The Big Killing

by Annette Meyers

  Cross your fingers. Wetzon had crossed them when she promised Howie Minton she wouldn’t tell about the conversation between Barry and Mildred that he’d overheard. Should she tell Silvestri? Did it matter anymore? Mildred and Barry were dead. Wetzon went back to her desk reluctantly. There was still a lot of work to do.

  By the end of the day, they had a done deal on Bill Davis and a start date in three weeks. He had chosen Pru-Bache, which would mean a thirty-thousand-dollar commission for Smith and Wetzon.

  “Not a bad day,” Wetzon said.

  “Not bad. I’m dead, if you’ll pardon the expression,” Smith said with an exaggerated yawn shortly before five. She did look a little tired. “I’m going home to take a nap before dinner. Are you coming?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  “Do you need Harold? Come on, Harold sweetie, it’s been a long day, and you’ve done a super job fielding everything.” Harold looked eagerly at Wetzon. He wanted to leave with Smith, have her to himself. He was so obvious.

  “Go ahead, Harold,” Wetzon told him. “I’ll lock up. I’m meeting Rick around seven,” she said to Smith.

  “Oh, I quite forgot. Good night then, sweetie pie.” Smith gave her a hug and a kiss, just like old times.

  Wetzon washed her face and redid her makeup. She was wearing her black wool crepe suit and a white silk blouse. The collar of the blouse was ruffled and her mother’s cameo looked perfect pinned at her throat. She took the hairpins out of her hair and brushed it, then rerolled it, but not as tightly as before.

  “The Good Humor man,” Smith had said. She meant Rick, of course, because he was a doctor in a white coat. She had seen him in his white coat the other day. It seemed so long ago, but it wasn’t even a week.

  Her dream ... the Good Humor man in her dream ... who wore a Mickey Mouse watch and sold only rocky road ice cream. The tricks the subconscious played. She hadn’t liked the Good Humor man in her dream. There was something mean and manipulative about him. Rocky road. That could be the Pulasky Skyway. No. It was all too silly. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything.

  Roberta was due momentarily. Roberta’s phone call had been so baffling. How could she save Roberta’s life? There it was again. She had not been able to say no to someone she barely knew. But Roberta had said it was a matter of life and death. No, she would refuse to let Roberta draw her in further, and besides, Silvestri would be there.

  She’d walk, she decided, to the Caravanserie after the Roberta business was finished. It was still light and it would be a pleasant walk. Her fingers crept to the matchbook in her pocket. Just to be sure.

  Maybe she shouldn’t be such a hotshot about doing it herself. Maybe she should tell Silvestri when he got here. In the silence of the empty office, she thought about it. She locked the door to the garden and pulled the blinds. Oh, hell, she was being a fool. Yes. She would tell Silvestri and take herself out of the game. After all, he was the pro. She had a sudden, tremendous urge to tell him immediately, even though she knew she would soon see him. That way he would know before he got to her office and had to deal with Roberta.

  She searched in her handbag for his card, couldn’t find it, and ended up calling information again.

  The switchboard answered, “Seventeenth Precinct,” and switched her upstairs.

  “Metzger.”

  “Sergeant Silvestri, please.”

  “He’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”

  “Just tell him Leslie Wetzon called. I guess he’s already on his way over.... Never mind. I’ll tell him when he gets here.”

  “Where?”

  “Here—in my office—for the meeting Roberta Bancroft set up.” There was a peculiar pause. “Detective Metzger?”

  He came back on the line. “Sorry,” he said curtly, his attention elsewhere. The line went dead.

  51

  Jittery, she checked the back door to the garden. Of course it was locked. She had just locked it. Checked the front door. Locked it. Harold should have done that when he left. No. She had told him she would do it. Where was her mind?

  She was feeling antsy, so she sat down at her desk and went through her messages again to be sure she had called everyone back. One by one, she crumpled them and dropped them into the wastebasket at her feet.

  Mike Antonio liked to be called at eight in the morning. He started his day early. She’d call him tomorrow from home before she left for the office.

