The Big Killing

by Annette Meyers

  “Who—” Why in hell are you talking on the phone, Wetzon? she thought.

  The woman kept chattering. “I had a really good meeting at Alex Brown,” she said.

  Amanda. “That’s wonderful, Amanda.” Wetzon was happy for her. “When do you start?”

  “Well, that’s just the thing I wanted to talk to you about, Wetzon. I told them I’d get back to them. After all, why should I take the first offer? I think I should be looking at other firms, don’t you? I’d like to talk to Pru-Bache. I hear they’re giving the best deals—”

  If you were really smart, you’d hang up on her right now, Wetzon told herself. She deserves to be hung up on. But she said, “Can we talk about it in the morning, Amanda?”

  “Sure, I’m clear all day. Call me as soon as you set the appointment. ‘Bye, Wetzon.” She hung up.

  Not even a thank-you, Wetzon thought. She replaced the receiver and went into the bathroom and washed her face thoroughly with cold water. Her shoes were stained with blood, and she wiped them passingly with a wet towel. They were ruined. Maybe it would be dark at the Caravanserie and no one would notice. “Get going,” she told her pale reflection in the mirror, as she hastily pinned her hair back in place. She looked like a ghost. There was nothing she could do about it.

  She pulled her handbag and her briefcase from under her desk.

  She took a long last look around the office and forced herself to walk away from it. She didn’t have time to think about it now. She was late.

  53

  On the corner of First Avenue and Forty-ninth Street, a well-dressed woman was sitting on a suitcase heartily singing, “But square shaped or pear shaped, these rocks don’t lose their shape ...” Only a few people paused to stare. It was, after all, New York.

  Wetzon took a deep breath to steady herself and hailed a cab. She was desperate to get away from the insanity she had just been part of. It was almost over. She had to do this one more thing, finish it up, hand the tapes over to Silvestri, and write an end to this nightmare. Just a little while longer.

  The crowd going into the Caravanserie this early evening wore business suits, even the women. It was a convention of gray pinstripes. It would have to be; it was Wall Street Night.

  The world of Wall Street was no different from that of other professions: there was a costume that helped create the conservative aura, which quietly said: “We are taking good care of your money. Trust us.”

  She remembered Harvey Inman, a stockbroker she had met in her first year as a recruiter. “‘Trust me,’” he had told her facetiously, “is really code for ‘fuck you.’”

  Wetzon felt weak and disconnected. There‘d been blood everywhere. She had almost been murdered. Jake Donahue had been badly cut. She didn’t know if she could go through with this. Her head began to pound as she presented her invitation and her business card with six dollars at a small table just inside the entrance of the Caravanserie.

  She followed the stream of people into the room with the long bar. A good mix of men and women were standing around in small groups drinking and talking, exchanging business cards and gossip. She paid for a Perrier and lime and wished she could get rid of the cloying smell of Roberta’s lily of the valley perfume.

  “Hi there.” A tall, light-skinned black woman with a very short Afro approached her. “I’m Gail Enders.” She offered her hand, which Wetzon took, shifting her briefcase to under her left arm. “My card.” It said: Gail Enders, Vice President, R. A. Lane, Licensed Real Estate Brokers, for the sales of condominiums and cooperatives.

  “You’re not a stockbroker, then,” Wetzon said, reading the card.

  “No”—wide smile, an expanse of slightly bucked teeth—”but I sell a lot of apartments to stockbrokers, and other people, of course,” she added hastily. “Are you a stockbroker?”

  “No, I’m a headhunter I work with stockbrokers.”

  Mechanically, Wetzon exchanged cards and conversation with a man from the trust department at Citibank, a woman who did marketing for the New York Stock Exchange, and an ex-stockbroker, whom she had known from Paine Webber, who was now on the staff of Money magazine. She kept checking her watch. The ache in her head worsened. Migrainelike, it had settled on the right side of her head, pressing painfully on her eye. She dipped her fingertips in the ice-filled Perrier and touched her right cheekbone: for a moment the pain receded. Someone named Al Comfort tried to sell her insurance, term life, and annuities.

