Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Contemporary Fiction, #Crime Fiction
Tender Death (26 page)
“Six nineteen,” she murmured over and over to herself, “six nineteen ...” The wind swept across the empty square with a wicked bite. She fished into her carryall and put her beret back on, adjusting it down over her eyebrows.
The building was one of four almost identical brownstones obviously built by the same builder, probably in the late nineteenth century. Each had about twelve narrow stone steps leading to an ornate black iron grate door in front of a heavy wooden door. Six nineteen’s door was a light-colored oak with a gleaming brass doorplate.
To the left of the door were two small highly polished brass plates. The lower one said #1 Trapunto, and the upper said #2 Anderson. There was a bell next to each number. She opened the iron grate door and tried the knob of the oak door. It was locked.
Now what was that dumb signal Diantha had given her? It was so stupid, all of this. She felt as if she were in a cloak-and-dagger film, and a B one at that.
Two short rings, one long, count ten, do it again. She made a refrain out of it, counting under her breath, “And one and two, and one ...” She did it. A buzzer sounded, so Diantha must have made it home safely. She pushed the oak door open and found herself in a small vestibule, facing two doors. To her immediate right was a tall, mission-style combination umbrella stand-coatrack. A bright brass lantern hung from the ceiling, lighting the area. On the walls was beautiful William Morris wallpaper with a design of arches within arches in mauves and purples.
The door on the left had a brass “1,” the door on the right “2.”
She closed the oak door behind her, listening for the snap which indicated the door was locked. Then she removed her glove from her right hand and took out the key which had grown warm in the palm of her hand.
Suddenly uncertain, she stopped. What the hell was she doing here? It was preposterous. Still, she
was
here. She might as well find out what Diantha thought was so urgent. She unlocked the door and it opened inward. A staircase began just a few steps in front of her, going up, under a dim, hanging fixture of a brass chain with a Tiffany globe.
Again she closed the door behind her and listened. Silence. The floor creaked from somewhere above her, as if from a footstep.
“Diantha?” Her voice came out husky. She cleared her throat. There was no welcoming response. Ah well. She picked up the front of her coat and climbed the narrow, steep staircase. There were prints on the right-hand wall of Victorian women in bright dresses. It appeared Diantha lived in the upper half of a brownstone, a duplex all her own.
When Wetzon got to the top of the stairs, she paused. There was that same creaking noise again, and then a faint rustle. Someone was here. “Diantha? Are you here?”
No answer.
She moved forward, drawn by something—she didn’t know what— the sound, perhaps, the subdued light, a fuzzy sepia mist, in the large front room at the top of the stairs, as if she’d entered an old movie. The windows facing the street had their blinds drawn. She took in the paintings on the walls, the mauve velvet upholstery on a long traditional sofa, two wing chairs in wide-and-narrow-striped fabric, their backs to her, facing the fireplace in which dying embers glowed and snapped. The walls were a deeper mauve-brown.
Her eyes focused on a book that lay open on the floor next to one of the wing chairs. A half-filled glass of dark liquid was on the small round table that was placed between the two chairs.
“Is anyone here?” she asked, perplexed, afraid, not afraid, growing angry, knowing that someone was there.
A figure rose tall from one of the chairs and turned to her. An apparition.
She staggered backward, as if hit by a tremendous weight, breathless. “No!” she cried.
“Wetzi,” the figure said. “It’s okay. Don’t be afraid. I’m real.”
Her knees buckled under her and she felt herself slumping forward to the floor. Her mind told her no—she had to be dreaming—but her eyes betrayed her.
The figure standing near the chair was Teddy Lanzman.
T
HE SLAM OF
a door somewhere in the distance woke her. It reassured her. Of course, she’d been dreaming again. Teddy was not alive. What a cruel joke. She rolled over and pressed her face into the pillow. The velvet of the pillowcase caressed her cheek. Wait. What velvet pillow?
She opened her eyes. Oh God. Teddy was looking down at her. She was lying on Diantha Anderson’s velvet sofa. And Diantha Anderson herself, still wearing the brown fur-lined storm coat, came up behind him.
Wetzon sat up and the room spun and dipped like a runaway merry-go-round, making a fun house image of Teddy and Diantha.
