Tender Death Read online

  Get dressed and go to work, she told herself as she propelled her body into the bedroom. Black wool crepe suit today, violet-and-cream silk blouse. She could hear the low rumble of Silvestri’s voice from the dining room as she dressed. Peter Tormenkov, Peter Tormenkov, she hummed to a tango beat in her head.

  She had just finished putting her hair into the usual knot and was standing in front of her makeup mirror in the bathroom with the mascara wand in her hand when Silvestri came charging down the hall, cursing to the sound of crumpling newspapers.

  She gave him her best smile when he came into view. He looked like a thundercloud.

  “Do you know anything about this?” He waved a folded newspaper in her face.

  “What is it with you, Silvestri?” She’d been wrong. He’d been right to be angry with her, but this was too much.

  “A stockbroker’s been murdered.” He pointed at something in the newspaper, hitting the paper with his finger.

  “Oh come on.” She looked in the mirror and mascara’d her lashes. “Do you think I’m involved in every murder in the industry?” She put the mascara wand back into its container.

  “Yeah well—”

  “Okay, let’s see. It’s possible I knew the guy. After all, I know thousands of brokers—” She took the paper from him and looked at it.

  Stockbroker Dies Gangland Style

  in Car in Brooklyn

  A stockbroker with the Wall Street firm, L. L. Rosenkind, was shot to death gangland style late yesterday in a car in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn, the police said. The stockbroker, Peter Tormenkov, 31 years old, was shot four times in the upper body. The police found him face-down on the front seat of the car.

  36.

  SILVESTRI GOT BACK on the phone after Wetzon told him everything she knew about Peter Tormenkov. This time she’d made a point of telling him that Tormenkov was also the missing Ida’s last name.

  If there had been a rift between them before, there was a major gulf now. She felt him withdrawing into a professional mode, away from her. She smoothed the white-on-white bottom sheet of the bed and pulled the matching top sheet straight, covering it with the quilt. She was trying not to cry. Why couldn’t he understand that telling him everything from the beginning would have meant she relinquished control of things in her life? She wasn’t ready to do that. Maybe she would never be. Moreover, he had been such a grouch about Peepsie and the blue Gucci shoe when she had first told him about it. She plumped up the pillows with more energy than necessary.

  She had work to do in the office. Kevin De Haven to set up for interviews. She wanted to check on Hazel ... She had to get on with her life.

  And what about Teddy Lanzman, a little voice whispered.

  “I don’t know,” she answered, sitting on the edge of her bed, her boots in her hand.

  “What don’t you know?” Silvestri said in a detached voice. He was leaning against the doorframe, looking at her legs in their sheer black hose as she pulled on her boots.

  “Teddy.” She stood up, heart thumping, bending slightly to straighten the boots, feeling that damned magnetic attraction between them that she was sure he felt too.

  “If you’re going to your office, I’ll drop you. I’m on my way downtown.”

  “Okay.” She wanted to ask him, Where are you going? Why? Does it have anything to do with what I just told you? But she didn’t. She brushed past him, trying to stay as detached as he seemed to be.

  Methodically, she checked that the gas jets were off in the kitchen, put the mugs and the coffeepot into the dishwasher. Silvestri, in his red down jacket, watched her as she folded both newspapers into her carryall and opened her closet door.

  “My coat—” The room swayed, and she held tight to the doorknob. The police had taken her beautiful black alpaca coat ... soaked with Teddy’s blood and ...

  “You’d better not wait for it. Just get a new one.” Silvestri’s voice was gruff and impersonal.

  Get a new one, she thought. Just like that.

  She took her new Burberry with the wool plaid lining out of the closet and put it on. She wrapped the long cashmere scarf that matched the lining around the collar and plunked the lavender beret over her topknot, pulling it down over her ears. A quick once-over in the mirror on the inside door of the closet told her she would do, despite a dark pouch under each eye.

  They said nothing to each other until Silvestri double-parked his car in front of her office. He turned to her, his arm on the back of the seat. Close, but not touching. “I want your word this time that you won’t do anything about Teddy Lanzman’s murder, that you’ll let us handle it.” He spoke with an odd formality.