  She talked to an attorney with a major corporate law firm, who wanted to cross over into corporate finance with an investment bank. It was almost seven. The pain in her head beat on without respite.

  She bought herself a refill of her Perrier and strolled into the Day-Glo-colored lounge, feeling jumpy and apprehensive. She sat down on a shocking pink plastic chair that was molded like a mushroom, one of the sixties’ ugliest designs, and tried to think things through. Men and women in business suits, clones of one another, passed in and out of the restrooms, talking gibberish, or so it seemed to Wetzon. On the hem of her skirt she saw a dark red stain of dried blood. She looked away. She couldn’t let herself think about it now. She needed all her will to finish this.

  There was a powder-blue pay telephone to her right, built into a wall painted the same shade. Gail Enders, of condominiums and cooperatives, strode in, punched out some numbers, left a message for Charley on his machine that she was still at the office, and went back to the bar fluttering her fingers at Wetzon, not even a little embarrassed.

  Rick did not appear, and it was almost quarter past seven. She had been foolish to try to do this herself, not to mention headstrong. Maybe Rick wasn’t going to be able to come after all. There could have been an emergency, and he would have no way of getting in touch with her. She’d better try to reach Silvestri. By this time Metzger would have located him and told him what had happened with Roberta. She put the Perrier on the powder-blue ledge near the phone, fished a quarter out of her purse, and dialed, gnawing on her lip as she waited for someone to answer.

  “Cooperman.”

  “Is Sergeant Silvestri there?”

  “He just left. Wait a minute—who’s calling?”

  “Wetzon. Leslie Wetzon.”

  “Hey,” Silvestri came on the line, his voice warm in her ear, “I’ve been trying to find you, lady. Where are you?”

  “At the Caravanserie.”

  “Stay there. I’m on my way.”

  “Oh—God—” She jumped. The center door that she had been watching so carefully opened a crack, and she saw Rick peering through. What a relief.

  “Les? Are you all right?” Silvestri sounded uncharacteristically anxious.

  “Sure ... yes. Have to go. Talk later.” She hung up, picked up her briefcase, and went to the door to the health club. A fat woman in a tight white wool dress came out of the bathroom and looked at her curiously. Another woman followed almost immediately and they left together.

  “Come on,” Rick said urgently and held the door wide. She slipped through, closing it quickly behind her.

  He pushed the jacket of her suit away, grasping hands rough around her waist. “Mmmm, you feel good, babe.” Her back was pressed against the wall, which she could feel was carpeted, like the floors, with that crisp indoor-outdoor carpeting. Then he was kissing her, passionate, demanding kisses, but his eyes were shiny and hard.

  Silvestri had called her Les.

  She broke away from Rick, faking dizziness. “Come back to me,” he said, catching her. “Whatsa matter?” His speech was slurred. “You look a little pale.”

  She thought of telling him what had happened, but didn’t, not knowing why. He seemed as nervous as she was. More. He was holding her so tightly her ribs ached. His large duffel bag rested on the carpeted floor beside them.

  “What’s this?” she asked, joking, straining to lighten up. “I hope you weren’t expecting to empty a lot of stuff out of the locker.”

  “Hell, no.” Rick laughed, agitated. But he let
her go, leaning against the wall over her, an arm on either side of her head, closing her off, making a cage. “You didn’t give me a chance to tell you ... I’m going to the Coast tonight. That’s why I called you—to see if we could get it on before I left.”

  “Oh, Rick, I’m so sorry.” She was mortified. How selfish of her. No wonder he was nervous. “I’m so single-minded, this was all I was thinking about.”

  “It’s okay, babe, but now you have to come out to the airport to make it up to me.” He smiled, coaxing. Jake had smiled at Roberta that way.... She felt herself begin to tense.

  “But—” First she had to get the tapes and take them to Silvestri. If Barry really had another locker and it was here, and if the tapes were—

  “No buts. Let’s get this show on the road. I have a nine o’clock flight from Kennedy. Where are those numbers?”

  She checked her watch. “We’re cutting it awfully close,” she said doubtfully. She took the matchbook out of her jacket pocket, opened it, and showed him the numbers.