“You jerk,” she heard Diantha say. “What did you do? Jump out at her and yell boo?”
“Shit, lady, I’ve been through hell and back and you’re yelling at
me?
Why the fuck didn’t
you
tell her?”
“There wasn’t time, and where we were was hardly the place.” Diantha smiled down at Wetzon. There were little tense lines around her mouth and eyes. “How’re you doing?”
“Okay, I think. I can’t believe this.” Wetzon stared at Teddy’s familiar face. Short sprouts of beard decorated his cheeks and chin. She put her hand out and touched him; he was warm and splendidly alive.
Diantha gave Teddy a poke with her elegant knee. “And what do you think the last two days have been for me, you ungrateful bastard?” Her eyes blazed and she shook a fist at him. She was beautiful. Her short Afro was one shade darker than her skin.
Teddy smiled and put his arm around Diantha. “Come on, who’re you kidding? You’re my girl, aren’t you? It comes with the territory.”
“I’m my own girl,” she said affectionately. They stood separate but together as Wetzon watched. Very much together. They made a stunning couple, two tall, beautiful people.
“Would you two mind telling me what’s going on?” Wetzon demanded.
“I’ll make some coffee,” Diantha said. She took off her coat and picked up Wetzon’s raccoon, which was lying on the floor where Teddy must have left it after she fainted, and hung both in a closet near the middle of the floor-through space.
The section of the apartment Wetzon was in had a long row of windows that overlooked the street. Beyond the closet were rolling doors which Diantha opened, revealing a formal dining room. Its long far wall of windows faced the rear of the house, possibly looking down on gardens and backyards. Diantha disappeared to the right into what must have been the kitchen.
Wetzon’s attention returned to Teddy. “Well, you look a little better than the last time I saw you.”
He sat down next to her. “I am not dead. I was never dead. I don’t know who that poor bugger was who is dead. When I got back to my office I heard someone rattling drawers, going through my files. I ducked into the next office—which has a connecting door to mine. I figured I’d catch the guy when he came out. Then the lights started going crazy and I heard someone come through the stairwell doors.” Teddy’s jaw tightened, and she saw that his eyes were red-rimmed and sunken, lids heavy with exhaustion or worry, face tired, drawn. “Whoever it was had a flashlight. I could see the fucking thing bobbing on the floor. I couldn’t see who it was, and I was trying to figure out what was coming down when the lights came on again and this guy disappears into my office. I hear someone yell, then pop, pop, pop and the lights go out for good. And that’s it.”
“Jesus, Teddy, then you were in the hallway with me and—”
“And the killer, Wetzi. That’s why I couldn’t let you know I was all right. I know what a silencer sounds like ... I went down the stairs right behind him.”
“You had to have seen him. Is that why you’re hiding? God, Teddy, everyone thinks you’re dead. The station even offered a reward.”
He snorted. “Listen, by the time the lights came up, I was out of the building and so was the killer. I never saw him”
“Then who was murdered?” She touched the sleeve of his sweater. It was the cream-colored Aran one he had worn the night they’d met for dinner. He was really alive.
Shrugging, he said, “You’ve got me. I don’t know. What I do know is whoever got the poor bugger was after me ...” His laugh was cynical. “And we know that all black men look alike.”
She ignored his last remark. “No, Ted. The police are not that stupid. The guy didn’t have his hands blown off. So they might take prints. They have to know by this time it wasn’t you. They’re not telling because they don’t want the killer to know. And they must be hoping you’ll come forward with information that’ll clinch who did it.”
Diantha returned with a tray holding a china pot and three cups. She set it down on the red-lacquered trunk that doubled as a coffee table and laid out buff linen napkins, spoons, and a plate of Stella D’oro rusks.
“I’m not about to turn myself in. I’d be a dead man. Let them do their job and find out who killed me, then I’ll come out.”
“Well, thanks anyway for letting me know.”
Diantha smiled at Wetzon’s sarcasm, but the smile faded rapidly. “Well, we needed another head—” Then, hearing what she’d said, “I’m sorry. That’s awful. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Wetzi—” Teddy held her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “You can’t tell anyone. As soon as they find out I’m still alive, I’m dead. I don’t trust anyone.”
