The Big Killing (28 page)

In spite of herself, she laughed. “This is a crazy conversation we’re having, Jake Donahue.”

“Leslie Wetzon,” Jake Donahue said, inclining toward her. “I like you.”

The piercing buzz of a doorbell interrupted their dialogue. Although she had been expecting Roberta and Silvestri, Wetzon literally jumped.

“Good God.” Donahue froze, alert. “Who the hell—”

“I told you I had an appointment—” She was uncomfortable. Perhaps against her better judgment, she half-believed Jake’s claim that he was not a murderer. If he weren’t, then which of the cast of characters she had met was? Whenever she had her fingertips on the solution, it would melt away like ice cream. “Jake, look, I don’t have what you’re looking for. I don’t know where it is, and even if I did ...”

The doorbell rang again. Two impatient rings.

There was no back way out, through the garden, for her to send Jake. What should she do?

As if in response to her silent question, Jake said roughly, “Get rid of whoever it is.” He stood up, a meaty mass of a man, dwarfing her.

“Oh, hell. Wait here,” Wetzon said. At least she wasn’t going to be alone with him. What could he do with Roberta and Silvestri there? Silvestri. God. It would be awful if Silvestri found Jake Donahue with her after she had told him she didn’t know the man.

Wetzon went into the outer office, closing the door firmly behind her. The doorbell rang several times more and someone rattled the doorknob impatiently.

“Who is it?” Wetzon called, leaving the chain lock on and peering into the dusky twilight. A tall, slender woman with long hair, wearing a dark, tightly belted coat, stood in the small brick vestibule. It had to be Roberta.

Wetzon slipped off the chain lock. The woman who came through the door into the light of the office was the woman with the extraordinary hair whom Wetzon had seen at the Four Seasons. The woman whose picture Wetzon had picked out for Silvestri, the woman she hadn’t been able to name for Silvestri. No wonder he had thought it strange. He knew she’d met Roberta the day before. What he had not known was that Roberta, in a turban that covered her head and under the guise of a headache, had managed not to be recognizable. No wonder Silvestri had concluded Wetzon was either nuts or hiding something. Her first reaction was dismay, swiftly replaced by fear.

“You are—”

“Roberta Bancroft.” The woman offered Wetzon a long, thin hand. The beautiful copper hair was full and smooth, in a perfectly rolled pageboy cut. She brought with her the unmistakable floral scent of lily of the valley.

Wetzon took Roberta’s hand but found it impossible to pull her eyes away from the woman. She was the ultimate in chic in a black leather trench coat. A Hermès print scarf was tied loosely at her throat, as if she had just slipped it off her head. Wetzon’s mind conjured up a fleeting image of a woman in a black leather trench coat and scarf tied under her chin, who got out of the cab on Second Avenue right behind Wetzon the day after Barry was killed and just before Wetzon was pushed into the street.

“Is anything wrong?” Roberta had amazing light green eyes with dark rims—cat eyes, with dark lashes and brows. A blue and yellow bruise stained the pale skin under her right eye.

“Oh, no,” Wetzon said, looking away. She had been staring. “You did reach Sergeant Silvestri, didn’t you?”

“Yes, of course, but he said he might be delayed.” Roberta let her eyes drift around the room, as if she was taking inventory.

Delayed. Not very likely that he would be coming at all. Wetzon’s mind roiled. What was she to do? But she said calmly, “Would you like to sit down?” She pointed to one of the two small modern chairs upholstered in a Jack Lenor Larsen black, white, and brown wool. She looked at her watch. Five-forty. Jake was in the other room, listening; she was certain of it. Could he be counted on for help? Of that she wasn’t so certain. She glanced at her watch again. Roberta’s cat eyes narrowed. “I have another appointment outside the office,” Wetzon explained.

“My timing lately is always off,” Roberta murmured. She stretched thin, deep red lips over oddly small teeth. Cat eyes, rat teeth.

If Roberta had been at the Four Seasons that day, she could have killed Barry. Panic crept slowly up from the base of Wetzon’s spine.
Keep your wits about you, old girl. Stay with it.
“Why do you think your life is in danger?” she asked, sitting on the edge of Harold’s desk. “And what does it have to do with me?”

Roberta seemed curiously serene. She opened her black leather bag, searched through it, and took out a long slim cigarette. She lit it ostentatiously with a match from a Four Seasons matchbook. “Oh, my dear, it has everything to do with you,” she said, drawing deeply on the cigarette.

