Free The Big Killing by Annette Meyers

murdered tonight at the Four Seasons.”
    “Oh, my lord, where were you?”
    Wetzon talked for what seemed like hours, filling in the story, answering Smith’s barrage of questions.
    “He must have said something, Wetzon. Some clue to what was going on.”
    “He was afraid, I think.”
    “How did you know he was dead?”
    “Smith, for godsakes, believe me, you know. He oozed out at me.”
    Smith shook her head and frowned. “You must have seen something .”
    “Nothing. I mean it.”
    “Sometimes you amaze me, Wetzon. You don’t see things right in front of you—”
    “Smith, will you give me a break? Leave me alone. I’m talked out. Barry Stark was stabbed to death, and I found him. I don’t need this now.”
    “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”
    Wetzon sighed and closed her eyes. She kept drifting off and coming back. At some point she took off her jacket and lay back again. She could tell Smith was disappointed because she had not been there at the Four Seasons.
    Mark reappeared, carrying a pot of fragrant tea, paper tails from the bags hanging down the sides of the pot, and a plate of buttered toast on a tray, and Wetzon sat up and ate, feeling more like herself again as she did.
    “Mark, this is very nice,” she said.
    “Yes, he’s become a regular little homemaker, haven’t you, sweetie pie?” Smith curled her finger at him. “Come here, I just have to kiss you.” Mark came around the bed to receive his kiss. “He takes such good care of me. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
    The boy swelled with pleasure and settled down on the carpet to listen.
    “Wait a minute,” Smith said. “The attaché case. Where is it?” She was looking around the room.
    “I brought it in. I know I had it with me....”
    “It’s in the hall,” Mark said. “I’ll get it.” He ran out and came back carrying the case. “Boy, is it heavy.”
    “I have to call Silvestri right away and let him know about this,” Wetzon said.
    “Who is Silvestri?”
    “A detective I talked to. He seemed to be in charge. He’s nice, Xenia,” she added.
    “You liked him? I can’t believe it. You liked a cop? You can’t like a cop.”
    “A detective. And he’s sexy.”
    “Oh, spare me.”
    “Where did I put his card? I know he gave me his card.” Wetzon located her handbag among the chaos on Smith’s bed and began looking through it. Finally she swung her feet to the floor, bent over, and emptied its contents on the carpet because the bed was just too much competition. “No card. Never mind. I’ll just call the precinct and they’ll get a message to him.”
    She dialed information and then the precinct. It rang and rang. “Thirty ... thirty-five ... forty ... This is ridiculous!” She hung up. “A person could die waiting. I’m sorry I said that. I’ll try later.” Her head was beginning to throb.
    Smith was eyeing the attaché case speculatively. She had that familiar glint in her eye.
    “Wetzon,” she said, looking at the case, not Wetzon, “while we’re waiting ...”
    “Do you think it’s right? What if there’re fingerprints ... no, there wouldn’t be. I’ve had it since he left me.”
    They both looked at the case. It seemed to be alive, bulging, right before their eyes.
    “Mark, honey,” Smith said, “it’s past time for you to be in bed. This is a school night.”
    “Aw, Mom, I want to see what’s in the case, too—”
    “We’re not going to open it until the detective gets here,” Smith said firmly. “So you won’t miss anything.”
    “And I’m sure it’s full of papers,” Wetzon said reassuringly.
    “Aw, you guys are no fun,” Mark said.
    “Good night, my sweetie,” Smith said, offering her cheek.
    Reluctantly, Mark kissed her and left. They waited until they heard his door close, then they both sprang toward the attaché case.
    Wetzon giggled. This was silly. “Two busybodies,” she said. “Aren’t we awful?”
    “Wait,” Smith said. She closed the door