The Deadliest Option, page 15
part #3 of Smith and Wetzon Mystery Series
“Oh, thank you, Sheldon. Come this way, everyone.” Janet was wearing flowing green silk pants and a matching blouse with, unlike Barbara Bush, a triple strand of the real thing around her neck. She carried a bowl of white roses with her into the dining room and set it down in the center of the graciously set table.
Her walk and slightly disjointed motions triggered a memory for Wetzon, but it wasn’t until they were seated that she recognized the dancing girl in her dream who carried Goldie’s head on a platter—only the girl was really a woman, and the woman was Janet Barnes.
“You sit here, dear, and Ms. Smith—”
“Xenia, please.”
“Xenia, then, you sit next to Twoey. Ms. Wetzon—er, Wetzon— my, you’re such a petite little thing—on my right next to Alton.”
Petite little thing, Wetzon repeated to herself. She loathed people who said that. It was grounds for murder. The woman was practically chirping. There was not one sign that she was in mourning.
The table was set with white linen placemats and cut-crystal glasses and silver place settings. They were served a thick, piquant gazpacho and then sliced chicken and bacon sandwiches in wedges of warm pita bread. A pitcher of iced tea was on the sideboard, along with a chilled bottle of a California chardonnay.
Wetzon passed on the wine, but Smith and the others were drinking. The conversation hovered innocuously around the problems of being a mayor of the City of New York, and a gas explosion that had taken place on Roosevelt Island.
Macerated berries and fragile sugar cookies arrived for dessert, and Janet said, “That will be all, Sheldon.”
Sheldon pulled the sliding mahogany-paneled doors to the dining room toward him from either side, backed out, and closed them.
At last, Wetzon thought. Now we’re going to get to the nitty-gritty.
“Shall I speak for all of us, Mother?”
“Oh, yes, please, Twoey. I’ll stop you if I want to add anything.” She smiled at Smith and Wetzon. “Alton is here as a close personal friend as well as a member of the Board of Directors of Luwisher Brothers.”
“Before we proceed,” Twoey said, still looking at Smith, “we’d like you to give us your word that everything you hear today is confidential.”
Again? This time Wetzon crossed her fingers under the table. Everybody seemed to demand her word that she wouldn’t tell. This time she knew she wasn’t going to keep it.
“Of course,” Smith said, a little too rapidly. Wetzon looked at her. Smith wasn’t going to keep her word either.
“Luwisher Brothers is part of our family history,” Twoey began. He looked at Wetzon, who nodded, she hoped encouragingly, and then at Smith, who gave him one of her most dazzling smiles. “Er ...” He looked dazed.
Wetzon choked back a giggle with a light cough, covering her mouth with her hand, and was caught in the act by Alton Pinkus, whose eyes crinkled, acknowledging he was reading her mind.
“What Twoey is saying—” Janet said impatiently.
“I’m doing all right, Mother.” Twoey’s freckled skin colored. “We now own, between Mother and me, forty-five percent of the stock in Luwisher Brothers.”
“I thought the retirement or death of any partner meant that stock had to be sold back to the company,” Wetzon said. She put her dessert spoon down on the white placemat and immediately some of the remnants of the deep red macerade spread into the white fabric ... like wet blood.
“It’s been tradition since Nathan and Jeremiah Luwisher started the firm at the turn of the century, but there is nothing to say we have to do it. My father put his life into that firm.”
My father, Wetzon thought. At last, Goldie had entered the equation.
“We believe,” Janet said emphatically, “that we will get enough shares on our side to put Twoey into the Chairman’s seat.”
“Hoffritz is not going to like that,” Wetzon said.
“John Hoffritz is a nonentity.” Twoey’s temper flared.
Smith smiled, a slow, lazy smile like a cat stretching in the sun.
“Alton has the board lined up and ready to call for a vote of the shareholders as soon as we give the go-ahead.”
Alton nodded. He was a bulky man, not as tall as Twoey, built like an athlete who’d let himself go a little. His hand holding the tall slim wine glass was tanned copper, the nails impeccably manicured. He looked at Wetzon, and she felt a faint palpitation of intrigue in her breast. Oh, no you don’t, she thought, and pushed it away.
