Jake was at the Four Seasons, Leon was there, and Roberta was there. What if they had all been together? What if Barry had seen them— “Oh, my god,” Wetzon said out loud, her face crumpling.
“Ah, well,” Roberta said, standing. She looked around for an ashtray.
Eyeing her warily, Wetzon emptied a small metal box that Harold used for paper clips and handed it to Roberta, who ground out her cigarette methodically.
“You’re the only one, I think, who can put me there.”
“I don’t understand,” Wetzon said, sliding off Harold’s desk, pulling clips with her. They scattered on the wooden floor. “I didn’t see you at the zoo.”
Roberta gave Wetzon a smoldering look. “I’m not talking about the zoo. Do you take me for a fool? Barry saw me at the Four Seasons. After you saw me. I was with Jake.” She was rummaging in the black leather purse, looking for something. “There was no deal, you understand. I only agreed to help him to protect Mildred. But Barry was going to tell Mildred, and I couldn’t have that.” She looked up and smiled reassuringly at Wetzon. “It was no loss, you know. They should give me a medal—” She found what she was looking for in her purse and pulled it out. Wetzon gasped. It was a Swiss hunting knife, the kind she always saw advertized at Hoffritz.
It was not until that moment that Wetzon fully realized the danger. She had the odd sensation of spinning out of her body and standing a little to the side, watching the action. “What about Georgie?” Wetzon said, playing for time, but needing to know.
“He was worse than Barry, if that’s possible. That stupid girl called Mildred about his having written an autobiography, so we figured she had the tapes and was going to make us pay to get them. He caught me searching her apartment and cut himself in.” Showing the tips of her teeth again, she added serenely, “So I cut him out.” She contemplated Wetzon for a moment and then took a small step forward.
“Roberta, I found the tapes. I’ll give them to you,” Wetzon said, backing toward the door to the inside room.
Roberta opened the knife slowly, in an oddly sensual movement. “You have the tapes?” She stopped. “Where are they?”
“Not here. I have to get them.”
“You’re the only one who knows about me. I don’t need the tapes.”
“No, I’m not. Jake Donahue and Leon, his lawyer, know.” And Silvestri knows, but he’s not coming.
“They’ll never tell.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. Leon, after all, is an officer of the court.”
“But if I have the tapes, they’ll never talk. They’d be afraid to.”
“That’s right.” Wetzon leaned on the door to the back office. Roberta was mad. She was afraid to take her eyes from either Roberta or the knife. Afraid to move. Oh, Silvestri ...
“He’s not coming,” Roberta said, as if they were having a conversation over tea. “I never called him.” She showed her teeth and moved closer.
Wetzon pressed her body against the door. Her hand touched the knob. She was ready to spring back. Her mind worked at high speed. If she could only get to the bathroom, she could lock the door and wait till she was rescued.
But she had forgotten about Jake Donahue. The door swung open and she was jolted backward into the room. Donahue caught her and roughly pushed her aside. She fell against her desk. Terror hit her like a tidal wave. Jake couldn’t save her. He couldn’t save himself. They would die.
“Roberta, goddammit, are you nuts? What the hell’s wrong with you?” Jake lurched at her as if to grab her.
Roberta’s face shifted rapidly from surprise to anger. Her cunning eyes almost disappeared into their sockets. “I wouldn’t say that, if I were you.” Her voice menaced, but she backed off. “Don’t you touch me.”
Damn Jake, Wetzon thought suddenly. He was handling her all wrong.
“Roberta, calm down,” Jake said, standing in place. “Just tell old Jake what this is all about.” The insincerity in his tone was offensive and condescending.
You asshole, Wetzon wanted to shout at him. He badly underestimated Roberta. It would anger her more—
“Don’t humor me, you bastard.” Roberta’s thin lips curled. “You were hiding there, listening.” She gestured with the knife as if it were part of her hand. The blade found its key light in the fluorescent and hung there, glinting. “You’re all alike. First Mildred, then you. Promises. I’ll take care of you, Bobbie ...” she said, doing a fair imitation of Mildred’s raspy voice.
Wetzon’s hands began to shake. She couldn’t swallow. A tight band closed over her chest; the room began to whirl.
