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

the country. On his blotter was a monthly calendar with appointments blocked out.
    “Anal obsessive,” Wetzon heard Smith murmur. Smith was very into psychological jargon since she’d been in therapy.
    “Lock up, B.B., and have a nice weekend,” Wetzon called. “Leave any crisis messages on my answering machine.”
    They found a cab easily on Second Avenue and rode west through the Park on the Seventy-ninth Street transverse. It was five o’clock when the cab dropped them on the corner of Columbus and Seventy-ninth Street.
    The sky was a perfect robin’s-egg blue dappled with little cotton fluff clouds. An unseen skywriter had drawn white dragon’s breath in two slowly dissipating lines across the roof of the sky.
    “I only have fifteen minutes,” Smith said, irritated. “Where is it?”
    It had been a mistake to let Smith come along. Steamed, Wetzon pointed to a brown brick apartment building that probably dated back to the 1930s. Brian was subletting an apartment “as far away from the bitch as I can get,” he’d told Wetzon. She checked the scrap of paper on which she’d noted the address. Apartment 8B.
    Lit only by two deco sconces, the lobby was typical of West Side buildings: marble, leather chairs, wooden benches. Sunlight filtered through the beautiful stained-glass windows that faced the street. Across the lobby and up two steps was the elevator in an elegant, highly polished framework of deco-patterned brass.
    An empty chair sat facing the elevator, the Daily News folded open on it. No doorman was in sight, so maybe this was a manned elevator building.
    “Don’t you love the security?” Smith pressed the elevator button impatiently. The arrow above the door crept counterclockwise to 1 and the door slid open. It was empty. The women stepped into the car and got off on the eighth floor.
    In front of 8B was a large cowbell, but there was no need to ring it. The door gaped open.

4.
    A N OVERWEIGHT APPARITION in big sunglasses and a floppy-brimmed straw hat, a wild print dress, and high red Reeboks came barreling out the door carrying a Big Brown Bag shopping bag.
    Taken by surprise, Wetzon stepped back and bumped Smith.
    “Ouf,” Smith said.
    The woman ignored them and closed the door to 8B.
    “Who are you?” Smith demanded, giving Wetzon a nudge.
    “Isn’t this Brian Middleton’s apartment?” Wetzon saw the woman had a slim, smooth neck. She was younger than she appeared.
    “Por favor, I the maid,” the woman said in a thick Hispanic accent. “He no aqui .” She slipped past them and pressed the down button of the elevator.
    “Are you sure?”
    The dark glasses were mirrors, reflecting them like moving pictures. “I sure.”
    “Do you have any days free?” Smith asked.
    “Smith!”
    The fat woman swiveled her head slowly to Smith and coughed as the elevator door slid open.
    They stepped on the elevator after the maid.
    “Don’t ‘Smith’ me. I could use a new maid. Delilah’s gone to live with her daughter in Philadelphia.” She turned to the woman. “Well, do you?” The woman shook her head emphatically. Smith sighed. “It’s so hard to get good help now.”
    The woman rushed out of the elevator clutching her shopping bag and left the building ahead of them.
    “You have no class, Smith,” Wetzon said.
    “I’ve told you time and again, sweetie, you must seize the moment. You rarely do, that’s why you—”
    “Enough! Truce!” Wetzon held up her hand. She was in no mood for a lecture on her life, least of all from Smith.
    “What a waste of time,” Smith said. She looked at her watch. “I’m going to be late. I don’t know why I let you talk me into your little adventures.” She laughed lightly when she caught Wetzon’s glower. “Are you coming?”
    “Don’t let me keep you.”
    Wetzon was shrugging off Smith’s indignant “humpf’ when a door opened in the rear of the lobby and a swarthy human bulldog appeared. He was in half uniform, dark pants with a dull gold strip up each leg, no jacket. An invisible cloud of garlic armored him. He planted himself heavily in the chair facing the elevator and picked up his Daily News. He looked over at them without curiosity, then went back to his newspaper.
    “Have you seen Mr. Middleton?” Wetzon asked.
    He shook his head. “Not today, lady.” He didn’t get up.
    A pregnant woman came into the lobby pushing a stroller loaded with grocery bags with one hand, a boy of perhaps three years toddling beside