  She looked over the suspect sheets which profiled the brokers she was working with and made a list of people she had to call. Then she added those brokers whose appointments had to be confirmed.

  Oh, God, she had forgotten to call Leon back. She could do it now, while she was waiting. She picked up the phone and started to punch out Leon’s number. An odd sound came from the front room. She cradled the phone, listening. There it was again. Someone was rattling the doorknob. She froze. Don’t be a jerk, she told herself. She looked at her watch. It was just five. Could it be Roberta already? And where was Silvestri? No. It was probably a broker who wanted to talk. It had happened before. When a broker made up his mind to move, he invariably wanted to get things going fast.

  She went into the front room and slipped the chain lock on. Then she opened the door cautiously, thinking how flimsy and ridiculous the chain lock was. A strong man could shove the door all the way open, easily tearing the lock from the frame.

  Through the small opening, she saw a big man in an expensive, dark blue pinstripe suit. There were scratch marks on his face.

  “Wetzon.” It was not a question.

  She felt a cold chill. She had seen him only once before, under unfortunate circumstances, but she recognized him. Jake Donahue.

  “Yes. What do you want?” How stupid, Wetzon. You know exactly what he wants.

  “Let me in, please. I want to talk to you.” He spoke in that easy, smooth way of powerful men. The assumption of command.

  “I don’t have anything to say to you, Mr. Donahue. Please go away.” Her voice shook, and she was furious with herself for showing weakness.

  “You’re frightened,” he said, apparently compassionate. “I don’t mean to frighten you.”

  She looked at him. He had Paul Newman blue eyes, set in a coarse, fleshy face, a large nose, dark red hair flecked with white, billowy eyebrows, and a deep bronze tan, as if he’d just gotten back from the islands. Decidedly gross, larger than life, but infinitely better than the last time she had seen him.

  “How did you know I’d be here?” she asked. “Wait—don’t tell me—I’d rather not know.” Now she understood why Smith had left earlier than usual. “Goddammit,” Wetzon cursed under her breath. Smith had set her up again.

  She slammed the door closed, unhooked the chain, and swung the door open.

  “Thank you.” Jake Donahue stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

  “Make yourself at home,” she said flippantly. “I know you’ve paid for your time with me, so you’ll want to get your money’s worth.”

  He eyed her, arching his left brow.

  “I do want to warn you,” she added, “that I am expected elsewhere very shortly, and if I’m late ...”

  “Okay, fair enough.” He became brisk. “I just need a few minutes—” He broke off. “Why are you looking at me like that?” He was such a big man, tall and square, very self-assured. And why not? He was a many-times-over millionaire, he had power, he had celebrity. But he seemed disconcerted by the intensity of her stare.

  “I was thinking about the last time I saw you,” she said, not knowing why she was standing there calmly talking to him as if they were two ordinary people meeting under ordinary circumstances.

  “I hadn’t realized we’d met before.” He frowned. He obviously didn’t like the unexpected.

  “We haven’t—not officially,” she said. “I was in Mildred Gleason’s office the other day when you made your grand entrance.”

  “Christ,” he said, with a self-conscious g
rin, running blunt fingers through his thick hair. “Look, the situation got a little out of hand. Do you mind if I smoke?”

  She shook her head. He took a Marlboro out of a box and lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter. “Come into the back office,” she said, motioning him through, closing the door after them. The last thing she wanted was to have Roberta see Jake or vice versa.

  Jake looked around curiously. “So this is a headhunter’s lair.” He sounded amused. “And we are alone at last, Wetzon.” He turned to her then and saw the look on her face. “I’ve frightened you again,” he said, extending his arm.

  She backed away, feeling her face tighten.

  “Hell, I’m really not a bad fellow,” Jake said, his voice beguiling. “A lot of people like me. I’m not going to hurt you. Why would I?”

  “Because you think Barry told me something before he died,” she exclaimed, thinking even as she spoke, You’re being stupid again, Wetzon.

  “Sit down, please,” he said, motioning her to her own chair. He sat in Smith’s chair, which disappeared under his bulk.