Then Roberta screamed—a long, furious scream—and lunged toward Jake, who backed away. Wetzon’s head snapped up. No, she wouldn’t, she couldn’t let herself cave in now. She stepped forward. Pretend she’s just an upset broker, she thought desperately. Pretend she’s just been dumped by Shearson and ...
“Roberta, talk to me, please,” Wetzon pleaded, “I didn’t promise you anything. I don’t even know you.”
Roberta’s eyes darted toward Wetzon, momentarily distracted. “You saw me,” she said. “You were always turning up. I couldn’t get away from you. You’ll tell on me.”
“You crazy—” Jake’s face changed rapidly from red to purple.
Wetzon interrupted. He was making a mess of it. “I won’t tell anybody anything, Roberta.” Wetzon was on home ground. She had handled crazies before. If only Jake would shut up and let her do the job she did well.
“That’s right.” Roberta nodded, smiling rat teeth. The beautiful copper hair rolled forward around her face.
“I don’t understand, Roberta,” Wetzon said, determined to keep her talking. “What were you doing with Jake if you were working for Mildred?” Her mouth was parched.
Roberta’s eyes dismissed Wetzon. “Mildred was going to take care of me, but he—” The knife made a deadly little circle, indicating Jake. “He ruined everything. And now I’m going to show him how grateful I am. I’m going to kill him.” She smiled at Wetzon. “And then I’m going to kill you.”
“You fool,” Jake raged, making two potent fists of his hands. “You didn’t need Mildred anymore. I would have taken care of you, didn’t I promise you that?”
Wetzon shuddered. What had Smith said? A woman sometimes wants to be taken care of. And Wetzon, what about Wetzon? Wetzon, who always took care of herself. Right now, Wetzon wished fervently for Silvestri to come riding up on a white horse and save the day. But she knew he wasn’t coming.
“Don’t worry, you said, I’ll take care of you. What a joke. On me. You were going to take care of me, weren’t you, Jake? You showed me a copy of Mildred’s will, and you were right, it doesn’t include me. She lied to me.” She brushed her hair away from her face with her free hand. “Isn’t it funny? Mildred didn’t think you were a killer, Jake. I kept at her that you were, but she began to put it all together after you broke in that day—”
Wetzon looked at Jake and then at Roberta. If she were Roberta, she would probably stick the knife in him right now. The man was a monster. They were both evil, but Roberta was a victim. Wetzon had the feeling that Jake always knew exactly what he was doing.
“You should have trusted me,” Jake said, his expression weary.
“You’re a lying, cheating son of a bitch,” Roberta said, continuing in her tea-party voice.
Jake moved precipitously, going for the knife. Logic told Wetzon that Jake was moving fast, but it seemed as if she were watching a film in slow motion.
Roberta recoiled. She cried, “Stay away from me, you bastard!”
The knife moved lazily through the empty space between Roberta and Jake.
Wetzon, her heart thudding in her ears, moved backward, slammed into the lip of her desk, bruising her tailbone. The jarring shock would have thrown her forward into the fray had she not clutched the desk with her fingers.
Jake’s voice was a muffled roar. Roberta was slicing the air between them with the knife, back and for
th, back and forth ... back and forth.
How strange ... there is no blood, Wetzon thought. Like in a play. The knife is not real.
“Stop, stop, please stop.” Wetzon heard someone scream and realized it was she.
A brilliant crimson flower began to create itself in time-lapse photography, blooming on the white desk top near Wetzon’s hand.
Blood, crimson like the flower, spattered on papers, on the desks, on the telephone answering machine, on the floor. The phone began to ring. Automatically, Wetzon groped for it, and her hand found the heavy marble peach she kept on her desk as a paperweight. Without thinking, her fingers closed on it. She picked it up, spotted, as she had as a dancer, on Roberta’s white forehead, and hurled it with all her strength.
Jake shuffled a strange dance and slipped to his knees.
The answering machine clicked on and whoever it was hung up.
There was a soft thump as the marble peach made contact with Roberta’s forehead. She stopped, stepped toward Wetzon casually, as if she was about to begin a conversation.