  She looked into his cold slate eyes and wished she hadn’t. “I promise.” She could hardly hear her own voice. “But what if—”

  “No ‘what ifs,’ Les.” Silvestri thumped the back of the seat with the flat of his hand. “Anything comes up that sounds even a touch suspicious, you call me or Metzger, you hear? That’s not a request either, that’s an order.”

  “Okay.” She opened the door and cold air gusted into the car.

  “Where you going to be later?” It was not a personal question.

  “In the office all day, then—gee, I don’t know, Silvestri.” She hated the way he made her feel. “I should be home by nine. Why?”

  Silvestri didn’t respond. She sighed and slipped out of the car, slamming the door. By the time she’d negotiated her way over the grubby pile of snow between the street and the sidewalk, Silvestri had gone.

  Was it better to be alone, she wondered, not to have any relationship, than to have to deal with the demanding problems of two strong-minded people trying to find a way to be together?

  She nodded and smiled at B.B., who was prospecting enthusiastically for the cold-calling program at Lehman. He was doing very well with his first real assignment.

  She hung her coat in the closet next to Smith’s luxuriant black diamond mink. Giving the mink an envious little pat, she closed that door and opened the one to the office she and Smith shared. Smith looked up, phone hugged between her ear and shoulder. Her hands were busy putting a coat of scarlet polish on her long oval nails. She didn’t react to Wetzon’s bright “Hi.”

  The Times was spread on the floor around Smith’s desk. “I don’t feel I have to think about this, Larry,” Smith said. “After all, he was with you eight months. We are under no obligation to return a fee if a broker leaves after that length of time.” Her eyes met Wetzon’s. “You have to take into account the reasons for his leaving.” She paused. “No, I’m not blaming you ... but ...” She left it hanging. “Very well, I promise you I will think about it.” She hung up the phone and turned in her chair, watching Wetzon look at her schedule in the calendar on her desk.

  “Who left?”

  “Carl Mattollo.”

  “Really? Where’d he go?”

  “Hambrecht and Quist.”

  “Well, they’re a nice firm. You’re not going to give Larry any money back on him, are you?”

  “Are you crazy? Not a penny! No way.” She laughed.

  “Good!”

  “You never called me last night and now you’re involved in another murder.” There was an accusatory tone in her voice.

  “I did call—twice. There was no answer. And what do you mean, another murder?”

  “I was probably in the shower. You should have tried again. And by another murder I simply mean that last year it was Barry Stark and now this. Sweetie pie, you just don’t know how to take care of yourself.”

  “Don’t say that, please.” Smith always made her feel as if her judgment was bad, that she couldn’t make decisions. “Where was Mark?”

  “I arranged for him to spend the night with a friend because I was going to Channel Eight with you. None of this would have happened if I’d been with you.” Smith was the old sure-of-herself Smith again.

  “Really?” Wetzon smiled, shaking her head. “What makes you think so, partn
er mine?”

  “I don’t think, I know.” She closed the bottle of nail polish with the palm of her hand, fingers spread, and blew on her nails.

  “Smith, about the cassette of Arleen—” Wetzon picked up the pink message slips. Not too many; that was good.

  “Oh, forget it.” Smith flipped her hand. “It’s not important. I really shouldn’t let you get me so crazy—”

  Laura Lee Day had called, Howie Minton, Kevin De Haven.

  Kevin—that was top priority. She stopped. What the hell had Smith just said? “I really shouldn’t let you get me so crazy?”

  Wetzon put the messages down on her desk. “I’m sorry, Smith? What did you say?”

  “I said, you got me all worked up about Leon and Arleen and none of it was true.” Smith smiled a sweet, forgiving smile.

  “I what?”

  “It’s all those years in the theater, poor dear. You tend to over-dramatize everything.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing, Smith.” What was this, everybody-take-a-poke-at-Wetzon day?

