The Deadliest Option (41 page)

“I’m okay, thanks, Artie.”

“I’m Xenia Smith,” Smith said, offering her hand to Rachel Konstantin, whose wardrobe seemed to consist of too-short skirts. A matching red jacket was hooked on the back of one of the folding chairs.

Seated in the last seat in the first row was a man in his early thirties wearing a rumpled brown suit; a worn leather briefcase sat open at his feet. He took off metal-rimmed glasses and wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief, then wiped his lenses and put his glasses back on. The ends of a sparse brown mustache met an equally sparse beard.

“Richard Fuchs, Legal Aid,” he said, introducing himself. Wetzon shook his damp hand; Smith ignored him.

“Let’s get going,” Weiss said. He lit a cigarette.

“Can we not have that.” Konstantin frowned. “There’s no air in here as it is.” Weiss flicked his eyes over her, then dropped the cigarette and ground it into the floor with the sole of his Bally loafer.

When Silvestri appeared, Wetzon saw immediately that there was trouble. His face was dark, almost sullen. “Are we ready?” he asked abruptly, avoiding her eyes.

“Why don’t you two ladies sit here,” Weiss said, indicating the front row.

Smith smiled at him. Wetzon could see she was adding up what he must have paid for his expensive suit and shoes. “Of course, just tell me what you want me to do.” It came out like a sexy invitation as Smith batted her eyelashes at him.

“Jesus,” Wetzon said, rolling her eyes.

“We’re going to bring out a group of people. They can’t see or hear us. All we want you to do is see if you can pick out the individual you saw at the dinner for Goldie Barnes, if he is one of these men.” Weiss’s eyes never left Smith.

“Take your time, Ms. Smith,” Konstantin said. “We want a positive ID.”

Silvestri picked up a receiver on the wall. “Go,” he said.

A light went on outside the picture window. A voice said, “Move forward and step up to the line, face front.”

A line of six Asian men came out and faced them. Three were tall, two were average, and one was very short. Wetzon let her eyes run from one to the other. The tall one on the end was nervous; his chin was on his chest.

“Heads up,” the voice said.

The end man’s head came up.
Was this some kind of joke?
Wetzon thought.

“They all look pretty much alike to me,” Smith said.

“Turn to your right,” the voice ordered.

“I—” Wetzon felt a firm hand on her shoulder. It was Silvestri. He shook his head at her. What the hell was going on?

“Turn to your left.”

“I don’t know,” Smith said. “The one I saw had a sexy smile and beautiful teeth.” She looked up at Weiss and smiled.

Silvestri went back to the phone. “Ask them to smile.”

“Face front. Smile.”

It was like a stand-up act that went bad. Wetzon shivered. Death’s-head smiles.

“I’m sorry,” Smith said. She shook her head at Weiss.

“Face right,” the voice said. “You can stop smiling.”

“What do you think, Les?” Silvestri prompted her, giving her leave to speak.

She turned in her chair. He was leaning against the back wall, hands in his pockets. She looked out the window at the six men. Were they serious? Was this some kind of setup?

“Well, Ms. Wetzon?” Konstantin said, impatiently.

“I don’t get it,” Wetzon said. “None of these men is David Kim.”

“Y
OU MIGHT EXPLAIN
what this is all about,” Smith complained as they threaded their way past the shoppers at Manganaro’s into the back of the Italian fancy grocery where there was a small restaurant. Neither snow, nor heat, nor anything kept New Yorkers from eating. The place was crowded, with only one or two tables available. They were seated immediately next to an oversized gentleman in a business suit reading
Ad Age
, a napkin tucked into his collar. He was eating garlic-scented spaghetti with red clam sauce from a large soup bowl.

“Let’s order first. Do you want to share pasta with ricotta?”

“Yes, fine.” Smith took a mirror out of her handbag and redid her lipstick.

“Pasta with ricotta.” Wetzon gave their order to a matronly woman in a black dress. “We’re going to share.”

“To drink?”

“A bottle of Pellegrino, okay, Smith?”

“Fine, fine.” Smith’s voice had gone steely.

“David Kim gave them the slip.”

“Not New York’s Finest,” Smith said sarcastically.

Wetzon ignored her. “Number six in the lineup, they arrested him because he told them he was David Kim, and I guess they’re like you, all Asians look alike.”

