Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

go anywhere near Farber.”
    “Oh, puh-leeze, this is a simple reading of Bill’s will. We won’t be the only ones there.” Flexing her toes as if to prepare them, she stood, smoothed her skirt.
    Wetzon stared at her cell, stunned. How could she have forgotten? The minute she turned it on, it rang. “Yes?”
    Silvestri’s voice, tight and anxious. “Your cell was not on.”
    “I forgot.”
    “If you’re going to chit chat, I’ll meet you in the lobby,” Smith said.
    “Smith! Whatever you do, don’t go upstairs. If he sees you, tell him I was delayed and you’re waiting for me.” Smith rolled her eyes. “Listen to me!” Wetzon followed Smith out the door, Smith acting as if she was trying to get away from a crazy person. Good thing it was New York. No one paid any attention.
    “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” Silvestri said.
    “Hold on, Silvestri. Promise me that much, Smith.”
    “Okay, okay, but don’t keep me waiting. My patience with your craziness is wearing thin.”
    Wetzon’s hands fisted. She clenched them to her sides or she might have smacked Smith. “You’d better stop me before I kill her,” she told Silvestri.
    “Take a deep breath. Let her go. I want to talk to you about something important.”
    “Silvestri, she’s going to the Museum Tower—we were both going—until I caught a glimpse of Lincoln Farber—”
    “Stay away from him, Les. The family name is Farbricov. He’s bad news.”
    “You’re telling me?” She leaned against the outside of the building, turning her head away from eavesdroppers. Her voice was a decibel higher than normal. “He’s the man from the gray Mercedes who’s been trying to kill me, the man I saw outside Carolyn Dorley’s building.”
    “I don’t want you anywhere near him, Les.”
    “But what about Smith? She promised she wouldn’t go up—”
    “Up? Les, you’re worrying me. You’re not making any sense.”
    “She thinks I’m crazy. I told her I’m not in the will.”
    “Les, hello. Stay grounded. Christ! Will?”
    “They’re reading it in Bill’s apartment, any minute now. God, do you think she’ll go upstairs? She promised.” Wetzon heard herself babbling, but couldn’t make sense of it.
    “Les! Stay right there. Where are you, goddammit?”
    “Near Bill’s. Are you going to come for me?” Her voice had settled into a squeak.
    “I’m on my way. Don’t turn off your cell.”
    She dropped her live cell into her bag and walked to the Museum Tower, peering into the lobby. The concierge was not at his desk. No one was in the lobby except the doorman, Fredric, who tipped his hat to her. Oh, God, she thought, Smith—what had she done? But maybe she hadn’t—
    “Evening, Ms. Wetzon.” Fredric held the door for her. “We were shocked and saddened by Mr. Veeder’s passing.”
    “Thank you, Fredric. It was a terrible loss, not just for me but for everyone who knew him.” Words. Cliche words. They just came out. So glib. She gave herself a mental shake. “I was looking for Ms. Smith. She’s supposed to meet me here.”
    “Mr. Farber’s associate came in right after her and took her upstairs with him. Mr. Farber called down that you’re to come right up. He said be sure to tell you Ms. Smith was with them.”
    Wetzon lost her air, coughing, choking. Fredric guided her to a chair. “Are you all right, Ms. Wetzon? I’m sorry I upset you talking about Mr. Veeder and all.”
    She waved him off. “Not that.” Short, choppy breaths. “Farber and his associate, they’re killers. They’re going to hurt Ms. Smith. The cops—I called them—” Get a grip, she told herself.
    His mouth hung open. “I’m the only one here right now. I can’t do anything.”
    A buzzer sounded. He went to answer it. “It’s the intercom,” he said. “Mr. Veeder’s apartment.”
    “Don’t tell them I’m here.”
    He answered the intercom. “I haven’t seen her yet, Mr. Farber. Okay. I will, Mr. Farber.” He disconnected, staring at her.
    “Thank you. Did you hear anything in the background?”
    “No.”
    A thought came to her. “Fredric, you said you kept the baseball bat behind the desk.”
    He opened the door for a man in a business suit, carrying an attaché. “Good evening, Mr. Simkus.”
    The man got on the elevator and Wetzon and Fredric were alone in the lobby again.
    “The bat,” she said. She was going upstairs. They would hurt Smith, if they hadn’t already. Maybe she could distract them until