19.

SHE WAS WALKING on Broadway in the strange yellow light as the snow continued to fall. Her skirts were getting soaked. She pulled them up to protect them. Her boots were wet through. Storefronts had totally disappeared. Snow was piled in mountains on either side of the street. The pungent smell of burning wood pervaded the air. She was all alone.

Behind her she heard the old familiar snort of horses and saw a sleigh coming toward her, bearing down fast, bells jangling. The high drifts allowed her nowhere to run.

She felt sheer cold terror. Her legs wouldn’t move.

She heard the driver shout. Was it a warning or was he urging the horses on?

She ran then, skidding on the narrow, icy path, barely staying ahead. She could feel the hot breath of the horses. She was losing, losing. She looked back and saw the driver’s face. It was John Grossman, wearing a high fur hat, whipping the horses on.

“Get her, get her!” a woman screamed. Smith’s voice. “She’s stealing my friend!”

Wetzon, heart sinking, threw herself into a snowbank just as the sleigh would have run her down. The snow welcomed her and she sank into a cocoon of warmth.

“See, my dearest darling person, I told you not to be afraid.” Ida, in a green velvet cloak, ropes of fur around her white-blonde hair, was tucking Wetzon into the snow bed.

“No, no, you fool!” Arleen Grossman pushed Ida away and threw back the snow quilt.

Wetzon’s feet were so cold. She saw she was wearing her violet bodysuit and blue Gucci shoes over bare feet. She was shivering uncontrollably.

“Here now, what’s going on?” Leon said, descending from the sleigh. “We can’t have this. You have to drive more carefully, my man.” He snapped his fingers and Silvestri appeared, dressed like a Keystone Kop. “Arrest this man at once for reckless driving.” Leon pointed to John Grossman.

“Silvestri, you look ridiculous,” Wetzon said. “What are you dressed up for?”

“Your dream,’’ he said over his shoulder as he dragged John Grossman away in chains.

“I don’t know how you keep getting into these messes, Wetzon,” Smith called from the sleigh. She was dressed like Anna Karenina, in a fur-trimmed velvet cloak. “Leon, handle this at once.”

“Just get this settled,” Wetzon shouted angrily, from the snowbank. “I’m freezing.”

Leon snapped his fingers again and Teddy Lanzman—no it wasn’t Teddy Lanzman, it was the black man in the parka from the bar at Ernie’s—threw a huge fur lap robe over Wetzon’s head and picked her up in a fireman’s carry, throwing her over his shoulder. She couldn’t breathe, she lost a shoe.

Leon said, “Be sure she keeps her nose out of what doesn’t concern her.”

She was choking. She fought with the fur wrap. She fought with the covers; sleigh bells jangled and jangled.

I’m dreaming, she thought, trying to beat down her panic. Silvestri was trying to tell me that. She stopped fighting. Sleigh bells were ringing.

I will wake up, she thought. The telephone was ringing.

The telephone was ringing. She must have forgotten to reset her answering machine after she’d checked her messages last night. She groped for the phone and said a muffled hello. A dial tone. Whoever it was had hung up.

Her clock said nine. Late for her. What a horrible dream. It was freezing cold in her apartment. She stretched under the quilt, flexing and pointing her toes. Had it stopped snowing, she wondered. She sat up and put on her terry cloth robe. The bedroom radiator began to sputter. The room had the peculiar smell of radiator heat when it first starts to come up in a cold radiator.

When she opened the blinds, the sun was out. The blizzard was over. The rooftops of the brownstones below were piled high with clean white snow, reflecting sunlight like thousands of diamond specks. A city bus crawled down Columbus Avenue. Snowplows could be heard. Shovels scraped sidewalks. Finally, voices. Her phone rang.

She left the blinds open and sat on her bed to answer it. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Silvestri said. “Where’d you spend the night?”

“What do you mean, where’d I spend the night?” She was indignant. “Right here. Where do you think I spent the night? Where did you spend the night? Do you want to call me back and start over?”

“Uh oh.” He sounded embarrassed. “I guess I deserved that.”

