Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

Silvestri rode to the rescue. She wouldn’t do anything stupid like the heroines in mystery novels. But stupid was subjective.
    “Yes,” he said. He went behind the desk and pulled out the wooden bat. A pen knife clattered to the floor. The knife he’d taken from the derelict. “The police should be here by now. I’m going to call again.”
    Whatever, she thought, giving in to the wilderness. She took the bat and while he made the phone call, she picked up the pen knife. A little distraction. She wouldn’t have to do more than that. Just enough to buy time for Silvestri to get here.
    She pressed the up button.

59
    H OW CAN I do this, she thought, the smooth warm neck of the bat in both hands. Bill’s door opens in. No place to hide.
    The elevator stopped on thirty-nine. Put up or shut up, she told herself. The door slid open. A man of width more than height, not expecting her, prepared to get on. The wilderness grabbed her, feral. The bat came alive in her hand. A battery ram into his groin. Every bit of strength, and more.
    The man groaned, folded over. Holding his balls, he fell hard, sprawling across to the carpeted floor of the hallway, half in the path of the elevator door.
    Wetzon stepped over him, bat raised—cold bitch—and cracked him on the skull. And again. Blood spattered. Her. Carpet. Wallpaper. The smell filled her nostrils. She was somewhere else. Listen to the crunch. Raised the bat again. He was the other man in the car. He’d shot the mattress. She remembered everything.
    “Drop it. Slowly.”
    She glanced over her shoulder. Oscar of the shifty eyes. His eyes were not shifty now. He was looking directly at her and he was holding a gun. He was just far enough away from her so that she couldn’t reach him. She lowered the bat.
    “Set it flat on the floor.”
    “What are you doing, Oscar?” He didn’t answer. She looked down at the bloodied face of her kidnapper. What had she done?
    Oscar leaned over the fallen man, checked his pulse, patted him down, and collected two more guns.
    “Did I kill him?”
    “Did you want to?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, you didn’t make it.” He motioned to Wetzon with his gun. “Roll him into the elevator and press B.”
    It wasn’t easy. “Okay.” She stood in the door to keep it from closing. Could she press the button before he shot her?
    “Press B and get out.”
    She got out. She’d lost her mind. She wanted to run away, but Smith was still in that apartment with Farber.
    Oscar spoke into a radio. Where had that come from? “Package coming down. Yeah. I’ve got company. The Wetzon woman.”
    “You won’t get away with this, Oscar. I called the police.”
    He motioned for her to move down the hall in front of him. Stopped her in front of Bill’s door. “Ring the bell, see if he checks who it is, then step aside.”
    “If you want the diamonds, he doesn’t have them. And I don’t have them. The FBI has them.”
    “Ring the bell.”
    “He has Xenia Smith in there. I don’t want her to get hurt.”
    “Ring the bell and step aside.”
    She rang the bell and stepped aside.
    Farber opened the door. “Ms. Wetzon, at last—” He stepped back when he saw Oscar’s gun in his face. “What are you doing here?”
    Wetzon hugged the wall. It was another double cross. How was she going to get Smith out of there without getting caught in the crossfire?
    “Back in. Keep your hands where I can see them.” Oscar pushed into the apartment.
    Wetzon checked the elevator. It had reached B, waited minute a minute or so, then started up. It stopped at L. For the police, she hoped. She picked up the bat.
    Bill’s door stood open. A shot, a shout. Farber ran through the doorway. He didn’t see her. She swung the bat across the back of his knees. The sharp crack annointed her. His cry of pain was a Broadway overture. He went down, cursing. Struggled to get up. His legs wouldn’t hold him.
    “You miserable fucking bastard!” She breathed blood. Raised the bat.
    The door to the elevator opened and Silvestri rushed out, along with two uniforms and some men in blue jackets. And Judy Blue.
    “Les!” Silvestri yelled, grabbing the bat from her hands.
    “Where’s my man, slugger?” Judy Blue said.
    One of the detectives nudged Farber with the toe of his shoe. “Read him his rights,” he told the uniforms. He followed Judy Blue and the blue jackets, back stamped FBI, into the apartment.
    Silvestri handed the bat to the uniforms and put his arms