  “Here, let me have that,” he said, grabbing the matchbook from her hand, shocking her, making no apology.

  He was in a hurry, and he was doing her a favor, she thought, forgiving him. He glanced at the writing in the matchbook. God, he was hyper. She had never seen him like this. She shook the thought away. Why was she so suspicious? He was in a rush, on his way to California. It was a major career move for him.

  But it was something even more than that. She couldn’t put her finger on it.

  Club members in sweats, shorts, women in gleaming color-coordinated leotards and tights, everyone in the absolute best possible shape, came down the hall, passing them singly and in chattering groups, on the way to and from racquetball, tennis, exercise machines, classes. Every so often someone gave them a searching look, for Wetzon still wore her business suit. Rick, at least, was wearing jeans and a sweat top.

  He pointed behind her. “Follow this corridor and make a left, and you’ll see the entrance to the health club. Wait for me there. I’ll be right back.” He slipped the matchbook in his sweatshirt pocket, picked up his big duffel, and moved in the opposite direction.

  She hated to part with the matchbook, but there was no other way. Why hadn’t she copied the numbers in the matchbook when she was in the office? The pain in her head gripped her and crept down into her neck.

  “Rick,” she called after him, “why are you taking your bag? I can take it with me.”

  “It’s too heavy for you, little girl,” he said. “Besides, where am I going to put—what did you say we’re looking for in that locker?”

  In the confusion, she had forgotten to tell him. And he had almost forgotten to ask her. They must both be a little crazed.

  He swaggered back to her, hips forward, teasing. He was selling seduction in his tight jeans and bulky white cotton sweatshirt. She wasn’t buying.

  “The tapes Barry made. Anything that looks like cassettes or tapes,” she said. “A diary or notebooks—papers, stuff like documents.”

  “Okay, babe, you know you can rely on old Dr. Rick.” He leaned over and kissed her ear, then turned and sprinted up the corridor.

  54

  What’s wrong with you? she asked herself. He’s full of fun, handsome, and he likes you. Why can‘t you accept that? What she had just been through—however horrible it was—had nothing to do with Rick, was not his fault. He didn’t even know about it. So why was she angry with him for not being sympathetic? Because that’s exactly what she was feeling. It didn’t make any sense. Nothing about this past week made any sense.

  She followed Rick’s directions, found the reception area, and settled in to wait. What if she was wrong? What if it wasn’t a locker combination? What if the police had already found the locker? What if there were no tapes? These what-ifs were going to drive her crazy. Well, screw it, she would just be wrong again. She should be used to it by now.

  She shifted uncomfortably in the chair. What if Rick didn’t come back? He could just take the cassettes and leave. Her stomach flipped. What a wild thought. She shook her throbbing head. She would tell him she felt ill, which she did, and couldn’t go out to Kennedy with him. He’d said she was pale but hadn’t bothered to ask why.

  She stretched her legs out in front of her, flexing, and saw uneven red splotches on her hose, spots of blood on her ankles and shins, and her thoughts spiraled back to the office, Jake, blood, Roberta’s mad eyes, the knife slashing down—

  “May I help you?” An attractive brunette in a Caravanserie T-shirt, very tight iridescent blue leotards cut high up the leg, and matching blue tights with white ankle warmers, approached, beaming.

  Wetzon started. “Oh, no, thank you, I’m waiting for someone.” She looked at her watch. Seven forty-five. What was taking him so long? She crossed her legs, jiggling her heel. She was shaking with apprehension. She stood up, feeling panic fluttering in her chest, as if she were on a caffeine overdose. It was just a combination of everything: Barry, Georgie, Buffie, Mildred, Jake, Roberta ... Leon and Smith ... Barry, who had been so many diverse things to so many different people, and whose greed had started an avalanche ... but he was not alone in the greed department. And whatever Barry may have been, he didn’t deserve to die.

