This piece of information didn’t seem to surprise him. “So you unlocked the door. Then what?”
“I don’t remember. I woke up wrapped in a quilt with the dog licking my hand and the super standing over me. I have a bump on my head, here.” She touched her forehead. “So I guess I either got hit or fell.” Smitty, oh, Smitty.
“What did you do when you came to?”
“The super and I looked around. The place was ransacked and trashed. We found Susan on the landing. That’s it.”
“Who is Smitty?”
Had he read her mind? She gave him a hard look. “Are you trying to trip me up?”
O’Melvany grinned and rubbed his mustache. “Just checking. We found Ms. Orkin’s date book and his name was in it. We know Smitty is Mark Smith.”
“Mark Smith did not kill Susan.”
“His fingerprints were on the service door.”
“Oh, God. Eddie ... Detective O’Melvany—”
“Eddie is fine.”
“Eddie, this has nothing to do with Smitty, believe me. Who was the woman Susan had to call the police to get rid of Friday night?”
“Let’s have a look at the pictures first.” He reached behind him and picked up the folder.
“Do I have to look at Susan?”
“If you can.” He handed her the folder.
She clenched her jaw and skimmed through the photos of the murder scene. It was far worse than she remembered. The tuna nicoise lay like mortar in her stomach. She moved on to the photos of the apartment, slipping one behind the other as she went along. Wait a minute. She pulled the last one back. “What’s this?” She handed it to O’Melvany.
He glanced at the photo. “The garbage pail outside Ms. Orkin’s door.”
“Look at this.” She pointed to something near the empty pail. “It looks like a headband.”
“It is. Must have been Ms. Orkin’s.”
“A headband. Susan didn’t wear a headband. Besides, she’d just come out of the shower.” Wetzon stared at the photo. A headband. Who wore a headband that she knew? Someone did. Sunny? “The woman who came to see her Friday night. Who was it?”
O’Melvany put the photographs back in the folder, all except the last one. “Someone by the name of Edna Terrace.”
59.
The guard on the door at the post office told her it was just six o’clock, which meant she was too late; the post office was closed. Damnation! She’d have to pick up the package tomorrow morning before work. Wetzon stood for a moment in front of the building, thinking. Across the street three men argued in Spanish over the domino game they’d set up on a folding table on the sidewalk. Didn’t Phil Terrace also fit the police profile? Maybe he and his mother were a murderous duo? Ma Terrace and son.
She walked over to Broadway. Zabar’s now had refrigerated cases offering scores of small containers of prepared foods ... just right for singles. She wandered around the store; with no appetite, nothing was tempting. The cheese counter was approachable, though. She took a number. Forty-nine. The counter above the shelves said thirty-eight. Did she want cheese? Maybe a chunk of Rocquefort, some nicoise olives and a semolina bread.
“Leslie!”
Startled, she dropped the slip with her cheese number. “Arthur! When did you get back?” Arthur Margolies, Carlos’s lover, dapper in his blue pinstripe suit and Burberry raincoat, gave her a peck on both cheeks. He was carrying a wire basket full of coffee, brie, boxes of pasta, a bottle of extra virgin olive oil.
“Last night.” He looked exhausted and had pouches under his eyes to prove it.
“How bad is it for Mark?” Wetzon demanded without preamble.
He looked around. “Bad. Do you want to get a bite of dinner? Poiret?”
“Why not?” Suddenly she didn’t feel much like being alone. She waited while he paid for his purchases. It struck her that Arthur to Carlos was a lot like Alton to Wetzon. Someone steady and reliable.
When they were settled in at a corner table at the restaurant, Wetzon said, “The police asked me to look at photos of the murder scene this afternoon.” She looked up at the waiter. “I’ll have the green salad and the roast chicken, well done. And a glass of dry red.”
“Make that two,” Arthur said. “But with a glass of chardonnay here.” After the waiter left, he asked, “For what purpose?”
“To see if I could spot something they didn’t. You know, what’s-wrong- with-this-picture. And I did.” A busboy arrived with baguettes and butter. Wetzon broke off pieces of the roll and slathered them with butter.