“Teddy, I’ve got someone you can tell. You can trust him. Remember when we talked about having someone special? You told me you had someone and I told you I did too? But neither of us wanted to share at the time.” He took his hands from her shoulders and shook his head no before she could go on. Wetzon looked at Diantha, who was putting a log on the fire and stoking it. “You said your someone special had something in common with me.” Diantha straightened up and carefully replaced the fire screen. She pulled up a footstool and sat opposite them. Wetzon smiled at her. “I now know what we have in common. But did you know we’d already met—accidentally?”
“Had no idea, at least not then.” He and Diantha exchanged that look again. “No one knows about Diantha, not at the studio, or anywhere. We were keeping ourselves private.”
“I wasn’t ready to make a real commitment,” Diantha said, “at least not yet. So my office knows nothing about Ted. I figured there was time enough for that.”
“So this became my safe house—”
The fire welled up, glowing, warming. “But why would someone try to kill you?” With shaking hands, Wetzon brushed the strands of hair out of her face and rebanded her ponytail. “Do you know Peter Tormenkov was murdered? Does it have anything to do with him? What was that scam he was going to tell you about?”
“He told me about it. Yeah, I read in the
Times
that he was killed.” He picked at a small wool ball on his sweater. “Listen to me, Wetzi—he spilled his guts to me. I’ve got him on tape. And the tapes are somewhere in my office. At least they were. I’ve got to get them—”
“Teddy.” Wetzon turned from him to Diantha. “I’m very confused. The FBI was trying to take me in when Diantha caused a riot and saved me. At least, they said they were FBI.”
Teddy’s mouth dropped open. “No! Why? Why would they be after you?”
“Maybe because they know you’re not dead and they think I know where you are. Was Peter Tormenkov really working for them?”
“Not according to him. But they were trying to get him to testify against his firm. He was involved in it up to his earlobes. He knew if he flipped, he might not live too long. He thought he’d do better with me. If he got a lot of TV coverage, he might be so visible they wouldn’t risk killing him.”
“Teddy, investment bankers don’t kill each other. They just rat on each other. It’s a different kind of death.”
“No, there’s more to it than that, Wetzi. It’s a major scam—”
“Okay, look.” Everyone had forgotten the coffee. She was getting tired and needed something, food or coffee. She sat on the edge of the sofa and poured the hot liquid into each cup. “I told you I have someone I care about and trust. Now let me tell you that he’s a detective with NYPD.”
Diantha made an odd noise.
“Oh, Wetzi, I don’t believe it. Not you.”
“Why not me? His name is Silvestri and I want you to talk to him. I would trust him with my life.” She suddenly realized that no matter what happened between her and Silvestri, she meant that.
“But what about mine?”
“Yours, too.”
“Easy for you to say, Wetzi.” Teddy ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Diantha?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” Diantha said. She sipped her coffee and watched Wetzon over the rim of her cup with narrowed eyes.
Wetzon wondered if
anyone
was a euphemism for
cop
. “He’s not just a cop. I can’t explain it. You’ll have to trust me. He’s different.”
A horn honked on the street. Diantha’s body jerked. She put her cup on the trunk and stepped to the side of the window. Parting the blinds a fraction, she looked down at the street. Weary, she let the blinds go and turned back to them. “I’m not for it.”
“I don’t think you guys have a choice.” Wetzon was surprised about how severe she sounded. “You’ve got to trust someone, besides me. What about someone at Channel Eight?”
They both shook their heads.
“Then let me call Silvestri. I’ll ask him to meet me here. I won’t tell him what it’s about.”
Teddy looked at Diantha, who was staring into the fire. He got up and began pacing, the floor creaking under his feet. Finally he said, “Okay. But, Wetzi, know this. We’re dealing with people who think nothing of zapping helpless old people for their stocks and bonds, and other people who know exactly what’s going on and don’t give a damn, who go along because it comes down to percentages, dollars. Millions. It’s a major fraud, and it involves at least one home care service, and lawyers, brokers, accountants, and brokerage firms. It’s endless.” He stopped pacing and stabbed his finger at her. “If they think nothing of killing harmless old people and each other, there’s nothing to stop them if they decide to kill me—again—or you—or even this noble Silvestri of yours.”