Black leather trench coat and floral scarf. The pieces began to click into place. Roberta was the woman Buffie had seen with Barry at the zoo in Central Park. How well had Roberta known Barry? Was she simply Mildred’s liaison? “Were you having an affair with Barry?”

Roberta actually snickered. “That slime. Hardly. It was Mildred’s idea that I be the go-between. I didn’t like it, and I didn’t trust him. I warned her not to get involved with him. Why do you ask?”

“Barry’s girlfriend saw you with him.”

“Ha!” She had an explosive laugh, like a bark. She showed just the tips of those rodentlike teeth. She inhaled again deeply and slowly let the smoke out.

Jake was at the Four Seasons, Leon was there, and Roberta was there. What if they had all been together? What if Barry had seen them— “Oh, my god,” Wetzon said out loud, her face crumpling.

“Ah, well,” Roberta said, standing. She looked around for an ashtray.

Eyeing her warily, Wetzon emptied a small metal box that Harold used for paper clips and handed it to Roberta, who ground out her cigarette methodically.

“You’re the only one, I think, who can put me there.”

“I don’t understand,” Wetzon said, sliding off Harold’s desk, pulling clips with her. They scattered on the wooden floor. “I didn’t see you at the zoo.”

Roberta gave Wetzon a smoldering look. “I’m not talking about the zoo. Do you take me for a fool? Barry saw me at the Four Seasons. After you saw me. I was with Jake.” She was rummaging in the black leather purse, looking for something. “There was no deal, you understand. I only agreed to help him to protect Mildred. But Barry was going to tell Mildred, and I couldn’t have that.” She looked up and smiled reassuringly at Wetzon. “It was no loss, you know. They should give me a medal—” She found what she was looking for in her purse and pulled it out. Wetzon gasped. It was a Swiss hunting knife, the kind she always saw advertized at Hoffritz.

It was not until that moment that Wetzon fully realized the danger. She had the odd sensation of spinning out of her body and standing a little to the side, watching the action. “What about Georgie?” Wetzon said, playing for time, but needing to know.

“He was worse than Barry, if that’s possible. That stupid girl called Mildred about his having written an autobiography, so we figured she had the tapes and was going to make us pay to get them. He caught me searching her apartment and cut himself in.” Showing the tips of her teeth again, she added serenely, “So I cut him out.” She contemplated Wetzon for a moment and then took a small step forward.

“Roberta, I found the tapes. I’ll give them to you,” Wetzon said, backing toward the door to the inside room.

Roberta opened the knife slowly, in an oddly sensual movement. “You have the tapes?” She stopped. “Where are they?”

“Not here. I have to get them.”

“You’re the only one who knows about me. I don’t need the tapes.”

“No, I’m not. Jake Donahue and Leon, his lawyer, know.”
And Silvestri knows, but he’s not coming.

“They’ll never tell.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. Leon, after all, is an officer of the court.”

“But if I have the tapes, they’ll never talk. They’d be afraid to.”

“That’s right.” Wetzon leaned on the door to the back office. Roberta was mad. She was afraid to take her eyes from either Roberta or the knife. Afraid to move. Oh, Silvestri ...

“He’s not coming,” Roberta said, as if they were having a conversation over tea. “I never called him.” She showed her teeth and moved closer.

Wetzon pressed her body against the door. Her hand touched the knob. She was ready to spring back. Her mind worked at high speed. If she could only get to the bathroom, she could lock the door and wait till she was rescued.

But she had forgotten about Jake Donahue. The door swung open and she was jolted backward into the room. Donahue caught her and roughly pushed her aside. She fell against her desk. Terror hit her like a tidal wave. Jake couldn’t save her. He couldn’t save himself. They would die.

“Roberta, goddammit, are you nuts? What the hell’s wrong with you?” Jake lurched at her as if to grab her.

Roberta’s face shifted rapidly from surprise to anger. Her cunning eyes almost disappeared into their sockets. “I wouldn’t say that, if I were you.” Her voice menaced, but she backed off. “Don’t you touch me.”

Damn Jake
, Wetzon thought suddenly.
He was handling her all wrong
.

“Roberta, calm down,” Jake said, standing in place. “Just tell old Jake what this is all about.” The insincerity in his tone was offensive and condescending.

