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

nodded.
    Wetzon closed her eyes, tilting toward the right wall. “Peiser, you’re not going to believe this, but five women in gorilla heads saved my life.” And suddenly, as she was speaking, she knew who they were. She’d read about them. Not gorilla girls, but The Guerrilla Girls, a small, secret band of women in the art world who call themselves the conscience of that world. They went out in the dead of night in big, hairy gorilla heads, regularly papering areas of lower Manhattan with striking posters leveling charges of sexism against museums, galleries, critics, and white male artists. Louie. The one that said her name must have been Louie.
    “Happy Halloween.” Peiser stood up. “I’ll get a doctor to check you out, and I’ll come by tomorrow with Ferrante for a statement, okay?”
    “Okay.” Wetzon curled her feet up under her and closed her eyes. “Work fast,” she mumbled. “Or I’ll be asleep.”
    You didn’t tell Peiser about Hartmann ,she reminded herself .
    And she answered herself , I know. He’s not the murderer .
    Okay, then what about Mrs. Leonora Foley and the money-laundering scam?
    How can I blow him away when Smith is already involved with him?
    Wetzon , her conscience scolded her, do the right thing.
    Go away. Leave me alone. I’m tired of always doing the right thing. Besides, I can’t do it to Smith. He’ll trip himself up eventually, you’ll see ....
    “There she is,” someone said.
    “Hi.” The doctor was kissing the palm of her hand, giving her goose pimples. Doctors didn’t do that. She opened her eyes with difficulty. Then the doctor said, “Les.”
    Silvestri sat down next to her. She touched his jeans, felt his thigh tense. He was real. “You’re real.” He held his arms out and she crawled into his lap, lay her head on his chest. He smelled of coffee and after-shave. “Don’t say anything, please.”
    He rubbed the nape of her neck, kissed it. “You’re a mess.”
    “I asked you not to say anything.”
    “Couldn’t help it.”
    “You should see the other guy. How did you know where to find me?”
    “Don’t get mad. I was keeping tabs on you through Ferrante.”
    “Damn you, Silvestri!” She tried to push him away. “I don’t need you.” Anger limped through her, generating energy, then subsided.
    “You may not need me,” he whispered in her ear, “but I need you.”
    A regal black woman in a white lab coat, stethoscope around her neck, arrived, flourishing a sheaf of forms. She wore a name tag that said “Dolores Bullard, M.D.” “Okay, let’s have a last look at you.” Wetzon was taken into a tiny examining room. Head and bandage were checked. Blood pressure taken. Silvestri hovered like a mother hen. Dr. Bullard pronounced, “You’re okay. Get out of here. Don’t get your head wet. Come back in five days and we’ll take the stitches out.”
    “Will my hair grow back?”
    “It’ll cover the scar.”
    Wetzon stole a look at Silvestri. He was thinner, and his eyes were that astonishing turquoise they turned when he allowed his emotions through. His cheeks were covered with dark stubble, and he looked tired. But face it, he still made her heart race. She discarded the hospital gown and wrapped herself in the trench coat he held for her.
    Outside, Silvestri shook hands with Ferrante and Martens, was introduced to Peiser, then whisked her into his Toyota, which he’d parked in a towaway zone. Dawn gave the old buildings a rosy tint.
    On Tenth Street, there was a parking place right in front of the loft building. A man in a suit was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. My God , she thought. Alton. He stopped pacing, peered at the car, looked at her blankly, recognized her—all in a matter of seconds. He rushed to the car and opened the door. “Leslie! I’ve been so worried.” His thick gray hair stood up on end and the seams on either side of his mouth were deeper. He was helping her out of the car, ignoring Silvestri.
    Silvestri was pissed. He came around to the sidewalk and gave Alton a hard look. They were about the same height, and they looked one another over like bantam roosters, ready to circle. She felt in her purse for her keys and went into the building. They followed on her heels. No one was saying anything. They rode up in the elevator without a word spoken. Oh, yuk, she thought, who needs this?
    She unlocked the door, left the keys and her purse on the trestle table, went right to the bedroom. Stepping out of