The Deadliest Option (33 page)

“Perrier ... Pellegrino ... club soda.”

“How dull, Wetzon. Loosen up. I’m going to have a beer.”

She would have loved to tell him to fuck off, but she smiled and said, “I heard you guys took a big loss in United Can.”

He removed two glasses from a cabinet and closed the door, his back to her. His shirt was custom-made and fit his athlete’s body like a leotard. “Yeah, we took a hickey, but we’re all right. We didn’t get hurt badly—only our clients did. Neil’s boys in the boardroom sucked some wind.”

“Oh, gee, that’s good. Only the clients. So it’s okay.”

He shot cold bolts at her. “Get outta my face, Wetzon.”

“What do you want to talk about, Chris?” She felt impatient and she resented his making her feel like Goody Two-Shoes. What was she doing here, anyway?
Let’s get this show on the road
, she thought. Her nose tickled and she sneezed twice. “Excuse me.” She found a tissue in her purse in time to sneeze again. Was she catching cold?

He opened the refrigerator and took out a beer and a can of club soda. The kitchen, which had no door on either end, was a small compact affair, a galley, really. He poured the club soda into a glass, added a slice of lime, and opened a Becks for himself, drinking from the bottle. A child’s pull toy, a long orange caterpillar on wheels, lay on the floor.

“I’ll be ready in a jif. Then we can grab some dinner,” he said, catching her looking at the caterpillar. He shrugged. “Make yourself at home.” He turned on the stereo and disappeared into what must have been the bedroom. “Warren?” she heard him say, then the door closed.

Carly Simon filled the room while Wetzon inspected the premises, like a good detective. Warren? Who was Warren? When she heard the shower come on, she gave herself permission to prowl. Sofa, club chairs, coffee table. She set her drink down on the latter. More evidence that children lived here, toys, photographs. A bookcase filled with books. She sneezed again. Two gleaming yellow eyes blinked at her from the top shelf of the bookcase. Her heart lurched. Good grief, a cat. A huge black cat. No wonder she was sneezing.

“Hello, cat.” The cat stared at her and jumped down, then up again on the coffee table and watched her tour the room. A desk. A stack of newspapers,
The Journal
and
The Times. A desk,
she thought. Drawers. She opened them quietly, listening to the shower, riffled through papers, closed them.

On top of the desk several letters sat under a Steuben apple paperweight. They were personal, handwritten. She moved the paperweight and fingered the letters. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She did. One was from his mother. It was postmarked Kennebunkport, Maine. She skimmed through it hastily. Mom was berating him about the separation, about his career. Nice, Mom. Back in your cage. A letter from Abby, his wife. She bypassed that. At the bottom of the pile was a blank envelope with just his name printed on it.

She drew the single sheet of paper out and unfolded it. It was a Xerox copy of the list of names, intact, just like the scraps of Ellie’s she’d pieced together.

W
ETZON FROZE, CAUGHT
by a change in the room. The shower. The sound had stopped.

She slipped the sheet of paper back in the envelope, hesitated for only a minisecond, then folded the envelope into her purse. She could feel eyes boring into her, but Chris was not in the room. It was Warren, the cat.

“Stop that.” She shook her finger at it.

It continued its unblinking stare.

Brazenly, she reached around its bulk for her drink, and a black paw with a white mitten caught her hand and whacked it playfully, as if she were a mouse. Wetzon’s hand shook and tipped the glass over. Warren leaped to the sofa and commenced staring at her again.

The glass lay on the coffee table upended, its contents spilling onto the table and the carpet. “Damnation,” she said to the cat. Thank goodness it was only club soda. She rushed into the kitchen, tore paper towels from a roll on the wall and began blotting up the mess.

“I see you’ve met Warren,” Chris said softly, coming up behind her. His hair was damp from the shower.

Startled—she hadn’t heard him come in—she jabbered, “I’ve made a mess, I’m sorry.”

“Forget it. Warren has a habit of jumping out at people. He likes to see them squirm. Here, I’ll take that.” Chris took the soggy paper and the empty glass back into the kitchen. The fridge door opened and closed. The icemaker growled.

Wetzon looked down at Warren. She felt stupid. Made a fool by a cat. “You,” she said. Warren continued to stare at her insolently as he licked his right paw with a pink tongue.

