The Deadliest Option (3 page)

“Phone for you, Smith.” B.B. tapped on the door frame. “Destry Bird.”

Wetzon and Smith stared at each other. Smith reached for the phone. “Destry ... yes ... well, of course, you have our deepest condolences ... yes ... you know we are at your service.” She was making grotesque faces at Wetzon and her eyes sparkled. “Monday? We could come at nine ... oh, I see. Eleven-thirty would be fine.” She looked at Wetzon, who nodded impatiently. “We’ll see you then.” She replaced the receiver.

“What is that about?”

“We’ve been invited down to Luwisher Brothers to talk about new hiring procedures.”

“New hiring procedures? Who’s taking over the firm?”

“He didn’t elucidate.”

“The king is dead, long live the king.”

Smith eyed the phone, then Wetzon. “They couldn’t meet at nine because there’s going to be a police inquiry.” She shivered.

“A police inquiry? Into what? Procedures? An audit? What?”

Dark clouds had slipped almost furtively over the sun without their noticing. A windstorm burst through the open doors, scooping up their papers, sending them every which way. The women jumped up and with some effort closed the French doors. A jagged bolt of lightning streaked out of the dark pewter sky and slammed into the high wooden fence that backed their neighbor’s yard. Just as the fence burst into flame, the sky opened up and rain fell in heavy sheets, dousing the fire.

“It’s started,” Smith said.

T
HEY TOOK A CAB
to the Luwisher Tower building opposite the World Trade Center, Smith decked out in her plum suit and Wetzon in dark blue pinstripes. Smith had been late, as always, and they were now part of the snarl of cars, trucks, and cabs inching off the FDR Drive in lower Manhattan. Temperatures had risen dramatically since early morning, and it was hot.

“He says he’s worried about the algebra final.” Smith was reading a letter from her son, Mark, who was finishing his first term at St. Paul’s and living away from home for the first time. “God, I miss him,” she said suddenly, touching the corner of her eyes with a fingertip.

Wetzon patted her shoulder. “I do, too, but isn’t he having a wonderful time?”

“I don’t know.” Smith looked out the window at the construction that had eliminated one lane of the highway, and frowned. “I can read between the lines, and I know he misses me. But Jake thinks he needs to be on his own for a while.”

Wetzon hated to admit it, even to herself, but Jake Donahue was right. Mark was fifteen now, and it was time for him to ease out of the intense relationship he had with his mother.

“Well, the term is almost over. He’ll be home soon.” Their cab nudged the back bumper of the van ahead of them and the driver, a small Latino, exploded from the vehicle and began screaming at their driver, a stone-faced black man, in Spanish. Their driver opened the door, yelling, “Spick mother-fuck—” when a traffic cop appeared and inspected the bumper, then waved both drivers back to their places. Horns blared through the tumult, and traffic began moving again.

“Please don’t tell anyone, Wetzon, but I think Jake’s jealous of Mark.”

It was totally unlike Smith to sound so worried. But Smith had changed a lot recently. She had been seeing a therapist for over a year; her life appeared to have stabilized since the disaster with Leon, and she was certainly much easier to work with.

“Good grief, Smith, who would I tell? And why would he be jealous of a fifteen-year-old boy?” If indeed, the great Jake Donahue was jealous, it was because Smith had created the situation, playing her son against her lover.

“Jake’s made arrangements for Mark to spend the summer in Arizona, working on a cattle ranch.”

“Oh? Sounds like fun. Is Mark excited?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him about it. I was waiting till he got home.”

“It’ll be all right, I’m sure. And if it’s not,
I’ll
go and you and Mark can run the business for the summer.”

“Wetzon,” Smith said. “If I haven’t told you lately, you’ve been a wonderful friend—and I love you.” She folded the letter back into its envelope and tucked it into her briefcase.

“Why, thank you, Smith.” Wetzon was amazed and just a little moved.

“Now, then.” Smith wriggled to straighten her skirt, which had crawled up to midthigh. “Back to business. I want you to let me do the talking at this meeting.”

“What—” Just then their cab came to a shuddering stop and the driver flipped his flag down. The meter read sixteen dollars and eighty-five cents.

“Give the man a twenty, Wetzon, please. I forgot to bring my wallet.” Smith opened the door and slid out of the cab.