“Spare me, Mother Teresa.” Smith looked at their neighbor with distaste. He was ingesting his spaghetti with loud slurping noises, his napkin bloody with red sauce.

“Besides, his name really is David Kim. It was the wrong one, that’s all.”

“How is that possible?”

“Because Kim is as common in Korea as Smith is here.”

“Go on, Wetzon, have your little joke. I’m not paying any attention.”

The woman brought the bottle of Pellegrino, opened it, and poured the mildly carbonated water into their glasses.

“The whole fiasco bought the real David Kim time to make his getaway.”

“You’re starting to talk like them.”

“Them?”

“The cops. Slangy.”

“Regardless. In all likelihood he’s on his way back to Korea, where he’ll live like a king with his ill-gotten gains.”

She didn’t tell Smith what Silvestri had warned. “Don’t go off by yourself anywhere. Don’t open any strange packages. Stay with the crowds until we get him.”

“After killing three people and trying to kill us. I’d like to get the money it cost to replace the windows, and I can’t even imagine what the garden will come to.”

“The hell with that. It’s only money, and we make plenty of it. We’re alive. That’s what counts.”

“Oh, puh-leeese.”

“And I think he actually killed four people. The compliance director was the first. He pushed him in front of a subway train, and got away with it. Then when Dr. Ash began blackmailing him, he thought getting rid of Ash would be easy because Ash had severe asthma and let everyone know he was allergic to sulfites. David’s family’s produce market still had cans of sulfite powder in their basement from when they used to sprinkle it on the salad bar contents.”

“Ugh.”

“Silvestri said it’s such a fine powder, you wouldn’t know it was there, unless you had an allergy. David spiked the bourbon Ash was drinking, but he had no idea Goldie was also allergic to sulfites, was also drinking bourbon, and would pick up Ash’s drink by mistake.”

The pasta arrived, already divided into two portions. The ricotta had melted into a thick cream over the hot pasta. The waitress ground fresh pepper over each and left them with a bowl of grated cheese.

Smith sprinkled cheese over her pasta. “This is heaven.” She twirled her fork full of fettuccine and put it into her mouth.

“So where do you think Hoffritz and Bird will surface? They’re not going to retire.” Wetzon broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the sauce. “God, this was a good idea.”

“Their shares have to be bought out. They won’t feel any pain.”

“Not in their wallets, perhaps, but definitely in their egos.”

Smith laughed. “This David Kim. Such an unimportant person turns out to be the murderer ...”

“I don’t think they’ll get him either.” Wetzon ate the last of her pasta and poured more Pellegrino into her glass.

“You mean he’ll get away? And with all that money?”

“No, I mean I don’t think he’ll risk being taken alive. I think Asians have a strong sense of family and face. I don’t know. I still can’t quite accept the fact that that nice, bright, eager kid could have murdered people.”

“Whatever.” Smith airily dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “Let’s get back to the office. Twoey is going to call me when it’s a done deal.”

“I thought it already was.”

“In principle, but you know lawyers. They have to knock out the details elaborately so their fee looks worth it. Pay the bill, will you, Wetzon. I don’t have any change.” She walked past the cashier and stared into the deli counter at the various hams and prosciuttos.

One day, Wetzon thought, she’d like to see Smith grab the bill for something, but it was just too hot to argue about right now.

When they came out on Ninth Avenue, it was one-thirty and the sun was blazing like a hot ball of fire, the sky brilliantly cloudless. Smith stepped into the street, snapped her fingers, and a cab pulled over to the curb. The driver rolled down his window. “Upper West Side only,” he said. “I’m going off duty.”

“Okay with us.” Smith crawled into the narrow backseat and motioned for Wetzon to follow.

“Smith! You can’t.”

“Would you get in here.” When Wetzon climbed in and closed the door, Smith said, “Forty-ninth between First and Second.”

The cab, which had started rolling forward just before Smith spoke, screeched to a stop. “I told you Upper West Side only. Get outta my cab, lady.”

Smith didn’t move. She wasn’t even intimidated. Wetzon took the handle of the door. “Don’t touch that door, Wetzon. Take this man’s name and number. We’ll report him.”

“Oh, fuck this shit. You’ll get yours, bitch.” He started the cab and gave them a wild ride back to the office. Smith put six singles in the drawer, flipped the drawer closed, and they both got out into the choking heat.