“You did. If you hadn’t been so impatient and stayed on the phone for another couple of rings, I would have answered it.”

“Good morning, Les.” Why did she always feel he was making fun of her? Even that nice little moment of jealousy had an ironic undertone.

“Good morning, Silvestri,” she said somberly. “Where are you?”

“Manhattan North. Homicide.”

“Sexy.” She curled her bare toes.

“You think so?”

She heard puzzlement behind his words. “I’m sorry. ‘Sexy’ means intriguingly complicated in financialese.”

“Does a sexy deal take the place of the real thing?”

“I don’t know. I never thought of that. Maybe it does.” She wondered, can one get an orgasm from a particularly exciting transaction? Well, it was certainly possible. Was Wall Street an orgasmic setting? Oh yes. She cleared her throat. “Well, is it?”

“Is what?”

“Is it an intriguingly complicated case?”

“Yep. Diplomat murdered. It’ll be in the papers.”

“Oh yeah? State Department, FBI, and stuff?”

“And stuff.”

“Mmmm. Then I don’t get to see you for a while?”

“How about tonight?”

“What time?”

“Whatsamatter, you have plans?” Was he making fun of her or was he covering up for himself?

“I’m going to spend the afternoon with Teddy Lanzman.” She didn’t dare tell him where. He’d kill her for getting involved.

“The guy from Channel Eight?”

“The same. He’s working on a feature he wants to get my opinion on. What time do you think you’ll get here?”

“Don’t know. Don’t even know for sure I can.” She could feel his antennae go out. Damn.

“Well, if I’m not back, you can let yourself in,” she said casually.

“Les?”

“What?”

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” He had such a psychic sense. And he was picking something up from her. Could he read her voice as well as her face?

“I’m not a suspect, Silvestri. Don’t treat me like one.”

“Les—”

“See you later.” She hung up, ran into the dining room, and put her answering machine on.

After a steaming shower, she dressed carefully in long silk thermal underwear, then ski pants and two bulky sweaters, one a turtleneck. She made a pot of coffee and skimmed the Sunday New York Times, not really looking at anything but the “Arts & Leisure” section.

She called Hazel.

“I’m reading Lonesome Dove,” Hazel informed her, “so talk fast because I want to get right back to it. Robert Duvall was good, but I keep seeing Dale Robertson as Gus. He’s so sexy.”

Now that was the right use for sexy, wasn’t it, Wetzon thought. “A great book for a snowed-in weekend.” Wetzon paused. “Hazel, I wanted to ask you ... Do you remember Ida’s last name? Did you ever know it?”

“No, I don’t think so, Leslie dear. Why?”

“I’m going for a ride to Brighton Beach today with my friend Teddy Lanzman, the reporter on Channel Eight. I thought I might see if I can find her. Oh, and Teddy would like to interview you for his show.”

“I’d like that, Leslie,” Hazel said, and then quickly cut through to the important matter. “But do you think it’s wise for you to get involved with this? The police are looking for Ida.”

“They’re not having much luck. But it’s not important, Hazel. I just thought if you remembered her name ... Sometimes people like that are afraid of the police.”

“Come to think of it,” Hazel said slowly, “I believe that detective ... O’Melvany ... had her last name. He’d gotten it from Peepsie’s lawyer.”

“You didn’t hear it?”

“I may have, but I don’t remember. Leslie, please be careful.”

“I’ll be with Teddy. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

Wetzon called the Nineteenth Precinct and asked for O’Melvany.

“O’Melvany.”

“Hello, this is Leslie Wetzon,” she said cheerfully. “How’s your back today?” He was silent. She could feel him trying to figure out who she was. “Silvestri,” she prompted.

“Oh yes, Miss Wetzon.” He swung right into his prepared litany. “No results from the autopsy. Too soon. Back’s the same, thanks.” He was about to hang up. “Call me end of next week.”

“Wait, Sergeant, please. I forgot to ask you yesterday. The Russian woman—Ida—what was her last name?”

“Oh yeah. Ida. Russian name—just a minute. Ah ... got it. Tormenkov.”