“I don’t understand,” Wetzon said carefully, “where we fit in.”
“I’m getting to that,” Twoey said. “We know you do good work for the firm and we want to continue the relationship. In other words, we want you on our side in this.”
“But—” Wetzon began, pushing back her chair.
“We’re on your side,” Smith assured him.
“Wait a minute, Smith,” Wetzon countered swiftly.
“There’s going to be a fight for control and it may get ugly,” Twoey said, looking at Smith.
“That’s all right,” Smith said, “we’re prepared to hang tough.”
“Wait just a minute.” Wetzon stood. Had Smith already known what was going to be said and had Smith set her up again? “Hold it right here.” Now she had everybody’s attention. “We can’t work for everybody. What do you really want, Twoey? And why is nobody mentioning the fact that Goldie and Dr. Ash were murdered and that the report Dr. Ash was writing is missing?”
“That’s just it, Wetzon,” Twoey said. “We’re dealing with murderers.”
“And what about the fact that Dr. Ash was supposed to be working directly for Goldie on this report?”
“Dr. Ash? Goldie?” Janet looked confused. “Dr. Ash wasn’t working for Goldie. Goldie was against hiring him at all.”
“Forget Dr. Ash,” her son interrupted. “We’d like to know you’re on our side when the firm is in play.”
“I don’t think—” Wetzon said.
Smith stood, too. “Of course, we’ll want some kind of financial arrangement up front.”
“Smith!”
“Agreed,” Twoey said.
“I’ll have my lawyer call your lawyer,” Smith said.
25.
“LET’S GO TO Bloomie’s,” Smith said, linking arms with Wetzon in the lobby. “I have the urge—”
Wetzon yanked her arm away. “Smith, how could you? We’re working for Luwisher Brothers, and that means Hoffritz and Bird. Now you’ve agreed to work for their enemy.” And, she thought, I’m working for the NYPD. It made her head spin.
“I don’t see any harm in giving to both political parties. People do it all the time.”
“Cab?” the doorman bobby asked.
“Yes,” Wetzon said to Smith, ignoring him, “but we’re not just giving, we’re taking. It’s an entirely different thing.”
“Wetzon, in the words of my old housemother, ‘if they give, you take, and if they take, you scream.’ Let me handle this. I know what I’m doing. I just have a feeling that the winning team is”—she pointed upward—“up there. Besides”—her expression turned beatific—“I’m in love.”
The tulips on the divider between uptown and downtown traffic on Park Avenue shuddered in the hot breeze. They drooped, dry, withered, and burnt. Overhead the sky was blue and cloudless, while on the street the exhaust of a million cars and trucks burned Wetzon’s nasal cavities and coated her throat. She looked up at Smith. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me, sweetie pie. He’s adorable, isn’t he?”
“Spare me. What about Jake?”
“Jake who?”
“Oh, my.” Wetzon couldn’t help laughing.
“Well, isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes, gee, thanks a heap. I really appreciate it.”
Smith tilted her head toward the doorman. “Cab, please.”
The doorman whistled down a cab and held the door for them. They crawled in and sat recuperating in the air-conditioning. Salsa music blasted from the radio.
“Bloomingdale’s,” Smith ordered. “And would you kindly lower that noise, please.”
An agonized Jesus on a gigantic cross hung from the rearview mirror and swayed spastically to the motion of the cab. Their driver was a middle-aged Hispanic. “Where is?” he asked.
“What?” Smith leaned forward.
“Where is you’re going?”
“Bloomingdale’s, for pitysakes. I can’t believe you are living here and taking our money and you don’t know your job.”
“Fifty-ninth and Lexington,” Wetzon said, elbowing Smith.
“Thank you, nice lady.”
“Now let’s get to what you just got us into, Smith.”
“Leave everything to me, baby cakes. I’ve got the best instincts. You know that. Believe me, we just left the winning team.”
“I think we are honor-bound to tell John Hoffritz that we can’t take any money from him,” Wetzon said, thinking that Smith did have good instincts, but half the time they were warped.
“Honor-bound? What century is this? Don’t you see, sugar, we’re only taking money from them to find the murderer. The rest of the work we do on contingency.”