“I thought you didn’t have any change,” Wetzon grumbled, not even bothering to keep the irritation out of her voice.

“1 found some in my bag. And as far as that cab driver is concerned, they’re supposed to take us wherever we want to go. We should report him for his language. Did you get his name?”

“No I didn’t. Some day someone is going to whack you for your attitude.”

“Oh, for pitysakes.”

They found the market was off over fifty points when they sat down at their desks, and that’s the way the rest of the week went— down, down, down. Down fifty-one Monday, up twenty Tuesday, down forty-two Wednesday, down another thirty Thursday. The gurus were predicting doom and gloom again, advising everyone to go to cash.

Wetzon hadn’t seen much of Silvestri, who was under tremendous pressure to arrest David Kim and close the books on the Wall Street murders. The whole City was alerted. The headlines screamed for blood in the
Post
and
News.

And the intense heat continued unabated. Tempers were raw. A weatherman on one of the local TV stations was set upon by a hostile crowd, roughed up and left nearly naked in front of TKTS, the discount theater ticket booth on Forty-seventh and Broadway, even though he’d promised a break in the weather.

By the time Wetzon got to the office on Friday, she felt she’d put in a full day, and it was only nine-thirty. She’d stopped using public transportation. Descending into the pit was like going willingly into an inferno; the heat was so intense on subway platforms that lipsticks melted in their cases. People talked to themselves, and it was hard to tell the sane from the crazies.

“Hi, Wetzon.” Harold was standing in the open door to his small office, talking to B.B.

“Harold, B.B.” She opened the door to her office. The air-conditioner was doing its job splendidly. Smith wasn’t there. “Any calls?”

“Yes.” B.B. handed her two messages: one from Smith saying she’d be late, and the other from Marty Rosen.

What was that about, she wondered. “Do we have anybody interviewing with Marty Rosen at Loeb Dawkins?”

“No,” B.B. said.

“You, Harold?”

“Uh-uh.”

She closed the door and sat down at her desk, thumbing through her Rolodex for Marty’s number, then punched it out.

“Marty Rosen’s office. Marcia speaking.”

“Hi, Marcia. This is Wetzon. Marty wanted me.”

“Hold on.”

“Wetzon!”

“What’s up, Marty?”

“Sharon Murphy. She’s at Loeb Dawkins.”

“Sharon Murphy? She’s with you?”

“No. She went to Ron Mitchell’s office.”

“I don’t believe it. How could that have happened? She was interviewing with you. She met department heads through you. She never told me she was talking to anyone else at Loeb Dawkins.”

“Believe it. She’s there.”

“I’m going to talk to her and I’ll call you right back.”

“Wait a minute. You didn’t do it?”

“Jesus, Marty, I don’t show brokers to two different managers in the same firm without clearing it with both managers. What do you think I am? Don’t answer that.” He could well have said,
you’re a headhunter,
with all the scorn the word sometimes provoked. Maybe other headhunters acted like whores, did unethical things, but she did not. She hung up, outraged, figuring twenty-one thousand dollars down the toilet. She called Ron Mitchell’s office and asked for Sharon Murphy. Sharon was there all right because they were putting her through, dammit. Wetzon was so angry she didn’t see Smith had come into the room.

“Sharon Murphy.”

“Sharon, it’s Wetzon.”

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes. What are you doing in Ron’s office?”

“Well, he made me a better deal than Marty did.”

“He couldn’t have. The deals are all the same. Didn’t you tell him you were talking to Marty? It’s not ethical to play one manager against the other.”

“I don’t know what you’re making such a big deal about. I got thirty percent up front from Ron, and Marty told me he could only give me twenty-five. That’s seventeen five more in my pocket.”

“I don’t know how Ron got it past regional. Did you work with another headhunter?” Smith made a strangled sound and Wetzon looked up and nodded at her.

“I’d rather not say, but Ron put the deal through as a package with two other brokers he hired. “

“Let me guess. It was Tom Keegen, wasn’t it?” She curled her lip at Smith, who made a hissing noise through her teeth.

“Yes.”

“Yes, she says.” Wetzon hung up the phone. “You heard it. Keegen just took twenty-one thousand dollars from us.”

Smith screamed.

T
HE MARKET WAS
off seventy-five moving into the final hour of trading and still on a downward slide. Sell programs had kicked in and there were fewer and fewer buyers.