“Oh?”
“Yes.” She held up her hand, chewing, swallowing. “A headband that I’m sure did not belong to either Susan or Dilla.”
“Who then?” Arthur’s eyes found her ring. “Something new?”
“Phil Terrace’s mother wears a headband and Susan had to call the police Saturday night to get her out of the apartment.” She rolled the ring around her finger. “And yes, this is new. It’s from Alton.”
Arthur had such empathetic eyes, was such a kind man, that Wetzon was sure he could see right into her soul. “This is serious, then?”
She nodded. “Am I making the right decision, Arthur?”
“Only you know that, Leslie.”
Their drinks arrived and neither spoke again until the waiter had left.
“I feel ... I don’t know ... trapped? I keep thinking I’ll be forty on my next birthday and shouldn’t I stop playing ...?”
Arthur smiled and raised his wineglass to her.
“Go ahead and smile, Arthur. Carlos would have hooted. I feel as if I’m supposed to settle down with a solid citizen.” She touched glasses with him.
“Alton Pinkus is very much that.”
“Oh, what the hell.” Grinning at him, she took a swallow. “I’ll be a little married. Like everybody else.” She waited for the familiar tingle of the alcohol in her bloodstream. It was taking its own sweet time. “Arthur, what about the Panthere? Did Carlos tell you?”
“That Walter Greenow found his watch in Sam Meidner’s hand and slipped it to you. Carlos had given it to Smitty for a new battery.”
“Yes. How did Smitty explain that?” Their salads arrived, a mound of mixed greens with thin slices of tomato. The waiter ground fresh pepper over the mounds.
“Smitty said he’d had the battery put in, which was true, and somehow lost the watch in the theatre.”
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, picking at their salads. “Arthur, is it possible that Sam swiped the watch from Smitty?”
“Why would he do that?”
“Sam’s had a klepto problem for years. Carlos knows about it. Ask him. Sam could have appropriated the watch ...”
“Could be. Sam Meidner was attacked from behind. The two women got it in the face.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that we have two murderers.”
“Oh, God.” She stopped while the waiter cleared their salad plates and served the chicken, a small, crisply roasted bird surrounded by tiny vegetables. “Arthur, Smitty didn’t do it. It’s all circumstantial, right?”
He avoided her eyes. “Eat up, Leslie,” he said.
“Oh, Arthur.” A chill ran through her. “But Susan was afraid of someone. She said someone had tried to break into the apartment after Dilla was murdered. She wouldn’t have been afraid of Smitty.”
“Let me tell you about the show.” Arthur patted her hand. “Our Carlos has exceeded himself. The numbers are a joy, truly unique. I think he’s well on his way to directing on his own now.” There was immense pride and love emanating from him as he spoke about Carlos. Carlos was so lucky to have him.
“He always said he was happy as a clam as a choreographer without the responsibility of pulling a whole show together on his own.”
“Well, we all grow up, don’t we?”
“I guess we do. Some of us kicking and screaming all the way. Arthur, may I talk to you as my l
awyer?”
“Of course.”
“A year ago, after Brian Middleton was murdered, I found some brokerage statements that indicated Richard Hartmann was laundering money. Brian had been Hartmann’s FC—financial consultant. Isn’t it a crock? The firms think stockbroker sounds crass so they change the name to financial consultant to change public perception.”
Arthur set his fork down and took a sip of wine. “Go on.”
“I warned Smith not to get involved with Hartmann, but she didn’t listen to me—she never does—and she told him—”
“About the statements?” His calm demeanor was shaken.
She nodded. “Hartmann threatened me—”
“Oh, Leslie—”
“Smith is fragile—Don’t look at me like that, Arthur. Take my word for it, she is. She was into a major affair with Hartmann. I thought if I told the authorities, she would go to pieces. And I have to admit, he frightened me.”
“You should be frightened. He’s no one to play cat-and-mouse with. What did you do with the material?”