The Luwisher Tower was one of the new granite-and-glass monstrosities rising sixty-eight floors above the Financial District in lower Manhattan. Constructed on landfill, it would have boggled the minds of the small group of traders who had gathered under the buttonwood tree at 68 Wall Street on May 17, 1792, and founded what became the New York Stock Exchange.

Any other time Wetzon might have been fuming, but on this beautiful, sunny day in June, she was in a benevolent frame of mind. Smith was Smith and even with the therapy, her basic narcissistic nature was not going to change. She looked at her watch. “We’re fifteen minutes early.”

“See, I told you not to rush me. You always want to leave so early.”

“I loathe being late.”

“You’re the one who should be seeing a therapist, I think.” Smith beamed at her.

“Do you want to go in for coffee?” Wetzon pointed to a terminally cute croissant shop with gingham curtains on the lobby level next to a WaldenBooks outlet the size of an airplane hangar.

“No, let’s go on up. We can powder our noses.”

A special elevator was programmed to go directly to Luwisher Brothers, which occupied the top eight floors. The construction had been a joint venture between Luwisher Brothers and an international real estate conglomerate, which occupied ten floors of the building. The remainder of the skyscraper was divided among the New York home of a major insurance company, the headquarters of Merryweather Funds, mutual funders of some repute, and Grover, Newman, one of the largest law firms in the world.

The walls of the elevator were covered with tufted brown leather like a chesterfield, and the lighting was subdued, diffused through the mottled glass of the dropped ceiling. And the elevator talked. “Good morning,” it said in a digital voice. “This elevator goes to Luwisher Brothers. Please choose your floor.”

“What floor did Destry say?”

“Sixty-seven.” Smith pressed the shiny brass square, and the elevator rose almost imperceptibly, like a hot-air balloon. The lights above the doors began blinking at the sixtieth floor and stopped when the doors slid softly open on the sixty-seventh.

To the right of the bank of six elevators, three on each side, was a small reception area carpeted in pale taupe. A wide corridor cut through left and right, seeming to run the width of the building. The ceiling, topped by a skylight, rose two floors, giving the space the look of a cathedral. Wetzon stifled a laugh. Some cathedral. Here everyone prayed to Mammon, god of gold. Goldie’s Church, some wit had called it.

The walls were painted in a paler taupe and hung with those Georgia O’Keeffe flower paintings that always made Wetzon feel she was looking at colorful depictions of female sex organs.

A real tree, with a whitish bark and beautiful silver leaves, grew hydroponically from a huge pot of water and stones, reaching its branches up to the skylight. The windows soared from floor to ceiling.

But by far the most prominent feature in the room was the sweeping marble staircase, with an open iron railing on one side. From where she stood, looking upward, Wetzon could see a battalion of pantslegs belonging to a group of men who were milling at the top of the curved stairs.

A young woman with blunt-cut, shoulder-length hair sat behind a glass-topped desk talking on the phone and writing on a message pad. “Thank you for your thoughts,” she said. “I will convey them to everyone.” She hung up and smiled at them. She had perfect teeth and wore very little makeup. “How may I help you?”

“Xenia Smith and Leslie Wetzon. We have an appointment with Destry Bird.”

“We know we’re a bit early,” Wetzon added and got a glower from Smith.

The woman picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Hi, this is Maggie. Ms. Smith and Ms. Wetzon are here.” She waited. “Okay.” She hung up and gave them another vision of her perfect orthodontia. “Mr. Bird is in a meeting, but he should be with you shortly.”

“Where is your ladies’ room?” Smith asked.

“Just past the elevators. The second door on the right.”

“I’ll wait here,” Wetzon said. She of the slow burn was just beginning to feel abused by Smith’s admonition to let her do the talking. Not on her life. Who did Smith think she was?
Don’t tell me, tell her
, was what Wetzon’s friend Carlos always said, but Smith was so mercurial that she seemed to sense when Wetzon had reached her boiling point and immediately became caring and attentive, deftly deflecting Wetzon’s anger.

“Suit yourself,” Smith said airily, “though I think you could do with a little more color in your face. You look totally washed out.” She paused and, when she saw her comment had no effect, shrugged her enviable shoulders and went on past the elevators and disappeared to the right.