  The phone rang. They stared at it as it rang again, and Jake Donahue shook his head at her. He saw the answering machine on the worktable and pressed the auto-answer button. The machine clicked on and answered the phone on the fourth ring.

  “Hello, Wetzon, this is Scott Fineberg. Please call me. I’ll be in my office till seven.” The machine clicked off.

  Donahue and Wetzon looked at each other. Jake inhaled deeply and breathed smoke out slowly through his nose. “So that little scumbag was two-timing me with you.”

  She looked at her watch. Almost five-thirty. She was beginning to feel cornered. Where was Roberta? Where was Silvestri? She had to get out in time to meet Rick.

  “Yes,” Jake said, “I want to know what Barry said to you. He had some things that belong to me.”

  “You and the late Georgie Travers.” She couldn’t keep the scorn out of her voice.

  “I’m not interested in Georgie Travers. It’s Stark I want to know about. That dirtbag was spying on me.”

  The pieces of the puzzle were shuffling around again in Wetzon’s head in a peculiar jumble. She didn’t respond.

  “Fuck this,” Donahue said impatiently. “I didn’t kill Stark. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I didn’t even know he was there that night—it’s not exactly his kind of place—and I was long gone by the time you found his body.”

  Wetzon tried to keep her head clear, but small waves of panic were beginning to wash over her. She tried to shift her weight in the chair, but her arms and legs were numb.

  Jake Donahue had just admitted he was at the Four Seasons that night.

  “Please try to see my position,” Donahue was saying. He pulled his chair over to hers and took her hand. She did not pull away, but stared at her hand, swallowed up in his big one. She felt his voice begin to lull her.

  “My wife was a bitter, vindictive woman. She was trying to put me out of business for good. Stark was my employee. He was working for her and taping my phone calls.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have one of the tapes.”

  Her eyes widened. “You stole the attaché case,” she accused, pulling her hand away.

  “Someone did it for me,” he admitted, not moving. “No one was supposed to get hurt. He just got a little carried away.” Donahue shrugged. “Stark left the office that day with that big attaché he always carried. Someone at the Four Seasons tipped me to the murder. I was told you left with a big attaché case. I needed that case. That’s it. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” She was angry. “Is that all you can say? What kind of power trip are you on?”

  He stood and she flinched, expecting a blow.

  “Ms. Wetzon,” Donahue said, meeting her guarded glare, leaning against Smith’s desk. “I’ve done some rotten things in my life, but I am not a murderer, and I’m not going to hurt you. If you gave me some time and got to know me, you might even like me.”

  “Sure. You may be a crook, but you’re not a killer.”

  His blue eyes reproached her, and she felt a brief twinge of guilt. Was she being too rough on him? What the hell is wrong with you? she thought. What a soft touch she was. Maybe Smith was right. She was too naive for this business.

  “What do you want of me, Jake?”

  “I want you not to tell the cops about the tapes, the key, the money. I need time to try to find the rest of those tapes.”

  “And do what with them when you find them?”

  He grinned at her, suddenly full of Irish charm. “Do what Nixon didn’t have the guts to do.”

  52

  In spite of herself, she laughed. “This is a crazy conversation we’re having, Jake Donahue.”

  “Leslie Wetzon,” Jake Donahue said, inclining toward her. “I like you.”

  The piercing buzz of a doorbell interrupted their dialogue. Although she had been expecting Roberta and Silvestri, Wetzon literally jumped.

  “Good God.” Donahue froze, alert. “Who the hell—”

  “I told you I had an appointment—” She was uncomfortable. Perhaps against her better judgment, she half-believed Jake’s claim that he was not a murderer. If he weren’t, then which of the cast of characters she had met was? Whenever she had her fingertips on the solution, it would melt away like ice cream. “Jake, look, I don’t have what you’re looking for. I don’t know where it is, and even if I did ...”

  The doorbell rang again. Two impatient rings.

  There was no back way out, through the garden, for her to send Jake. What should she do?

  As if in response to her silent question, Jake said roughly, “Get rid of whoever it is.” He stood up, a meaty mass of a man, dwarfing her.