  “Sweetie, you look absolutely wrung out,” Smith clucked. “And I hate to complain when you seem to have so much on your mind, but you must consider our business. It’s really terrible publicity for us when you get involved with people who get murdered.”

  “Smith, my friend Teddy—read my lips—my friend was murdered horribly last night. I’m upset and you bet I’m wrung out. You would be too.”

  “Please, dear, don’t get so worked up. I love you and I worry about you.” She came over and took Wetzon’s hand. “Maybe you should take some time off. I think Silvestri is a very bad influence on you.”

  The phone rang and seconds later B.B. poked his head in. “Howie Minton, Wetzon.”

  “Wait,” Smith ordered imperiously. “Did you see the item about the broker with L. L. Rosenkind who got himself murdered? Isn’t that the same one you met the other day? The crazy one I told you to stay away from?”

  “Yes.” Wetzon picked up the phone. “Howie? What’s going on down there?” She turned her back on Smith and sat down at her desk.

  “Wetzon.” Howie’s voice was shaky. “The FBI just came in and arrested Blake Robards. We were having a sales meeting. They pushed their way in and took him away in handcuffs, right in front of everybody.”

  “Blake Robards? Your manager? Are you kidding?”

  “Yeah. He’s a partner, for crissakes. What do you hear?”

  “Nothing. Why should I know anything about it?”

  “You met Pete, you talked to him ... did you read about him in the paper today?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “They came in and went through his desk—”

  “Who is ‘they?’”

  “The FBI. Jesus—Wetzon—”

  “What were they looking for?”

  “Who the hell knows?” He gave a snorting laugh. “Someone had cleaned it out even before they got there.”

  “Howie, what do you know about Peter? Why did you really want me to take him out of the firm?”

  “Believe me, I was just being a nice guy. He wasn’t doing so well, and he wasn’t getting along with the right people. And I thought I could do you a favor. You’ve been my friend.” Howie was dancing. He knew more than he was saying.

  “That’s really nice of you, Howie.”

  “You know, all of a sudden it got so Blake had it in for him. I thought he was going to get fired.”

  “Was he doing something illegal?”

  “Now, Wetzon,” Minton drawled, “I’m your friend. You’re my friend. I wouldn’t say anything like that. What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing, Howie, absolutely nothing, except that he was working for the FBI on some kind of scam that was going on in your office. You and I talked about it, don’t you remember?”

  “Shshsh. Don’t say that, Wetzon. You never know who’s listening. Peter was a crazy guy, pathological liar and all that. I told you he made it all up. Isn’t that right? I never said anything about a scam. Isn’t that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So don’t get into it any deeper, Wetzon, or we’ll both get in trouble.” The warning was cold and clear. She wondered if someone was listening to their conversation. “I know you understand.” The line disconnected. And as she held the phone, she heard a second click, as if someone had hung up after Howie.

  “Now what?” Smith asked.

  “I don’t know. The FBI just took Blake Robards out of L. L. Rosenkind in handcuffs in the middle of a sales meeting, in front of all the brokers.”

  “I love it!” Smith’s face was gleeful. She clapped her hands together. “He’s one of the worst human beings I’ve ever met.”

  “Oh, you’re just prejudiced because he never wanted to work with us.”

  “You are so right. He wanted us, if you remember, to kick back part of our fee to him. And, he told Leon that we would never make it in this business.”

  “Yes, I remember.” They smiled at each other, sharing the memory. They had been outraged. “What goes around, comes around.”

  They got out of their chairs simultaneously and clasped hands in the center of the room.

  “We’ve come a long way, baby,” Smith said.

  “Haven’t we just.”

  Harold opened the door a crack. “Ah, Smith ...”

  “Yes? Either come in or close the door. Don’t sneak around.”

  He came in. “I just got a referral in Pittsburgh. Can you open Shearson for us there?”

  “Humpf. What are the specs? Did you do the interview?”

  Harold handed her the eight-by-eleven suspect sheet with the interview of the broker. She shared it with Wetzon. “What do you think? He’s only doing two hundred and twenty-five thousand after twelve years in the business.”

