Read Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4) for Free Online

become a dull ache. Her head was throbbing. “I’ve never been to the Conservatory Garden,” she said.
    “Nice place. Peaceful.” Martens rose and began pacing. He was antsy, a tall, angular African-American whose bearing and grace, not to mention bone structure, made him look like a Masai warrior in Western garb.
    “Is Martens a French name?”
    “Yeah. Somewhere way back. My grandparents came from Martinique.” He came to a stop in front of her. “You said he was supposed to start a new job today?”
    “Yes. And he would have collected a big upfront check for two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars once he was on board.”
    A long whistle squeezed through Martens’s teeth. “Was that a secret?”
    “No. Everyone involved knew. Actually, everyone on the Street knows what the deals are.”
    “But he didn’t collect it because he didn’t start.”
    “As far as I know. I’ve never heard of an instance where someone collected a deal before he started.”
    There was no window in the room, and Wetzon began to feel claustrophobic. Her suit jacket weighed down on her, and her face was numb.
    A phone somewhere close, perhaps the next office, began to ring. She counted twenty before someone finally answered it.
    “Excuse me.” A young woman in a lab coat stood in the doorway, her hair braided in a coronet on top of her head. Her glasses clung to the top of her nose. “Detective Martens? Ms. Wetzon?”
    Martens stopped pacing. “Yeah?”
    “You’re both wanted downstairs.” She nodded at them distractedly and left.
    Wetzon followed Martens to the lobby, where Rona Middleton greeted her with an hysterical shriek and threw herself into Wetzon’s arms, a highly difficult feat because Rona was a big woman and easily a head taller than Wetzon, closer to Smith’s height. Rona was an athlete, an avid tennis player and a fanatical jogger. Her muscles had muscles. She did five miles a day around the reservoir, or she hated herself, so she said. She wore her hair in a short, boy’s cut, shingled up the back, with a shock of blond curls from the top of her ears to the top of her head, not the most flattering do for a long, lean face.
    “I can’t go down there without you.” Rona squeezed Wetzon’s hand so hard, Wetzon winced. “You’ve got to go with me.”
    Wetzon’s stomach did a forward roll. She couldn’t.
    Ferrante’s eyes told her, Let’s get this over with .
    So it was down the stairs again. Breathe through your mouth. The memory of the smell was enough to make Wetzon gag. She held Rona’s freezing cold hand as the cloth was once again drawn back, and Brian lay there in his long sleep.
    “It’s Brian. My husband, Brian Middleton,” Rona said calmly. She withdrew her hand from Wetzon’s. “The shit finally got what he deserved.”

8.
    R ONA WAS WEARING a white Elisse jogging suit and Avias. Small gold hoops pierced her earlobes, followed by two pearl studs on the rise. No rings on her fingers, no other jewelry. She must have been on her way out to do her five miles. Dark eyebrows, dark lashes, slight tan, red gash of a mouth. A quilted Chanel shoulder bag—the real thing, not a copy—hung from her shoulder on a dainty gold-and-leather chain. But dainty was not the word for the Rona Middleton facing Wetzon. There was something tough and uncompromising about her that Wetzon had never perceived before.
    Ferrante gave Wetzon a silent order by making eye contact and jerking his head toward the door.
    “Watch your mouth, Rona,” Wetzon said sotto voce, but Rona wasn’t having any. She wore triumph like a banner as she turned to leave. Oh, Lord , Wetzon thought. I hope she has an alibi. Wetzon could just hear Smith if Rona were to get arrested for Brian’s murder and there’d be no fee on Rona’s production either.
    “Leave him out,” Dr. Vose said. “I’ll do it now. You might want to hang around.”
    Not on your life , Wetzon thought, gearing to make a break for it.
    “Don’t push,