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

rolled over, faceup. “My fucking back just went out,” it said.
    “Cut!” someone shouted.

5.
    S IGOURNEY W EAVER AND Robert De Niro were standing near the entrance to Margaret Mead Green, heads bent, getting instruction from a small, slim woman in jeans whose mass of curly red hair threatened to obliterate her face.
    What the hell is the matter with you? It was getting so she was seeing bodies under lettuce leaves. Any fool could have seen the body under the tree was an actor. Why would she think Brian was dead anyway? It was that damn psychic Smith had sent her to three weeks ago. That’s what it was. Judith had given her the willies. Blood on the street, for godsakes.
    Enough of that. She stopped in front of Endicott Booksellers to look at the window display featuring a huge picture of mystery writer Sara Paretsky and all of her books, hard- and softcover, starring her tough woman private eye, V. I. Warshawski. Wetzon had devoured every one of the books. A notice in the window said that Paretsky would be reading from her latest at Endicott the first week in November. She made a mental note to write it in her calendar.
    A translucent bubble exploded in her face, and another floated past, and another, as the breeze shifted and the sitting teddy bear in front of Penny Whistle Toys, set on automatic, blew bubbles at the world passing by on Columbus Avenue. Two children in strollers reached greedy mitts upward to catch the bubbles when their mothers stopped to talk.
    Daylight was fast receding, and the streetlights came on. Wetzon sighed and moved away from the bookstore.
    “Miss Wetzon ... Leslie.”
    She stopped and looked around. A broad-shouldered man in a light-gray pinstripe had emerged from the bookstore. He called her name again.
    She should know him ... but who was he? She smiled at him blankly, searching her memory, and accepted his proffered hand. Lots of dark-gray hair and ironic humor in his eyes.
    “You don’t know who the hell I am,” he said, his amusement reaching his mouth. He held on to her hand.
    There was an assurance, a certainty about him, and Wetzon felt a small rush of adrenaline. “Of course I know who you are.” Her mind was dancing a dervish. He had the kind of smile that enveloped. Nothing enigmatic about him. Ah ... yes. He was that highly respected labor leader she and Smith had met last year when he was serving on the board of directors of Luwisher Brothers before its merger with L. L. Rosenkind. Twoey’s friend. “You’re Alton Pinkus.” What a good head you have, Wetzon , she congratulated herself. She gave her hand a small tug, but he wasn’t letting go.
    “Very good.” He was balancing a book-thick paper bag under his arm. “Do you live around here?”
    “Eighty-sixth. How about you?”
    “Eighty-first. The Beresford. We’re neighbors.” He continued to study her with his warm brown eyes. He was making her feel awkward, like a teenager, for some reason. “Perhaps we can get together for a drink ... or dinner,” she heard him say.
    “I’d like that.” What am I saying?
    “I’ll give you a call. Are you in the book?”
    “No, I’m not. If I might have my hand back, I’ll give you my card.” That seemed to amuse him even more. Unsettled by the frisson of guilt that ran through her, she scrawled her home number rather defiantly on the back of the card and handed it to him.
    “How about Sunday night? We can have an early dinner ... about six. Café des Artistes.”
    “Okay,” she said hastily. “I’ll meet you there.” She gave him a quick wave and hurried up Columbus. At Eighty-second Street, waiting for the light to change, she sneaked a look back. Damn. He was standing there watching her. He waved, and she gave him a small salute.
    Merde , she thought. What was she getting herself into? This was all Silvestri’s fault. He was in Quantico, Virginia, at the FBI Academy, taking a course in psychological profiling. It was an honor to be chosen to go, but the course ran nine months, from September through May, and although it was a five-day, Monday-through-Friday week, from eight to five, the students lived in a dorm and a lot of them stayed down through the weekends. Something to do with bonding.
    She’d taken the Metroliner down last Saturday and stayed at the Watergate Hotel in D.C. They’d gone out to dinner with another couple, both of whom were at the school; Wetzon had felt like an outsider.
    Harry, her new doorman, rushed to open the