Tender Death (10 page)
Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Contemporary Fiction, #Crime Fiction
S
HE WAS WALKING
on Broadway in the strange yellow light as the snow continued to fall. Her skirts were getting soaked. She pulled them up to protect them. Her boots were wet through. Storefronts had totally disappeared. Snow was piled in mountains on either side of the street. The pungent smell of burning wood pervaded the air. She was all alone.
Behind her she heard the old familiar snort of horses and saw a sleigh coming toward her, bearing down fast, bells jangling. The high drifts allowed her nowhere to run.
She felt sheer cold terror. Her legs wouldn’t move.
She heard the driver shout. Was it a warning or was he urging the horses on?
She ran then, skidding on the narrow, icy path, barely staying ahead. She could feel the hot breath of the horses. She was losing, losing. She looked back and saw the driver’s face. It was John Grossman, wearing a high fur hat, whipping the horses on.
“Get her, get her!” a woman screamed. Smith’s voice. “She’s stealing my friend!”
Wetzon, heart sinking, threw herself into a snowbank just as the sleigh would have run her down. The snow welcomed her and she sank into a cocoon of warmth.
“See, my dearest darling person, I told you not to be afraid.” Ida, in a green velvet cloak, ropes of fur around her white-blonde hair, was tucking Wetzon into the snow bed.
“No, no, you fool!” Arleen Grossman pushed Ida away and threw back the snow quilt.
Wetzon’s feet were so cold. She saw she was wearing her violet bodysuit and blue Gucci shoes over bare feet. She was shivering uncontrollably.
“Here now, what’s going on?” Leon said, descending from the sleigh. “We can’t have this. You have to drive more carefully, my man.” He snapped his fingers and Silvestri appeared, dressed like a Keystone Kop. “Arrest this man at once for reckless driving.” Leon pointed to John Grossman.
“Silvestri, you look ridiculous,” Wetzon said. “What are you dressed up for?”
“Your dream,’’ he said over his shoulder as he dragged John Grossman away in chains.
“I don’t know how you keep getting into these messes, Wetzon,” Smith called from the sleigh. She was dressed like Anna Karenina, in a fur-trimmed velvet cloak. “Leon, handle this at once.”
“Just get this settled,” Wetzon shouted angrily, from the snowbank. “I’m freezing.”
Leon snapped his fingers again and Teddy Lanzman—no it wasn’t Teddy Lanzman, it was the black man in the parka from the bar at Ernie’s—threw a huge fur lap robe over Wetzon’s head and picked her up in a fireman’s carry, throwing her over his shoulder. She couldn’t breathe, she lost a shoe.
Leon said, “Be sure she keeps her nose out of what doesn’t concern her.”
She was choking. She fought with the fur wrap. She fought with the covers; sleigh bells jangled and jangled.
I’m dreaming
, she thought, trying to beat down her panic.
Silvestri was trying to tell me that
. She stopped fighting. Sleigh bells were ringing.
I
will
wake up,
she thought. The telephone was ringing.
The telephone was ringing. She must have forgotten to reset her answering machine after she’d checked her messages last night. She groped for the phone and said a muffled hello. A dial tone. Whoever it was had hung up.
Her clock said nine. Late for her. What a horrible dream. It was freezing cold in her apartment. She stretched under the quilt, flexing and pointing her toes. Had it stopped snowing, she wondered. She sat up and put on her terry cloth robe. The bedroom radiator began to sputter. The room had the peculiar smell of radiator heat when it first starts to come up in a cold radiator.
When she opened the blinds, the sun was out. The blizzard was over. The rooftops of the brownstones below were piled high with clean white snow, reflecting sunlight like thousands of diamond specks. A city bus crawled down Columbus Avenue. Snowplows could be heard. Shovels scraped sidewalks. Finally, voices. Her phone rang.
She left the blinds open and sat on her bed to answer it. “Hello.”
“Hi,” Silvestri said. “Where’d you spend the night?”
“What do you mean, where’d I spend the night?” She was indignant. “Right here. Where do you think I spent the night? Where did
you
spend the night? Do you want to call me back and start over?”
“Uh oh.” He sounded embarrassed. “I guess I deserved that.”
“You did. If you hadn’t been so impatient and stayed on the phone for another couple of rings, I would have answered it.”
“Good morning, Les.” Why did she always feel he was making fun of her? Even that nice little moment of jealousy had an ironic undertone.
“Good morning, Silvestri,” she said somberly. “Where are you?”
“Manhattan North. Homicide.”
“Sexy.” She curled her bare toes.
“You think so?”
She heard puzzlement behind his words. “I’m sorry. ‘Sexy’ means intriguingly complicated in financialese.”
“Does a sexy deal take the place of the real thing?”
“I don’t know. I never thought of that. Maybe it does.” She wondered, can one get an orgasm from a particularly exciting transaction? Well, it was certainly possible. Was Wall Street an orgasmic setting? Oh yes. She cleared her throat. “Well, is it?”