  Wetzon shook her head. “Not worth it. If we’re going to open a region, we have to present a real gem as a first candidate. Right, Smith?”

  “Right, Wetzon.”

  “But, Smith, he’s really good, and he wants to leave Dean Witter,” Harold whined. “I know if I called the manager at Shearson—”

  “I’m sure I didn’t hear right, Harold.” Smith voice was frigid. “Did you say you want to call the manager yourself and introduce this broker?”

  “Ah ... yes ... no ... well, maybe.” He faltered, stammering.

  “No one—repeat—no one talks to managers except me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Smith. I understand. I just thought—” He began backing out of the office.

  “Just do the job, Harold. Don’t be creative.”

  Harold closed the door.

  “Jesus, Smith, don’t you think you were a little rough on him?”

  “Nonsense. He needs it. The minute we weaken, he’ll be all over us, Wetzon. Believe me. I know.” She dismissed him. “What did you think about Kevin De Haven?”

  “He’s good, but he does a ton of syndicate with retail and institutional clients. It’s tricky. Merrill wants to cut his payout down to regular institutional—say eleven to eighteen percent. He’s been getting about thirty-five.”

  “He’ll have the same problem somewhere else. The big firms don’t want to pay retail commissions on institutional business anymore.”

  “He’s already got an offer from Smith Barney.”

  “They don’t do that much syndicate. Where are you going to send him?” She moved back to her desk.

  “I told him that. I think maybe Shearson, Bache. Any other suggestions?”

  “Um ... no.” Smith tested her nail polish with the tip of her finger and looked pleased. “You want to talk about the murder? I saw an indication in the cards, remember? That’s why I wanted to go with you. I’d like to hear what happened. Have you talked to Leon?”

  “No. Actually, I tried to get Leon at the time and couldn’t, so I called a lawyer I met through a friend. And truthfully, I’d rather not talk about it now. Do you mind, Smith? Give me a day to recover. I’ll talk to you ab
out it tomorrow, okay?”

  Smith nodded. “I really think you should talk to Leon. He called me first thing this morning. He tried you at home and got your machine.”

  “I’ll touch base with him.” She had no intention of doing anything of the kind, but this would keep Smith happy for the moment.

  “I’d better go and straighten it out with Harold,” Smith said, tossing her dark curls.

  As soon as Wetzon was alone she set up appointments for De Haven that afternoon at five o’clock with Shearson and eight-thirty tomorrow with Pru-Bache. Then she notified De Haven.

  “Did you tell them what I need? That I need syndicate?”

  “I did. Just go and talk. You have to make an educated decision, and you don’t have to commit to anything.”

  B.B. knocked, opened the door, and handed her a small shopping bag with a big red ribbon bow on the side. “This just came by messenger for you, Wetzon. And there’s a Diantha Anderson holding.”

  “Oh, how exciting! A present.” Wetzon took the bag from B.B. and set it on top on her desk. “Oh, tell Diantha Anderson I’m in a meeting and I’ll call back. Get a number.”

  “There’s a card on top.” He closed the door.

  The card said, “In your present situation, you can never have too many. Love, Laura Lee.” Laura Lee Day, the stockbroker she had placed at Oppenheimer almost two years ago, who had become her friend.

  Wetzon opened the small box, tore away the tissue paper, and took out a marble peach. It was a duplicate of the peach Laura Lee had given her previously, the one that Wetzon had shattered last year defending herself after she’d gotten involved in Barry Stark’s murder.

  “Gee, that’s terrific. It looks real,” B.B. said, touching it.

  Wetzon put it in his hands and called Laura Lee.

  “After reading the papers this mornin’, Wetzon darlin’, I just figured you might need ammunition to stop another murderer.”

  Wetzon laughed. “I hope not. I’d like to keep this one.” She took the peach back from B.B. and put it on her desk. “I was going to call you anyway. Can we have a drink?” She wanted to try an idea out on Laura Lee. There was something from that dream she’d had ... something nagging at her. Well, if she was right, she’d be a good girl and tell Silvestri.