You asshole
, Wetzon wanted to shout at him. He badly underestimated Roberta. It would anger her more—

“Don’t humor me, you bastard.” Roberta’s thin lips curled. “You were hiding there, listening.” She gestured with the knife as if it were part of her hand. The blade found its key light in the fluorescent and hung there, glinting. “You’re all alike. First Mildred, then you. Promises. I’ll take care of you, Bobbie ...” she said, doing a fair imitation of Mildred’s raspy voice.

Wetzon’s hands began to shake. She couldn’t swallow. A tight band closed over her chest; the room began to whirl.

Then Roberta screamed—a long, furious scream—and lunged toward Jake, who backed away. Wetzon’s head snapped up. No, she wouldn’t, she couldn’t let herself cave in now. She stepped forward.
Pretend she’s just an upset broker
, she thought desperately.
Pretend she’s just
been dumped by Shearson and
 ...

“Roberta, talk to me, please,” Wetzon pleaded, “I didn’t promise you anything. I don’t even know you.”

Roberta’s eyes darted toward Wetzon, momentarily distracted. “You saw me,” she said. “You were always turning up. I couldn’t get away from you. You’ll tell on me.”

“You crazy—” Jake’s face changed rapidly from red to purple.

Wetzon interrupted. He was making a mess of it. “I won’t tell anybody anything, Roberta.” Wetzon was on home ground. She had handled crazies before. If only Jake would shut up and let her do the job she did well.

“That’s right.” Roberta nodded, smiling rat teeth. The beautiful copper hair rolled forward around her face.

“I don’t understand, Roberta,” Wetzon said, determined to keep her talking. “What were you doing with Jake if you were working for Mildred?” Her mouth was parched.

Roberta’s eyes dismissed Wetzon. “Mildred was going to take care of me, but he—” The knife made a deadly little circle, indicating Jake. “
He
ruined everything. And now I’m going to show him how grateful I am. I’m going to kill him.” She smiled at Wetzon. “And then I’m going to kill you.”

“You fool,” Jake raged, making two potent fists of his hands. “You didn’t need Mildred anymore. I would have taken care of you, didn’t I promise you that?”

Wetzon shuddered. What had Smith said?
A woman sometimes wants to be taken care of.
And Wetzon, what about Wetzon? Wetzon, who always took care of herself. Right now, Wetzon wished fervently for Silvestri to come riding up on a white horse and save the day. But she knew he wasn’t coming.

“Don’t worry, you said, I’ll take care of you. What a joke. On me. You were going to take care of me, weren’t you, Jake? You showed me a copy of Mildred’s will, and you were right, it doesn’t include me. She lied to me.” She brushed her hair away from her face with her free hand. “Isn’t it funny? Mildred didn’t think you were a killer, Jake. I kept at her that you were, but she began to put it all together after you broke in that day—”

Wetzon looked at Jake and then at Roberta. If she were Roberta, she would probably stick the knife in him right now. The man was a monster. They were both evil, but Roberta was a victim. Wetzon had the feeling that Jake always knew exactly what he was doing.

“You should have trusted me,” Jake said, his expression weary.

“You’re a lying, cheating son of a bitch,” Roberta said, continuing in her tea-party voice.

Jake moved precipitously, going for the knife. Logic told Wetzon that Jake was moving fast, but it seemed as if she were watching a film in slow motion.

Roberta recoiled. She cried, “Stay away from me, you bastard!”

The knife moved lazily through the empty space between Roberta and Jake.

Wetzon, her heart thudding in her ears, moved backward, slammed into the lip of her desk, bruising her tailbone. The jarring shock would have thrown her forward into the fray had she not clutched the desk with her fingers.

Jake’s voice was a muffled roar. Roberta was slicing the air between them with the knife, back and forth, back and forth ... back and forth.

How strange ... there is no blood
, Wetzon thought.
Like in a play. The knife is not real
.

“Stop, stop, please stop.” Wetzon heard someone scream and realized it was she.

A brilliant crimson flower began to create itself in time-lapse photography, blooming on the white desk top near Wetzon’s hand.

Blood, crimson like the flower, spattered on papers, on the desks, on the telephone answering machine, on the floor. The phone began to ring. Automatically, Wetzon groped for it, and her hand found the heavy marble peach she kept on her desk as a paperweight. Without thinking, her fingers closed on it. She picked it up, spotted, as she had as a dancer, on Roberta’s white forehead, and hurled it with all her strength.