“Is what?”
“Is it an intriguingly complicated case?”
“Yep. Diplomat murdered. It’ll be in the papers.”
“Oh yeah? State Department, FBI, and stuff?”
“And stuff.”
“Mmmm. Then I don’t get to see you for a while?”
“How about tonight?”
“What time?”
“Whatsamatter, you have plans?” Was he making fun of her or was he covering up for himself?
“I’m going to spend the afternoon with Teddy Lanzman.” She didn’t dare tell him where. He’d kill her for getting involved.
“The guy from Channel Eight?”
“The same. He’s working on a feature he wants to get my opinion on. What time do you think you’ll get here?”
“Don’t know. Don’t even know for sure I can.” She could feel his antennae go out. Damn.
“Well, if I’m not back, you can let yourself in,” she said casually.
“Les?”
“What?”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” He had such a psychic sense. And he was picking something up from her. Could he read her voice as well as her face?
“I’m not a suspect, Silvestri. Don’t treat me like one.”
“Les—”
“See you later.” She hung up, ran into the dining room, and put her answering machine on.
After a steaming shower, she dressed carefully in long silk thermal underwear, then ski pants and two bulky sweaters, one a turtleneck. She made a pot of coffee and skimmed the Sunday
New York Times
, not really looking at anything but the “Arts & Leisure” section.
She called Hazel.
“I’m reading
Lonesome Dove,
” Hazel informed her, “so talk fast because I want to get right back to it. Robert Duvall was good, but I keep seeing Dale Robertson as Gus. He’s so sexy.”
Now that was the right use for sexy, wasn’t it,
Wetzon thought. “A great book for a snowed-in weekend.” Wetzon paused. “Hazel, I wanted to ask you ... Do you remember Ida’s last name? Did you ever know it?”
“No, I don’t think so, Leslie dear. Why?”
“I’m going for a ride to Brighton Beach today with my friend Teddy Lanzman, the reporter on Channel Eight. I thought I might see if I can find her. Oh, and Teddy would like to interview you for his show.”
“I’d like that, Leslie,” Hazel said, and then quickly cut through to the important matter. “But do you think it’s wise for you to get involved with this? The police are looking for Ida.”
“They’re not having much luck. But it’s not important, Hazel. I just thought if you remembered her name ... Sometimes people like that are afraid of the police.”
“Come to think of it,” Hazel said slowly, “I believe that detective ... O’Melvany ... had her last name. He’d gotten it from Peepsie’s lawyer.”
“You didn’t hear it?”
“I may have, but I don’t remember. Leslie, please be careful.”
“I’ll be with Teddy. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
Wetzon called the Nineteenth Precinct and asked for O’Melvany.
“O’Melvany.”
“Hello, this is Leslie Wetzon,” she said cheerfully. “How’s your back today?” He was silent. She could feel him trying to figure out who she was. “Silvestri,” she prompted.
“Oh yes, Miss Wetzon.” He swung right into his prepared litany. “No results from the autopsy. Too soon. Back’s the same, thanks.” He was about to hang up. “Call me end of next week.”
“Wait, Sergeant, please. I forgot to ask you yesterday. The Russian woman—Ida—what was her last name?”
“Oh yeah. Ida. Russian name—just a minute. Ah ... got it. Tormenkov.”
T
EDDY HAD APPROPRIATED
an aging, undistinguished red Land Rover with large blotches of rust where dents had chipped paint. Clumsy chains were stretched across the giant tires.
“I’m glad there’s no Channel Eight insignia,” Wetzon said, grabbing hold of his hand and heaving herself up onto the high seat. He was wearing sunglasses and a dark brown fleece-lined coat.
“Hey, what do you expect? I’m a pro.” He gunned the motor and they moved off toward West End Avenue. The Rover’s tires bit into the snow with an almost human gusto. “I don’t go into enemy territory all decked out in my colors unless I think it can work for me. Check the floor in the back—under the canvas.”
She got on her knees and looked down behind her seat. Under the canvas was a white-and-blue polyurethane sign for the roof of the car. Channel 8, Everything Great in the Tri-State. “You’re too much.”
“Listen, you can’t be too careful. We’re an undercover operation, at least for now.”
She sat back. “Damn, it’s cold. Don’t you have the heater on?”
“It’s on but it’s not working great.” He made a left on West End Avenue and headed downtown. The street had been freshly plowed, salted, and sanded. Sunlight dazzled from the snow. Wetzon pulled down the sun visor. It didn’t do much good. She took her sunglasses from the black leather backpack.
“So what do you think?” Teddy flipped his sun visor down.
“About what, specifically?”
Everywhere people were digging out. By tomorrow the virgin white would be turning gray and gritty. The decaying process usually took two to three days, picking up speed as the city came back to life and its principal goal, the making of money.
“I mean the scam. This broker—what did you say his name was?”
“I didn’t, Teddy.” She hoped he wasn’t going to keep this up.