  “Oh, hell. Wait here,” Wetzon said. At least she wasn’t going to be alone with him. What could he do with Roberta and Silvestri there? Silvestri. God. It would be awful if Silvestri found Jake Donahue with her after she had told him she didn’t know the man.

  Wetzon went into the outer office, closing the door firmly behind her. The doorbell rang several times more and someone rattled the doorknob impatiently.

  “Who is it?” Wetzon called, leaving the chain lock on and peering into the dusky twilight. A tall, slender woman with long hair, wearing a dark, tightly belted coat, stood in the small brick vestibule. It had to be Roberta.

  Wetzon slipped off the chain lock. The woman who came through the door into the light of the office was the woman with the extraordinary hair whom Wetzon had seen at the Four Seasons. The woman whose picture Wetzon had picked out for Silvestri, the woman she hadn’t been able to name for Silvestri. No wonder he had thought it strange. He knew she’d met Roberta the day before. What he had not known was that Roberta, in a turban that covered her head and under the guise of a headache, had managed not to be recognizable. No wonder Silvestri had concluded Wetzon was either nuts or hiding something. Her first reaction was dismay, swiftly replaced by fear.

  “You are—”

  “Roberta Bancroft.” The woman offered Wetzon a long, thin hand. The beautiful copper hair was full and smooth, in a perfectly rolled pageboy cut. She brought with her the unmistakable floral scent of lily of the valley.

  Wetzon took Roberta’s hand but found it impossible to pull her eyes away from the woman. She was the ultimate in chic in a black leather trench coat. A Hermès print scarf was tied loosely at her throat, as if she had just slipped it off her head. Wetzon’s mind conjured up a fleeting image of a woman in a black leather trench coat and scarf tied under her chin, who got out of the cab on Second Avenue right behind Wetzon the day after Barry was killed and just before Wetzon was pushed into the street.

  “Is anything wrong?” Roberta had amazing light green eyes with dark rims—cat eyes, with dark lashes and brows. A blue and yellow bruise stained the pale skin under her right eye.

  “Oh, no,” Wetzon said, looking away. She had been staring. “You did reach Sergeant Silvestri, didn’t you?”


  “Yes, of course, but he said he might be delayed.” Roberta let her eyes drift around the room, as if she was taking inventory.

  Delayed. Not very likely that he would be coming at all. Wetzon’s mind roiled. What was she to do? But she said calmly, “Would you like to sit down?” She pointed to one of the two small modern chairs upholstered in a Jack Lenor Larsen black, white, and brown wool. She looked at her watch. Five-forty. Jake was in the other room, listening; she was certain of it. Could he be counted on for help? Of that she wasn’t so certain. She glanced at her watch again. Roberta’s cat eyes narrowed. “I have another appointment outside the office,” Wetzon explained.

  “My timing lately is always off,” Roberta murmured. She stretched thin, deep red lips over oddly small teeth. Cat eyes, rat teeth.

  If Roberta had been at the Four Seasons that day, she could have killed Barry. Panic crept slowly up from the base of Wetzon’s spine. Keep your wits about you, old girl. Stay with it. “Why do you think your life is in danger?” she asked, sitting on the edge of Harold’s desk. “And what does it have to do with me?”

  Roberta seemed curiously serene. She opened her black leather bag, searched through it, and took out a long slim cigarette. She lit it ostentatiously with a match from a Four Seasons matchbook. “Oh, my dear, it has everything to do with you,” she said, drawing deeply on the cigarette.

  Black leather trench coat and floral scarf. The pieces began to click into place. Roberta was the woman Buffie had seen with Barry at the zoo in Central Park. How well had Roberta known Barry? Was she simply Mildred’s liaison? “Were you having an affair with Barry?”

  Roberta actually snickered. “That slime. Hardly. It was Mildred’s idea that I be the go-between. I didn’t like it, and I didn’t trust him. I warned her not to get involved with him. Why do you ask?”

  “Barry’s girlfriend saw you with him.”

  “Ha!” She had an explosive laugh, like a bark. She showed just the tips of those rodentlike teeth. She inhaled again deeply and slowly let the smoke out.