“But there’s an implied contract.” Wetzon’s head began to throb. “Oh, I give up.” Smith had created such a maze of everything it was impossible to negotiate a way out.
“Stop over here, driver,” Smith said.
“This Sixtieth Street, lady.”
“This is Bloomingdale’s,” Smith snapped. “It runs an entire block between Fifty-ninth and Sixtieth Streets.” She took some bills from her pocket, put them in the metal drawer attached to the glass partition, and slammed it closed.
They stood in front of Bloomingdale’s trying to talk above the yowling of a beggar in tatters, who thrust a plastic cup at them. “I want to go back to the office, Smith. I have work to do.” Wetzon felt in her purse for some change and dropped it into the plastic cup, which looked as if someone had chewed on the rim. “I have to call Ellie. I have things to do.” Her voice sounded querulous.
“Just come in for a minute with me, sweetie. I want you to help me pick out a tie for Mark.”
“Oh, well. Only for a few minutes.” She let Smith lead her through the revolving door into the store. “What did you decide to do about this summer?”
A small troubled cloud drifted over Smith’s face. “I’m sending him to the ranch, but only for June and July. He and I are going to spend August together in Connecticut.”
“That’s lovely, Smith. What about Jake?”
Smith brightened. “Well, of course, you never know, do you?”
“Twoey’s mother-led, so be careful.”
“You underestimate me, Wetzon. I can handle Janet.” Smith laughed. “She can be eliminated just like Goldie.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“I was only kidding. Wetzon, why are you so serious about everything? It’s a real pain. What happened to the good-time-get-up- and-go girl—pardon the word—I used to know?”
“She got up and went. She couldn’t take the turmoil you always create around her.”
“I create turmoil? Really, sweetie. I want to remind you which one of us always finds herself hip-deep in murder.”
They picked out a rep tie for Mark, and Wetzon left Smith going through the sale rack of designer clothes on the fourth floor.
She felt an odd sense of unease when she left Bloomingdale’s, almost as if there was something she’d forgotten. Everything had gotten so convoluted. She started down Third Avenue, but the intense heat was torture; surrendering, she hailed a cab and took it back to the office.
B.B. was alone, dealing with calls incoming and outgoing. “Where’s Harold?”
“He took a late lunch. Silvestri called twice. He left a number.” B.B. handed her a pile of pink message slips.
“Okay. I’ll get to him ... it’s hellishly hot out there.”
Riffling through the messages, she trailed into her office and closed the outside door. At once she began to peel off her top layer—jacket, blouse, shoes. Soaking a towel in cold water, she washed her face, neck, and underarms, holding her wrists to the cold water. She patted herself dry and replaced the blouse. Her feet were swollen; she sat down at her desk and lifted them up.
“Aaah.” She closed her eyes. Smith was crazy, but she was sharp and intuitive. And hard to take. Sighing, Wetzon dug out Ellie’s suspect sheet and called her direct number.
“Ms. Kaplan’s office. Dwayne speaking.”
“Ms. Kaplan, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Leslie Wetzon.”
“Oh hi, I’ll get Ellie for you.” Again Wetzon heard that extra familiarity in his voice, as if he and she knew each other.
“Wetzon?” The voice was hoarse and cracked; it didn’t sound like Ellie.
“Ellie? Is that you?”
“I don’t feel like talking, Wetzon.” Her voice faltered. “Call me in a month.”
“Ellie, wait a minute. What’s the matter?”
“Don’t ask me, please. Nothing is going right.”
“Ellie, meet me for a drink tonight.”
“No, Wetzon. I’m not feeling sociable. Besides, I have an appointment.”
“Then tomorrow. Please. Just us girls. Come on, how about the Four Seasons? I guarantee you’ll feel better.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Ellie wavered. “Actually, the Oak Bar at the Plaza would be more convenient—”
“Okay, the Oak Bar it is. At five o’clock.”
Wetzon hung up and dialed Silvestri. She did not recognize the number he’d left. When he answered, “Silvestri,” she said, “where are you?”
“Midtown North. I’m with Weiss.”
“Will you be home later?”
“Yup.”
“Smith and I had lunch with Janet Barnes today.”