“Okay, okay. Where do you want to start?” Teddy eased his foot off the gas and moved left to avoid a creeping city bus. He wiped moisture from the windshield with a paper towel from a roll he had lying on the seat between them. “Better fasten your seat belt.” He was excited, she could tell, but trying to cover it.
“You mean in Brighton Beach?” She pulled the worn nylon belt across her body and fastened it.
“No, in Miami Beach.” He let the Rover roll to a stop for a red light, barely touching the brake, and gave her a dimpled grin, full of sexual charm, managing to look a bit like a black Tom Selleck.
“Ha, ha, very funny.” She rubbed her hands together in her lined suede gloves. She was cold. “I think we should start at that candy store I told you about, the one that’s a mail drop.” She thumbed through her notes, which she had shoved into the backpack. “Let’s see, Tsminsky’s Ice Cream Shoppe, with a double
p
and an
e,
no less. How American can you get?” She stuffed her notes back. “And I have Ida’s last name. Got it from O’Melvany.”
Teddy raised his leather-gloved hand to his dark brow. “I always said you have a good nose. Nice going.” They were making fairly good time. Few cars and fewer cabs had ventured out this morning. He drove across a wide-open Fourteenth Street onto Hudson. “I’m going to stick with the main roads.” A delivery van moving in a crawl slowed them. “What’s the name?” Hudson Street was lumpy and treacherous with snow-covered ice lumps and drifts. “I’ve been doing some nosing around myself. Asking questions of my Wall Street connections.”
“Have you come up with anything? An FBI investigation?”
“Not much more than the general insider-trading stuff. There is something going on with one New York firm, though. Don’t know what.”
“A member firm?”
“What do you mean, member firm?” He was peering out his front window, trying to figure what the delivery van was doing.
“I mean a New York Stock Exchange firm. If they are members of the NYSE, they’re called member firms.”
“I don’t know. My source said the D. A.’s office is cooperating with an investigation. That’s all I could get. Could be anything.”
Wetzon hesitated. “Teddy, I want you to promise me something.”
“What?” He pulled out to pass the delivery van and the Rover skidded an instant and then made traction. “Jesus.” He pulled back to the right around and in front of the van.
“I’m going to tell you something that’s privileged and off-the-record ... for the time being.”
Teddy winked at her. “The name of the broker?”
“This is off-the-record, Teddy.” Her voice was stern. She had to pool her information with him. Right now, she could use a partner. He might be able to help her prove that Peepsie was murdered and she might be able to get him a major news break above and beyond the feature on the elderly in New York that he was working on.
“Okay,” he said, taking his eyes from the road and meeting hers. It was like a handshake. “I’m with you.”
“Ida’s last name is the same as the name of the broker who told me about the scam. Tormenkov.”
“Jesus H. Christ, lady!” His eyes opened wide and he pounded the steering wheel gleefully, as he made a left on to Canal Street and pulled over to the corner. He put on the hand brake but didn’t turn off the motor. Canal Street, warehouses and wholesalers, on the rim of both Chinatown and Little Italy, was open for business, Sunday or not, blizzard or not. The streets were shoveled, people were out shopping. “This calls for hot coffee and food.” There was a deli-sandwich shop across the street. And it was open.
“Sounds good to me.” It was after twelve and they hadn’t even crossed into Brooklyn. “Decaf, if it’s brewed. No Sanka. Ham and Swiss on a bagel with mustard. But if it’s an Italian deli, salami and provolone on Italian bread.” She was making herself hungrier, just talking about it.
“I’ll be right back. Hold the fort.” He jumped out and crossed the street to the deli. Chances were good she’d get her Italian combination. She unfastened her seat belt and leaned across the driver’s seat, rubbing the condensation from Teddy’s window. The name on the deli was Del Soma’s.
She settled back in her seat and refastened the belt. The motor chugged reassuringly, the heater was working. She hoped she’d done the right thing by taking Teddy into her confidence. He was a friend, but he was also a reporter. On the other hand, she needed his help in Brighton Beach. He was as nosy as she was. He would ask the right questions.
She fidgeted. It was taking him a long time in the deli. At this rate it would be another two hours’ minimum to get to Brighton Beach.
Steam covered all the windows. She rolled her window down about two inches. On her side of the Rover a coffee shop had opened and a fat Chinese shopkeeper in a red wool hat and red-and-white muffler was selling hot coffee and doughnuts through an opening to the street counter. She sniffed the piquant odors of Chinese cooking. Or was it her imagination? She could also smell the sharp clean aroma of wood burning in fireplaces, mixing with Chinese food and the wafts of curry coming from the famous old Canal Street spice market that had been in the area for years.
God, she was so hungry she felt light-headed. She unfastened her seat belt again and slid over to Teddy’s window. She looked back across the street to Del Soma’s.
She saw Teddy, preoccupied, empty-handed, not even looking toward the Rover, come around the corner and go into the deli.