“Here, let’s start all over.” Chris was holding another beer and handed her a fresh glass of club soda. He sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs. He seemed in no hurry to get to dinner.

“So what’s the story downtown?” she asked. Why was she feeling so discombobulated, so off-kilter?

“Sit down, Wetzon, you’re all wound up about something. I can see that.” Chris patted the cushion next to him. “Clear off, Warren.” He gave the cat a slap and the cat hissed and jumped to the coffee table.

“Warren. What kind of name is that for a cat?” Wetzon asked lightly. Maybe she should just excuse herself and leave. Now there were four eyes staring at her. Illogically, she wondered if Chris knew she’d taken the envelope. Had Warren told him?

“Warren Buffett,” Chris said.

“Warren Buffett?” She was confused. Had she missed something? Warren Buffett was a first-rate entrepreneur-financial wizard, whose company, Burlington Hathaway, held interests in many companies. Buffett himself had bought a piece of the investment banking firm of Salomon Brothers because Solly had gotten into financial trouble and was being stalked by takeover artist Ron Perelman of Revlon. It was said that Buffett was invited in to forestall Perelman, and it had worked. What was Chris talking about?

“Warren is named for Warren Buffett.”

“Oh.” She smiled at him. “Well, why not. Maybe he’s a good stock picker.”

“Yeah, he uses the blindfolded monkey method. Come on and sit down. I want to finish my beer before we head out. Tell old Uncle Chris why you’re so jumpy.” He treated her to a boyish, toothy grin.

She took a sip of the club soda. It had a tangy taste. “Did you put something in this?” She set it down on the coffee table.

“Just lime.” Chris got up and went into the kitchen. Again, the fridge door opened and closed. He returned with another beer.

She walked over to the window wall and looked out. Lights were beginning to pop on all over the City. The gazebo affair on the top of the Met Life Building was glowing green in the streaky yellow sunset.

The music stopped. Chris rose and changed the CD. Neil Diamond. “So, you want to tell me what you’re upset about?”

“I’m not upset. I’d like to get some dinner.”

“I can read you like a book. How many years have we known each other now?”

She hesitated, back to the window, thinking how she hated when someone said that to her—that he could read her like a book. It was so smug and condescending and, in this case, anti-female. She looked back at the panorama of New York rooftops. “Someone sent us a package bomb.” Turning away from the window, she continued, “It exploded in our garden. No one was hurt.”

Chris looked surprised. “Why would anyone do that?”

“Because someone thinks we know who the murderer is. Haven’t you heard? Didn’t Destry and Hoffritz fill you in?”

“No, but I was putting out fires all day in the boardroom.” He paused and studied her, his face a handsome mask. “Do you?”

Could he be the one after all?
she thought suddenly. Was she being stupid? Where was her protection? “Was Dr. Ash blackmailing Ellie?”

Something quick flashed across his eyes, then disappeared. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Was he blackmailing you?”

“Me? Hell, no.”

He’d answered too quickly. “Did you and Ellie have a meeting with him early last Saturday, when I met you getting on the elevator?”

“Wetzon, you have some imagination, you know that?” Chris said unctuously. He got up and came over to the windows, standing near her.

“Chris, be honest. If he was, fess up because you might be the next one.”

“Next one what? Don’t be so melodramatic.”

“Next one murdered. If you know something, don’t keep it to yourself. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

He laughed then, showing all his teeth, throwing back his head, but real mirth was absent. He took a long swallow of beer. “I’ve had an offer from L.L. Rosenkind,” he said. “Good package, and a piece of the action, which I’m certainly not getting at Luwisher Brothers. Come on, sit down for a minute.”

“Oh.” She let him lead her to the sofa. “They have new owners.”

“Yeah. Canadians. I don’t know if I want to work for them.”

“Canadians? Didn’t I read they were from Atlanta?”

“They are. For chrissake, Wetzon, where’ve you been? When we say someone’s Canadian, we mean a Jew. Everyone knows that, even the Canadians.” He took another long swig from the bottle.

Yes
, she thought,
where’ve you been, Wetzon?
Bigotry on Wall Street just made it part of the real world, albeit an exclusive part. She sneezed, then again. It was ugly, yet everyone wore it like an old school tie. “Stop staring at me, Warren,” she told the cat.

