “right” thing.

  She thought about the money Smith had taken for the key. It was wrong. It was dirty. And it was immoral. How could Smith not see that? Or did she see it and just not care?

  Wetzon had thought, until lately, that their partnership was good, worked well, and that they were well suited, but now she didn’t know. She felt besieged. By the murders. By Smith’s peculiar behavior. By her own sexuality. She was hopping into bed with Rick, but she lusted for Silvestri.

  She reached out to turn on the radio and caught her finger on the edge of the washstand, tearing her nail. Damn. She sat up, opened the drawer, and poked around for her emery board. It wasn’t there. Damn, where was it? She gave up and leaned over. Oh, there it was, on the other side of the drawer. Carlos must have decided to clean out the accumulation of junk for her. She raised her pillows and leaned back, putting on the radio.

  The weather would be cool today. But fine. Clear. Fine.

  “...A new development in the murders which have stunned Wall Street this week. This station has received information from a source in the district attorney’s office that investment banker Jacob Donahue has been taken in for questioning in the recent murders of stockbroker Barry Stark and Donahue’s estranged wife, Mildred Gleason, also an investment banker. The police have refused comment. We’ll have more information on this case as it develops. Stay tuned. On another local issue, the district attorney’s office has announced that the investigation of massive drug thefts at New York City hospitals has been completed and arrests are imminent. They are denying that the thefts are widespread, constituting a conspiracy, as the Daily News has asserted, and have indicated that only one hospital is involved. In Washington today—”

  Wetzon turned off the radio. One word from the newscast kept ringing in her mind. Estranged. It had been mentioned before, but somehow she hadn’t picked up on it. Jake and Mildred were not divorced—they were estranged.

  40

  Wetzon ruffled her hair through her fingers. It was almost dry. She combed away the wildness and stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. A very serious face stared back at her. “Smile, kid,” she said, “you’re on Candid Camera,” and her reflection smiled back at her, dutifully. That was better. She needed a trim. She needed a new hairdo and a fresh image. That’s what she needed. She took a hairband and pulled her hair into a pony tail.

  Estranged. Estranged meant separated, didn’t it? Everyone had thought Mildred and Jake were divorced. Maybe estranged could also mean divorced.

  She put the Swan Lake cassette in the player and stood at the barre. Breathe. Positions. One and two and three and four. And stretch and lift and pain. And extend, extend, extend, slowly stretching. Pain. Demi-plié, grand plié, relevé. Terrible shape.

  If Mildred and Jake were still legally married, and Mildred was dead, Jake inherited Mildred’s firm. Which was a hell of a lot more solvent than Jake’s. What a kicker.

  Still, it
would have been stupid and obvious of Jake to murder Mildred after that scene in her office. And while Jake also had the best motive to murder Barry, he had to have had the opportunity. Had he been at the Four Seasons that night? She changed positions, watching herself in the mirror. And what about Roberta? Wetzon did not remember seeing her when Jake had burst into Mildred’s office.

  The police must have some idea, she reasoned.

  Plié, one, two, three, four, and relevé, one, two, three, four. Her neck and upper back were very tight. She felt tormented. By Barry and his goddam key, by Smith and her greed, by the revelation of the twenty-five thousand dollars. By Smith’s larcenous soul. Why hadn’t she realized that about Smith? She had been lazy in letting Smith copy the key, and now she was as guilty as if she had made the deal with Leon. She would have it out with Smith, and they would return the money to Leon, get the key back, and destroy it. But what would stop Leon from copying the key, too?

  Silvestri would have to be told. There was no other way. She would insist. What a mess. Life had been much less complicated when she was a dancer.

  Because there was no money, stupid. The focus was on the work and the art. They had all thrived on their creativity and poverty. As soon as money arrives on the scene, it becomes the focus. It becomes about money. She would tell Silvestri everything everybody had told her. Divest herself of all of it. Cleanse herself.

  She was sweating now, but loosening up. She’d have to take another shower before she went to meet Rick. She opened the mat on the floor and, lying down, rolled back into the plough, then raised her legs slowly into a shoulder stand.

  Smith had been raised as a foster child in poverty on the south side of Philadelphia. She thought of money as the answer to everything. Wetzon had never realized that before.

  Rick. She liked Rick. He was cute and boyish, in spite of his prematurely gray hair. Boyish. The operative word about Rick was boyish. Thank you, Laura Lee Day. Even his name was boyish. Boyish as opposed to manish. An interlude in the interim. Okay. But was she, perhaps, that desperate for a lover, a relationship? Was the loneliness of being self-supporting in New York City finally getting to her?