“It’s in my safe deposit box in an envelope with a letter detailing what I found. I marked the envelope: to be delivered to the attorney general in the event of my death.” A tiny bell went off in her head. Safe deposit box.
“... for me to deal with.”
“I’m sorry, Arthur, I lost you. Are you saying you’ll help me?” Hadn’t Poppy Hornberg said something about a safe deposit box?
“Yes. Leslie, I want you to get that envelope to me as soon as possible.”
“There’s an A.D.A. I met who prosecuted the Middleton case. Her name is Marissa Peiser. She’s really terrific. Maybe you can get it to her.”
“He’s a dangerous man.” He didn’t have to tell her whom he was talking about.
“I know. He threatened me again last week in Boston.” The waiter was hovering. “Just decaf please, black.”
“Regular,” Arthur said.
“I’m getting my life in order, and I don’t want this hanging over me anymore.”
“I can send a messenger for it tomorrow.”
“To the office. I’ll stop at the bank on my way in.”
When they came out of the restaurant, the night was a gemstone. Clear, cool, dry. The sky was a deep midnight blue cavern. Lights from the restaurants and buildings up and down Columbus gave the street a bustling, open- twenty-four-hours look. A riot of jungle sounds complete with chirping erupted from a small white van parked too close to the corner. Some new kind of car alarm.
Down the block in front of Wetzon’s building the rolling lights of a police car were flashing red and white.
“Arthur, what do you suppose—?” She hurried forward.
The police car was double-parked in front of the building. No one was in it. She fumbled with her key until Arthur took it from her shaking fingers. Inside the lobby, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No tenant on guard duty sat at the reception table. Wetzon pressed the elevator button.
Two uniformed cops, a man and a woman, stepped out of the elevator.
“Officers, what is the problem?” Arthur asked.
“You live here?” the woman asked.
“No, Ms. Wetzon does.”
The man took out his pad and looked at it. “You’re Miss Leslie Wetzon? Twelve-D?”
“Yes.”
“Looks like someone attempted to gain entrance to your apartment.”
60.
It was true, and not a little terrifying: Twelve-B’s housekeeper had opened the back door to put out the trash and surprised a person in a ski mask trying to jimmy open Wetzon’s door. The resourceful woman had slammed her door and called 911.
Wetzon found Izz trembling under the bed. Except for a deep gouge in her door and some scratches in the paint around the lock plates, there was nothing else to indicate the break-in. But the fact was, someone had used a crowbar between the door and the jamb.
In the kitchen, Izz’s bowl of water was upended, and the floor was dotted with clumps of dried food, now more like soggy Cheerios. “You’re as bad as Smith,” she told the dog, wiping up the bits of food with a paper towel. Izz couldn’t care less. Her tail up, she was enthralled with Arthur, sniffing his shoes, the cuffs of his trousers.
“You can’t stay here alone.” Arthur bent and patted Izz on the head absentmindedly. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”
“She was Susan’s.” Wetzon scooped up a squirming Izz. “And I’ll be fine, Arthur. He won’t be back. It’s too open here, and everyone in this building minds everyone else’s business. And a good thing, for me, they do.”
Arthur frowned. “Isn’t this what you told me happened to Susan Orkin before—”
“Yes, but—” The stern look on his face stopped her. “How about if I take a cab over to Alton’s?” She crossed her fingers under Izz’s warm little belly.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Arthur, you are getting more and more like Carlos every day. I promise I’ll put a chair up against this door and the service door. Okay?”
“What good will that do?”
“Please, Arthur.”
“You’ll notify Detective Bernstein about this right away?”
“Yes, I will. Scout’s honor.”
After literally pushing him out of the apartment, she did as she’d promised. She left word for Bernstein. There were now twelve messages on her answering machine, nine of which were those she hadn’t checked yesterday. Sighing, she played them back.
Two calls from Carlos, three hangups, Sonya’s call, two calls from Smith and one from Alton. All Saturday. That was nine. Between Sunday and today three more had come in. Two were hangups. The third was from Alton. He wanted her to join him and Senator Moynihan for dinner at the River Cafe. His disappointment at not reaching her was apparent.