Chris laughed. Warren reached a paw out to him, and Chris flicked it away with his finger. Warren purred loudly. “You’re a funny girl, Wetzon,” Chris said.

“Are you going to take the offer?” she asked, trying to bring business back into the equation. She stared at Warren and took another swallow of the club soda. No. She set it down. He’d put vodka in it. Or sulfites? Her fingers were wet from the sweating glass.

“Should I?” he said, giving the words a peculiar intimacy.

“Should you what?”

“Take the offer ...” He put his arm around her. He smelled of cologne and soap and beer.

“I don’t think this is smart, Chris,” she said sharply, trying to move away.

He had his hands on her shoulders, forcing her down on her back. “You want it,” he breathed in her face, “You know it. You want it.”

“Stop!” she cried, but he was kissing her, holding her down, right arm across her shoulders, his left hand groping at her jacket. She struggled, terrified, turning her head away. “No! Let me go.” He was the murderer. He was going to murder her. She threw her legs around, trying to knee him.

“Come on, baby, come on,” he said, “you know you want it, and I’m going to give it to you better than you’ve ever had it.”

He rolled the shoulders of her jacket back, pinning her arms to her sides as she fought him, legs flailing, but he was lying on top of her like dead weight. Panicked, she knew she was fighting for her life. His hands were under her blouse, on her breasts.

“Chris, stop this, stop!”

His fist came up before she saw it and smashed into her face. Pain rolled over her, numbing her, pulling her down in the undertow. Her left eye was on fire. Warm liquid flowed from her nose.
Oh God, oh God,
she thought.
Don’t pass out.
He was pushing up her skirt, tearing at her hose.
I’m going to he raped and murdered. Raped and murdered.
She tried to kick, but his legs were pressed against hers and he was the swimmer, all muscle and sinew. Don’t struggle, they said. Or did they? You had to struggle. It was crazy not to, but she was starting to let go. She could feel herself tuning out.

“Good girl, just lie back and enjoy it,” Chris whispered. She heard her blouse tear, felt her bra give way.

“No, Chris, please.” Her lips were numb, useless. She knew it was over.
Poor Silvestri,
she thought, beginning to feel she was leaving her body. He would blame himself.

A high unearthly shriek—then another, and another. She came back. She was shrieking. No. Chris had shrieked. He’d let go of her. She opened her eyes. He seemed to be clawing at his back, shrieking. Or was it Warren shrieking? Warren stood like a vulture, his claws dug into the back of Chris’s neck.
Move, move,
she told herself.
Move.

She moved, blocking out pain, shrugged her jacket up her shoulders.
Run.
Grabbed her purse from the coffee table.
Run. Go, go, go.
She ran, awkwardly, struggled with the door, and all the time the terrible shrieking of cat and man. Opened the door.
Run.
Ran into the hall, screaming for help, banging on the doors of the other apartments, ringing doorbells. In vain.
Keep running.
Down the hall. No one helping. But they were there, hiding behind their doors.
Run.
She stopped short. The hall ended on a fire door. Noise behind her. She plunged through the door.

A
WHITEWASHED CONCRETE
-and-metal staircase stretched upward and downward. Wetzon took a sobbing breath and tore down the stairs, thankful she was wearing low heels, astonished that she’d been able to keep her shoes on her feet.
Well, you dummy, he wasn’t exactly interested in your feet.

Twenty-two ... twenty-one ... twenty ...

She turned swift corners on each landing. The fire stairs were not air-conditioned, but her sweat was cold and rested on her body like a glaze. The left side of her face, jaw, cheekbone, eye, throbbed in different rhythms. Her stitched knee complained. Her nose dripped. Holding onto the stair rail, she paused and dabbed at her nose with a Kleenex from her purse. It didn’t feel right. What if it were broken? She looked down at the tissue. It was bloody. Oh, God. He’d broken her nose. Tears burned her eyes. Her fingers probed her puffy, swelling cheek.
Keep going. Don’t stop. Get out. Get away. Get help.

Nineteen ... eighteen ... seventeen ... sixteen ...

He would have killed her. You’re not safe yet. Keep going. Run. Run.

Fifteen ... fourteen ... thirteen ...

If it were not for Warren, she would have been raped for sure. Beaten. Dead.
Concentrate on the stairs.