“Oh? Want to fill me in?”
“Not here, not now. I’m going to try to find a broker to have a drink with this afternoon.”
“Busy, aren’t we?”
“Jealous?” Alton Pinkus’s face materialized in front of her and she waved it away.
“Sure. It’s in my blood.”
“Do you want to bring a pizza home?”
“I’ll think about it.”
She was about to hang up when she heard him say, “Les—”
“Yes?”
“Be careful. Please. Don’t go off anywhere half-cocked.”
“Moi?”
He hung up on her.
Well, she guessed she deserved it. She laughed. This investigation would be safe for her. It was really just a question of using her brain. Like right now. She pulled out her Filofax and looked up the phone number for the New York Public Library information line and called it. “Sulfites or sulfite powder,” she said to the male voice who answered. “Can you tell me what it is?”
“Hold on, please.” She pulled a blank piece of paper from the Filofax and doodled with her pen while she waited. He was back on the phone only seconds later.
She listened, then hung up, going over in her mind the gist of what he’d said. A salt or compound ... used as a preservative until it was banned from fresh fruits and vegetables by the FDA in 1986 because it can cause severe allergic reactions in susceptible people....
The lights on the phone lit up all at once and it rang, over and over. Where was Harold? She padded to the door and opened it. B.B. was trying to deal with all the calls. Harold was still not back and it was three o’clock.
“Jeeeeezuz!” Wetzon picked up one line. “Smith and Wetzon,” she said.
“Wetzon? Is that you?” The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t immediately place it. “This is David, David Kim. Something’s happened and I need to talk to you right away.” He was stumbling over his words.
“David, calm down. Whatever it is, we can deal with it.” She looked at her watch. “I can meet you at five-thirty at the Berkshire, on Fifty-second Street between Fifth and Madison. How’s that?”
“Okay. Just hang in there if I’m a little late.”
“Is this anything to do with what’s been happening at Luwisher Brothers, David?”
“You’re not going to tell anyone I called you?” Panic.
“I wouldn’t do that, David.”
“Good, because I don’t want to be history like Goldie and the fat fuck.”
26.
SHE HAD THREE candidates meeting this afternoon with Keith Burns, Northeastern Regional Sales manager for Marley, Strauss; there were two openings for managers, one in New Haven and one in Wellfleet on the Cape. Only one of the three was already licensed for management. Carolyn Johnson.
Wetzon had sandwiched the appointments, putting Jeff Lewin first at two o’clock, then Carolyn at two forty-five, and finally, Gary Walsh at three-thirty. She’d had to do some further juggling because both Carolyn and Jeff worked in the same Dean Witter office, and it would be death if they ran into each other. So it was arranged that Carolyn would wait on the twentieth floor and Keith, who was interviewing on the twenty-first, would let reception know when Jeff had left.
All very cloak-and-dagger but necessary to ensure confidentiality. In her early days as a headhunter, Wetzon had discovered what a small street Wall Street really was. Everyone knew everyone, and secrets were hard to keep. Brokers moved around so much that it was nigh to impossible that a broker going on an interview wouldn’t run into, or be recognized by, someone he’d once worked with, or a friend of someone he’d once worked with. If his present manager were to find out he was doing something disloyal, like considering a move to another firm, his books could be confiscated before he had a chance to copy them and he could be fired outright. Or, if he were a big enough producer, his manager might bribe him to stay with perks like paying for a cold caller, picking up certain expenses, throwing him house accounts.
Confidentiality was often breached because brokers forever talked among themselves, semi-trusting each other. News, rumors, gossip swept the Street like a raging brushfire. Once, Wetzon had been working with a broker whose gross production ranged between four hundred and four hundred fifty thousand dollars. He didn’t like his manager and made the mistake of telling another broker in the office, a friend, he thought, that he was seriously considering joining another firm. The friend let the manager know, the manager confronted the broker, confiscated his books, and ordered him out. The friend was rewarded with some of the broker’s accounts. Moving was never easy, and moving before one was prepared to move could be a disaster. This particular broker’s manager picked up the phone and called every client, offering the client free trades and implying that the broker had been fired for doing something disreputable and that he had not handled the client’s account professionally.