Two workmen in paint-streaked overalls got off the elevator, bringing with them the bitter, pungent combination of cigarettes and old sweat. The larger of the two carried a paint-spattered stepladder. The shorter one handed a piece of paper to Maggie. “You Miss Gray?”

The receptionist nodded, inspected the work order, and directed them up the staircase.

The group of pantslegs at the top of the stairs parted for the workmen, then two pairs started down the stairs and came into Wetzon’s view. Surprise flushed her face pink.

The first man was tall and slightly stooped, with the pouchy-eyed look of a basset hound. The other was a stocky man with thinning dark hair; he wore a new dark gray suit. The first man was Artie Metzger, Detective Sergeant, NYPD, and the second was Silvestri, who had bought the new suit for his promotion to detective lieutenant the previous month.

What an interesting turn of events
, Wetzon thought. But Destry had mentioned to Smith something about meeting with the police this morning. Wetzon walked slowly to the foot of the stairs and waited for Silvestri and Metzger to see her. But they were engrossed in conversation and probably perceived her peripherally as just another skirt.

“What are two nice guys like you doing in a place like this?”

“Les—” Silvestri stared down at her. For a brief moment, genuine astonishment stripped his face of its professional mask.

Her response was an impish grin. Silvestri always accused her of flying by the seat of her pants, interfering in police business. What would he say now? After all, she was there innocently, on business for her firm. “Hi, Artie,” she said to Metzger, ignoring Silvestri’s puzzled look.

She made a grand show of shaking hands, first with Metzger, and then with Silvestri, aware of the watchful eyes of Maggie Gray, and walked with them to the elevators. Metzger touched the down button and a light blinked, a door opened. The men got on and turned, facing her. “Please choose your floor,” the elevator commented. “Press L to return to the lobby.”

“See you later, Les,” Silvestri said. He took out his little notebook and was flipping through pages as if he were looking for something. Having recovered from the shock of seeing her there, he was giving her nothing, and he knew she was dying to know what was going on.

“Wait a minute, guys.” The doors started to close. “What brings you onto my turf?” She put her briefcase in the door, which opened slightly, just enough for her to hear Silvestri’s intentionally melodramatic response.

“Murder,” he said.

“M
URDER?
”
SHE REPEATED
, staring at the closed elevator doors.

“Murder? Is that what you just said?” Wetzon had not even heard Smith come up behind her.

“Smith!” She spun around. Running through her mind was the musical refrain,
he said murder he said, da da da dum, he said murder he said.

“Excuse me, Ms. Smith, Ms. Wetzon. Mr. Bird would like you to go up to the conference room now.” Maggie Gray, in her creamy beige silk, stood beside her desk motioning to them.

Who was murdered?
Wetzon’s thoughts roiled. Who had died, except ... As they approached the staircase, the two workmen started down from the floor above. One carried the ladder, the other a large painting half covered by a dirty piece of canvas. Smith forged ahead, up the stairs, brushing between the men. The canvas was dislodged slightly, revealing an oil portrait of the late Goldie Barnes.

“The king is dead, long live the king,” Wetzon said.

Smith turned and looked down at her. “Whatever is the matter with you? Come on.”

The stairs led to a gallery that overlooked the floor below. On this floor were the penthouse, with the executive dining room, and the top executive offices. Only the same iron railing stood between the edge of the gallery and open space. Overhead was the skylight, through which the midday sun streamed, giving the area an inside-outside feeling. A Picasso from his Dada period—all angled, anxious edges—hung on the facing wall. Loud voices surged from the half-open door of the conference room.

Wetzon put her hand on Smith’s arm, slowing her.

Johnny Hoffritz’s voice, with its succulent Alabama rhythms, was unmistakable. “... couldn’t go quietly ... you’d know he’d try one more time to fuck us up.”

“Well, you could hardly expect him to go quietly.” Destry Bird’s accent was strictly upper-class Virginia, fine old family. Someone guffawed, then Destry continued, “Better this way—”

“For us.”

“Ladies ...”

Smith and Wetzon, caught eavesdropping, started. They were now confronted by a royal corpulence, a grossly fat man in an immaculate gray pinstripe and crisp white shirt, the costume of an investment banker or broker.