“No, please,” Wetzon cried.
Roberta’s eyes burned. The marble peach hit the floor and shattered. Roberta took another step, then fell.
“Oh, God, I’ve killed her.” Wetzon’s face was wet. She hadn’t known she was crying. She swayed. The room was heady with the sickening, sweet smell of blood mixed with lily of the valley. Gasping, she made her way to the bathroom, gathered up all the towels, and brought them back to Jake, who was kneeling on the blood-spattered floor.
He looked up at her, face streaked with blood. She almost didn’t hear what he said, his voice was so low. “Lady, you are something else.”
His hands were badly cut, bleeding profusely. Docile as a child, he held them out to her and she wrapped them as best she could. His clothing was in streamers of tailor-made blue pinstripe and white shirting. The left lapel was cut away from the jacket and his shirt became various shades of pink to crimson as she worked. The red paisley silk tie was red on red among the tangles of his suit.
Jake’s face twisted in pain. She bent over to touch him.
“If you get too close to me,” he said harshly, “I’ll get you dirty, too.” He stood up awkwardly, swaying, and then slumped into Smith’s chair. Blood seeped from an ugly gash on his left cheek.
“You need a doctor,” she said.
“We’ll have to do something about that first,” he said, pointing to Roberta’s motionless body. “You didn’t kill her, worse luck, and the crazy bitch’ll come to and—”
“I’ll call the police.” She was amazed. Jake was taking no responsibility for what had happened, and yet, by buying Roberta, Wetzon knew he was indirectly responsible for the deaths of at least three people. Four, if she counted Sugar Joe. Was it really possible that Roberta had followed her that day from Mildred’s office, then had struck at her on the dark and quiet street as she crossed Amsterdam Avenue? She shivered, thinking of Roberta watching as she met with Laura Lee, with Amanda, and Howie, of her watching as she stood in line at Zabar’s. It was not something a sane person did. But Roberta was not sane.
“We can’t stop for that now,” Jake said. “I’m in no shape to fight her off.” Roberta moaned. “And you may not have another—what the hell was that anyway?”
“A marble peach.” Wetzon stared at the fragments of the marble peach. She couldn’t believe what she had done. She had saved their lives.
“A marble peach,” he repeated. “For chrissakes. Does any door here lock from the outside?” He was beginning to assume his old role of command.
“Yes. The supply closet. There.”
“Good. I’ll help, but you’re going to have to do most of the work.” He gestured with his clumsily bandaged hands. Blood was already seeping through the towels, staining them pink, then red. Wetzon looked away. The office was a mess. Smith would be furious. “What’s with you?” Jake growled. “Get that fucking knife away from her.”
She pulled some Kleenex from the box on her desk and picked up the bloody knife by the handle. She placed it squeamishly on her desk.
She leaned over Roberta’s body. The air in the room reeked, and she began to gag. She touched Roberta’s ankles tentatively. Leather boots, very expensive, high heeled, black leather boots, bloody leather boots ... red leather boots ... She swallowed a nervous giggle.
“What are you waiting for?” Jake demanded. “Pull.”
She pulled and Jake pushed, until Roberta was propped up in the supply closet like a bag of old clothes. Jake slammed the door with his foot and Wetzon locked it.
They nodded at each other like coconspirators. Crimson dripped into his eyes from a gash on his forehead. “Christ, I think I’m going to pass out,” he said, grimacing. He sat back down in Smith’s chair, heavily.
Wetzon washed her hands, shrinking from the color of the water in the sink, then wet a paper towel with cold water, taking it back to Jake, gently blotting up some of the blood from his face.
Jake opened his eyes. “I love you, Leslie Wetzon,” he said. His eyes closed.
She took a deep breath and dialed 911.
“My name is Leslie Wetzon. I’m at Six-ninety A East Forty-ninth Street. Please send an ambulance right away. Someone’s been badly hurt. Yes. There is also a murderer locked in the closet.” She paused. “I know, please believe me, and please notify Sergeant Silvestri at the Seventeenth Precinct immediately.”
Jake opened his eyes. “You’re not going to give me any time.”
“I’m sorry, Jake. It’s too late.”
