Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

anything. He’s an accountant, or at least he was. He got into trouble investing for clients. Nimble fingers and a great spiel. Funds disappeared. I don’t think he was really bad, only careless. He wanted to be everybody’s friend. He got sent up for a few years. Wrote to me from there, and I answered him. Some minimum-security place. Clinton, I think it was.”

63.
    “S URPRISE! ”
    SMITH CLASPED both hands across her breast and acted bowled over, the phony. Wetzon leaned back against Alton, feeling his heat and the solidness of him. Someone sturdy and reliable to lean on. If one wanted that.
    When the strains of “Happy Birthday” petered out, Smith cried, “Oh, how could you all have kept this from me?” She blew kisses all around like a movie star in her white sequined handkerchief that passed for a dress. She was wearing the diamond grape earrings, and around her bare neck was something Wetzon had never seen: a wide gold mesh chain with a large pave diamond clip. Now who had given Smith that?
    Twoey was beaming, poor guy. He signaled to a waiter with wedged hair, holding a tray of champagne-filled tulip glasses.
    “Tell us how it feels to be forty,” someone called.
    “Take down his name,” Smith replied sweetly. Her eyes found Wetzon’s. Wetzon shivered and set her beer down on the bar.
    “What’s the matter?” Alton was on the ball. He put his arms around her.
    “Nothing. A draft, is all.” Smith had murder in her eyes. Now she was on her way over, dammit.
    “Alton, sweetie, how dear of you to come.” She looked at them from under lowered lashes. “You two look very comfy.” She shook Alton’s hand. “As for you, sugar—”
    Wetzon held up her hand. “Don’t say it. That’s a lot of beautiful jewels you’re wearing.”
    Smith fingered the diamond clip, then the earrings. “Twoey is such a dear.” She was looking around the room, smiling graciously, like a queen. “We’ll talk later.” She’d spotted Hartmann, and she left them quickly.
    Alton set his glass on the bar next to hers and turned her around. “Say what you’re thinking.”
    She put her hands over his. “I don’t like parties.” She was thinking that Dr. Jerry Gordon, radio psychologist, was really Gordon Jerome, ex-CPA, felon, and jailbird. Could he actually have had the chutzpah to change his identity—and in such an obvious way—stay in the same area, and get away with it? Well, he had, hadn’t he? Until Brian Middleton. Brian must have found out. Or maybe he was in on it all along.
    “Do you want to leave?” Alton’s breath on her brow teased her hormones.
    “Would you mind? No one will ever notice we’re gone. It’ll look as if we’re going out for air.” She gave him her coat check and went downstairs to the vision-in-purple ladies’ room, where she remembered there was a phone. Her tiny shoulder bag had no address book or business cards. Information gave her the Central Park Precinct number, but she got a busy signal when she tried it. Next, the D.A.’s office.
    “Can you call back, or can she reach you somewhere?” Peiser had stepped out for a short time.
    “I’m traveling from place to place. Tell her I’m just leaving the Odeon, heading home with a friend. Tell her—” Wetzon dropped her voice to a whisper. “Tell her that Jerry Gordon is really Gordon Jerome, and he has a record. Tell her not to call me tonight. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.” She hung up quickly. Gordon Jerome must have been feeding business to Brian, and Brian was kicking back a portion of what he made. That must be it. Then that would mean that Penny Ann Boyd had probably been manipulated by both Dr. Jerry and Brian.
    She climbed the stairs and worked her way through the crowd, shaking hands with Destry Bird, one of Twoey’s partners, and a tall, thin model type with a blank look on her face. Destry’s date. That’s what they liked, men like Destry. Cardboard cutouts from Elle , no passion, no brains. Janet Barnes was standing alone at the bar, glamorous but not very happy. Wetzon waved to her. She’d love to have said to her, “Chin up, Janet dear, you’ll have him back to yourself shortly.”
    When she reached the entrance, she did not see Alton. Was he waiting for her outside? She opened the door. A hand landed intimately on the small of her back. Alton’s? The hand gave her a hard shove, and she staggered outside. The sidewalk was racing up toward her face. Then, just as abruptly she was caught