  She suddenly felt almost euphoric with relief that it was Roberta who had committed the murders, not someone Wetzon knew well. Smith was—

  “Let’s go, babe.” Rick was suddenly at her side, arm firmly around her, and they were out on the sidewalk, racing. A fine drizzle made the streets shimmer. The rush of passing cars, the reflections of their headlights on the wet pavement, dazzled her. She blinked to clear her eyes, but they didn’t clear.

  “Yayho!” Rick shouted a cab down. “Kennedy,” he said, pulling the door open. “TWA, International, and make it fast.” He pushed her into the cab.

  “Do you want to put that in the trunk?” the driver asked.

  “No, let’s just get the hell out of here.”

  So much for her plans. Without a chance to protest, she found herself sitting in the cab beside Rick, speeding to Kennedy Airport. “Did you find them?” she whispered. Had he said International?

  “Uh-huh.” He leaned over and unzipped a small section of his duffel. It was a bonanza. She tried to count them in the dark, lost count. How many were there? Twenty? Thirty? “They’re marked,” he said. “You’ll see when there’s some light.

  Her hands shook as she pushed aside her datebook and her papers and stuffed the cassettes into her briefcase. The distended case would not snap shut. Frantic, she shifted everything around; finally, she heard the click of the catch. Look, she’d say to Silvestri, see what I’ve done—I’ve come up with what everyone was looking for. She’d worked it out herself. Maybe this would make up for the fiasco with the key. Then maybe he’d care, just a little bit.... “Thanks so much, Rick, but weren’t there letters and papers in the locker?” The briefcase was heavy and she slid it from her lap to the seat.

  “I was running out of time. Didn’t look after I saw the tapes. Just some sweats, I think, reports, junk. So, do I get high marks?” He leaned back in the seat and put his arm around her. Possessively.

  They were plunging along dark roads through what had turned into a hurricane rain. Traffic was thin. The sky was at times midnight blue-black, pierced now and then by an eerie violet light. The lights from the traffic and the Triborough Bridge gave the outside world a nightmarish cast. A loud crack of thunder followed quickly on a flash of lightning. A Transylvanian night.

  By the time they were in Queens, the cab had picked up even more speed, and it was as if they were flying through darkness. Rick laughed triumphantly. Shrieking through the night, she thought, irrationally.

  “Well, high marks or not, what do you say?”

  “High marks,” she said, her words muffled by his lips.

  “You taste sweet,” he said. “So sweet.” He was holding on to her, even as she shrank away. Ice cream man, she thought.
>
  “Too many Perriers while I was waiting for you,” she said matter-of-factly, trying to keep her heart steady. What was wrong? Something kept teasing her memory. She was having trouble breathing.

  Silvestri had called her Les.

  “I wish we could have been together one more time before I left,” Rick said.

  “We are together.”

  “You know what I mean, little girl. I want to make love to you, really make love to you. I don’t want you to forget me.” His hands were on her breasts.

  She was frightened. “But not in a cab, Rick,” she said with a firmness she hadn’t believed herself capable of. Outside, it was dark and violent. The lights were bouncing in the rain. Thunder rumbled. Shadows carved hollows in Rick’s face. She had no idea where they were.

  “You’re so straight,” he said, turning her face to him. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”

  What did he mean by that? Did he mean to hurt her? Was he going to try to take her on the plane with him? Against her will? She was cold, freezing cold.

  Over Rick’s shoulder she saw with relief the signs for the TWA terminal. She was determined not to get out of the cab when Rick did. She would just say goodbye and take it back to New York and Silvestri.

  “Come on,” Rick said, hurriedly shoving bills at the driver. She was on the side by the sidewalk, so she stepped out of the cab to let him out. Cold rain flew in her face and dampened her hair and clothes in a few seconds. She was eager to get back into the cab and away. Rick came out after her, grasped her elbow, and dragged the duffel with him, slamming the door. The cab took off.

  “Wait—” she cried, but it was lost in the noise of the announcement that TWA flight 310, to Mexico City, leaving at nine o’clock, was now being boarded.

  “That’s my flight,” Rick said, pulling her along with him. Around them passengers were rushing about with luggage, children in hand: Skycaps were wheeling loaded carts. “No, I’m taking this on with me,” he told the attendant, hanging on to his duffel.