Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

salary.”
    “That’s not out of line for a good legal secretary.”
    “But how does it line up for the mother of your child? Her severance was a hundred thousand dollars. We found the deposit slip and a torn up signed agreement of confidentiality in her effects.”
    “She was petrified. I guess of losing the hundred thou.” Sean was standing in the doorway.
    “Or more. I gotta go. Keep your cell on.” He hung up.
    Okay, okay, guys, I’ll keep my cell on. She thanked Sean for the use of his office, and urged him to clean up his desk. “If you called in sick, we wouldn’t know where to find anything.”
    “What’s up, Max?” she asked.
    “A broker just told me that they have to be really careful who they take on as clients these days because there are professional suers.”
    “Do you suppose these days that brokers are checking out their clients any more carefully than clients check out their brokers?” She held up her hand as Max started to speak. “Don’t answer that, it’s rhetorical. Clients never seem to check out the broker who cold calls them. They just give him their hard earned money. They don’t even check out the mystery firm he works for.”
    She patted Max on the shoulder and climbed the stairs. Smith was on the phone doing what she did best, charming a potential client.
    In the time it took to climb the stairs and listen to Smith’s seductive sell on the advantages of working with Smith and Wetzon, Wetzon forgot about her cell phone.

57
    T HE SUN pushed through the tall windows and gilded their office with yellow light. Smith opened the door to the deck and lifted her chin and announced, “At last, spring.” She turned back to Wetzon. “I forget, does Bill’s apartment have a terrace?”
    Wetzon crumpled the refuse from her egg salad sandwich and dropped it in the trash. There was only a smidgeon of coffee left, and she did that in. The Starbucks container went the way of the other refuse. “What difference does it make?”
    “Because, sugarbun,” she wriggled her shoulders, “it’s going to be your place. You’ll see. We can have such lovely parties on the terrace.”
    “There is no terrace, and there is no apartment. Silvestri told me Bill put it on the market before he left for L.A.”
    Smith faltered. “Impossible! Why would he do that?”
    “He was broke. And he wasn’t coming back to New York.”
    “I really don’t understand any of this.” She deflated like a pin pricked balloon.
    “Welcome to the club.”
    The intercom crackled. “Laura Lee for you, Wetzon. Line two.”
    “I certainly haven’t missed her ,” Smith said.
    “Shut up, Smith.” Wetzon stabbed line two. “How are you?”
    “Bearin’ up, darlin’. It was so good to spend the night in my own little bed.”
    “Have you spoken to your Aunt Bren?”
    “She’s a wreck, can’t understand any of it. He’s posted bail, but they’re screamin’ for his blood in Tallahatchie County and he’s fightin’ going back to Mississippi. I’ll tell you, for me, it’s a mighty hangover that won’t go away. And once Jason’s been extradited ...”
    “We’ll have to testify at the trial. Shit.” She thought, Bill could have handled this, and then, Bill would have been representing Jason. Would Bill have given up his client? She sighed. What was the point? “Do you have a lawyer?”
    “Yes. I talked to him before I got myself into this, and left a letter in case somethin’ happened. Do you need someone?”
    “Silvestri’s mother found me a sharp woman who helped me deal with the FBI.”
    “You’d better alert her that there’s a Wall Street Journal reporter nosin’ around. I wouldn’t talk to him, but he’s picked up some chit chat among the traders and he’s good.”
    “He hasn’t found me yet. What’s his name?”
    “Fred Klein.”
    “Thanks for the heads up. When are you going back to work?”
    “Monday. I’m rarin’ to go, crossin’ fingers and toes that my clients haven’t given up on me. And I’m hearin’ the clarion call for Century 21.”
    Wetzon laughed. Century 21, the big designer discounter on Cortlandt Street in the heart of the financial district, was a Mecca for Wall Street denizens. It had suffered peripheral damage to its building and had to dump its contents after the 9/11 terror, but it was back in operation less than six months later.
    While Smith sat out on the deck coaxing an early suntan, and perhaps basil cells, Wetzon set up her to-do list for