“Yeah.” He closed his eyes, not arguing.
“I hope it doesn’t go too badly for you,” she said haltingly, not sure she meant it.
“Hey, I’ll be okay. I’m a survivor. I came on the Street without a penny, without a contact, and look where I am today.”
“Yes, look.” Just like a broker, she thought.
“Yeah.” Derisively.
At that moment there was a loud noise at the front door, and Metzger—tall, melancholic, and pouchy-eyed, but indescribably beautiful—appeared, followed by the detective with the ankle holster Wetzon had seen at the precinct house.
“God, I’m glad to see you,” she said, starting to cry again. She clung to Metzger’s arm, wanting to hug him, holding tightly to his arm. “She’s in the closet, the closet ... we put her in the c-c-closet....” She couldn’t get the words out. Her mouth was too dry. Her heart was pumping with such force, she wasn’t able to stand still.
“Are you all right?” Metzger gave her a skeptical once-over.
“Yes, yes, yes. But, but Jake—”
“In here,” Jake called weakly from the next room.
Metzger motioned with his head, but the other detective and two uniformed police had already moved into the back room.
Wetzon kept nodding at Metzger that she was all right, but she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t let go of his arm. Where was Silvestri?
“Here now,” Metzger said, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Sit down.” Metzger put her in one of the reception chairs, took his arm away gently, and went into the back room. Wetzon could hear Jake and the others talking. Sirens blared and stopped. An ambulance arrived. More police. More noise.
Wetzon dried her eyes with the back of her hands and stood at the door to her and Smith’s office, leaning on the door frame. The room was a mess. The smell of blood mixed with antiseptic.
A white-coated medic was cleaning Jake’s wounds and had him on an IV. “These are going to need stitching,” he said to the other paramedic. “Let’s get out of here.” The other nodded. He was down on one knee near Roberta, who was slumped on the floor, leaning against Wetzon’s desk. The medic was trying to put a white patch on her forehead, but Roberta kept moving her head from side to side, not fully conscious, resisting. One of the uniformed policemen stood over her, handcuffs swinging from his index finger.
Metzger and the other detective were talking to Jake. They both glanced
at Wetzon. She backed out and into the reception room and sat down at Harold’s desk, face in her hands, eyes closed.
She heard Metzger come back and opened her eyes. He sat uneasy, in one of the small chairs. He looked silly, like a giant, mournful beagle. She started to giggle, then put her hand over her mouth.
“Are you up to talking?”
She nodded, took a deep breath, and ran quickly through Roberta’s call, Jake’s unexpected arrival, Roberta’s entrance. “She never phoned Silvestri, did she?”
Metzger shook his head. “He would have told me. He would have been here.”
“Where is he now?” Why isn’t he here when I need him? is what she wanted to say. She felt an overwhelming desire to have him frown disapprovingly at her.
“He’s on another case. Couldn’t reach him. I knew something was wrong when you called.”
“She murdered Barry and Georgie Travers and Mildred Gleason,” Wetzon said, “and she would have killed us—”
“You did a good job on her,” Metzger said solemnly. “We’re going over to Bellevue now. You look okay, but you should have them give you the once-over. After that, we’ll need to talk to you at the precinct.”
She shook her head. “If you don’t need me right away, I’d rather go home, clean myself up. I promise I’ll come over to the precinct later.” She knew what she was going to do, if she could summon up the strength. She felt an enormous calm, in control for the first time since seeing Barry’s body slide from the phone booth a week ago.
A skeptical Metzger studied her for a moment, then nodded.
The group moved out, Roberta in handcuffs, head down, a policeman on each side, supporting her. Wings of copper hair hid her face. Jake followed, leaning on a paramedic. “Take care, Jake,” Wetzon said.
“I’m a hard man to keep down, Leslie Wetzon,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
The outside door closed. The sudden silence was a sedative. Wetzon continued sitting at Harold’s desk, losing touch with time.
The phone rang. Rang again. Her hand reached out and picked it up. “Smith and Wetzon,” she said.
“Oh, hi, Wetzon. I’m glad you’re still there. I have to talk to you.”
The Big Killing Page 32