Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

around Wetzon. She was wired tight. “Boy, you scare me.”
    “ I scare me.” She was weak, rattled. “Smith’s in there, Silvestri.”
    “Come on.” Arm around her shoulders, he drew her into the apartment where all kinds of electronic communications were going down, including a call for a couple of ambulances.
    Oscar lay on the floor blood seeping from his shoulder. One of the blue jackets had done a makeshift bandage to stop the flow. When Oscar caught sight of Wetzon, he said, “I’d hate to make that girl mad.”
    Judy Blue, crouched next to Oscar, rumpled his hair. “Yeah,” she said.
    Silvestri held Wetzon tighter.
    Wetzon moved her lips, finally words came. “Oscar’s one of yours?”
    “He’s been undercover here last eight months. Oscar Rashid, Leslie Wetzon, and this is Silvestri, Lt. NYPD.”
    “I hate emptying the trash,” Oscar said.
    Wetzon roused herself. “Where’s Smith?”
    Disgusted, Judy Blue said, “Don’t tell me she’s here, too?”
    “The other guy forced her to come up. I think that’s what happened.” She eased from Silvestri’s grasp. “Oscar, did you see her?”
    “No.”
    Wetzon raced into the bedroom. “Smith!” Thumping. She opened the door to Bill’s dressing room closet. Smith was trussed up like a pork roast. Her mouth was taped. Her eyes burned holes into Wetzon. “Didn’t I tell you not to go upstairs?”
    Silvestri lifted Smith out of the closet and dumped her on the bed. “This is going to hurt, Xenia.” He took hold of the tape over her mouth and pulled it off.
    “Oh, for pity sakes!” Smith screamed at Wetzon. “This is all your fault.” She flopped around on the bed. “Get me out of this!”
    Silvestri offered Wetzon his arm. “How about we leave her to the FBI?”
    “Don’t tempt me,” Wetzon said.

60
    T HE CITY was blooming, yellows, fuchsias, pinks, tree and bush awash with color, forsythia, golden and white daffodils, the gift from the Dutch people after 9/11. Iris and tulips filled the center islands between up and downtown traffic on Broadway’s Upper West Side route and Park Avenue. In front of apartment buildings, floral plantings surrounded trees.
    And they say New York is all concrete, Wetzon thought. My city is beautiful all year round, but especially in the spring.
    She’d cut through Central Park, not hurrying, stopping to watch the volleyball pick-up games, strolled past Sheep Meadow, crowded with sunbathers and quiet because no radios or CD players were allowed, up Lilac Walk, where lilac buds were peeking.
    Two weeks had passed, and as the earliest city cops, the New Amsterdam Night Watch, had called on the hour, all was well. With a few albeits. Smith’s ego had healed faster than her bruises and bumps, mainly because the Post had published a huge picture of her in front of Bill’s building, dishevelment and all, and called her a heroine.
    Wetzon didn’t care. She didn’t want credit. It was terrifying to her that she’d almost killed a man, evil as he was. And she had to live with the knowledge that given the same set of circumstances she would probably do it again. Sometimes, when she least expected it, she saw herself raise the bat and heard the crunch as it connected.
    And then there was Bill Veeder. There had been a will, but he had little to leave but debts. He had, however, acknowledged his son and had set up an inviolable trust in his behalf.
    Still, there were bits and pieces of Bill’s life that she would never know. Her hand went to the message slip she’d folded and tucked into the pocket of her suit. Bill’s doctor friend, and tennis partner, Steve Levy, had called her this morning.
    “I was hoping we could meet for a drink,” he’d said, after they’d exchanged somewhat awkward condolences. When she hesitated, wondering if he was making a move on her, he said, “It’s not what you’re thinking.”
    “Everybody knows what I’m thinking.”
    “I’m not going to hit on you, Leslie.”
    “Okay. I’m meeting a friend for an early drink tonight, at Cafe des Artistes. How about seven o’clock, same place?”
    So that was the plan.
    “A wee drinkie, darlin’,” Laura Lee said. “Tonight’s Falstaff night.” They’d both plunged back into their lives with such enthusiasm, neither had been able to coordinate schedules until now, though they’d talked on the phone daily. And Laura Lee had chosen Cafe Des Artistes because, “I feel the need for some lush, romantic, and decidedly