She left word on his answering machine that she was very tired, was going to sleep early, and would phone him in the morning.
For the first time in months she slept straight through, waking with her alarm at six-thirty. She got up and tilted the blinds open. The world outside was dark taupe, the roofs of the brownstones barely discernable. On the other hand, she reminded herself, each day was beginning to lengthen as March approached. And springtime in New York was always a festival of colors, odors and sensations. When it wasn’t raining.
Izz yawned and snuggled down in the afghan.
“What do you say, Izz? Do you want to go out or are you just possibly paper trained?” That was a thought. Wetzon padded down the hall, unlocked the door and brought the Times and the Journal in before she remembered the attempted break-in. Not smart, she told herself, opening the door like that.
Pulling the sports pages, she laid them out on the bathroom floor. “Oh, Izz, come have a look at what the Knicks are doing.”
The dog sauntered into the room and sniffed at the paper. Wetzon got in the shower. When she came out Izz had inaugurated the Times. “Well, thank you, Isabella. You are my kind of pooch.” She rolled up the newspaper, checked the back landing through her peephole, then put the soiled paper out with the garbage.
She had a meeting at nine-fifteen with Tom Greenberg. He’d asked her to come to his office, assuring her that no one knew her there and that it didn’t matter anyway even if someone did. She wasn’t so sure.
After orange juice and her vitamins, she put up coffee and let it drip through while she did twenty minutes of yoga, moving to the barre, and finishing with a headstand. It was wonderful what a night’s sleep could do.
On a day like today, she felt she had put bad dreams behind her forever. And the break-in? It could have been just what it was, having nothing to do with anything. Who was she kidding? In her bones she felt that it might have more to do with Richard Hartmann than Susan and Dilla. Once Arthur had the papers, she wouldn’t have to think about it again.
The ring was an unfamiliar weight on her finger. But maybe it was providing some kind of ephemeral stability, as if click, click, click,
everything was falling into place.
She picked up the envelope from her safe deposit box at Citibank and walked to the post office, where she had to take a number and wait. When her number flashed overhead, she presented the package slip and was handed a thick padded envelope marked Books.
It was getting late. She shoved the padded envelope into her briefcase with the envelope for Arthur and flagged a cab heading down Columbus.
White, Mooney’s branch office in midtown was on the fourth floor at 650 Fifth Avenue. The receptionist, a young black woman with straight brown hair and purple lipstick, sat behind a glass enclosure breaking off pieces of a doughnut that lay on a greasy napkin. “Yes?” She had a powdered sugar mustache.
“Mr. Greenberg. I have a nine-fifteen appointment.”
“Your name is?”
“Mrs. Brenda Goldstein.”
The receptionist pressed several buttons and said, “Tom? There’s a Mrs. Brenda Goldstein here for you.” She looked at Wetzon and hung up the phone. “Through that door and walk straight down and make a right. He’s the third office after you make the turn.” She went back to her doughnut.
Everything in the branch was in various shades of brown. Desks were cordovan, partitions beige, carpeting sable tweed. The doors to the offices were open and she caught glimpses of brokers at precariously stacked desks talking on phones, peering into computer screens. A nameplate was posted on the glass wall next to the door of each private office. Most of the names were those of people with whom she had talked over the years but never met.
The boardroom, where the smaller, often younger, producers sat, was more of the same. Each broker had his own beige cubicle, an L-shaped brown desk, a brown chair, and paper by the gross. Two young men were standing talking over their beige partitions, drinking coffee. It was hard to know if they were exchanging gossip or ideas. The Street was a hearty mix of both. A few, men and women, were on the phones. Once again she was struck by the similarities between the Wall Street boardroom and the police squadroom.
She turned the corner, counted three offices and stopped in front of the one that said Tom Greenberg on the glass. Greenberg was on the phone. He pointed to the chair in front of his desk.
Murder: The Musical Page 33