Tender Death

by Annette Meyers

  “You had to have seen him. Is that why you’re hiding? God, Teddy, everyone thinks you’re dead. The station even offered a reward.”

  He snorted. “Listen, by the time the lights came up, I was out of the building and so was the killer. I never saw him”

  “Then who was murdered?” She touched the sleeve of his sweater. It was the cream-colored Aran one he had worn the night they’d met for dinner. He was really alive.

  Shrugging, he said, “You’ve got me. I don’t know. What I do know is whoever got the poor bugger was after me ...” His laugh was cynical. “And we know that all black men look alike.”

  She ignored his last remark. “No, Ted. The police are not that stupid. The guy didn’t have his hands blown off. So they might take prints. They have to know by this time it wasn’t you. They’re not telling because they don’t want the killer to know. And they must be hoping you’ll come forward with information that’ll clinch who did it.”

  Diantha returned with a tray holding a china pot and three cups. She set it down on the red-lacquered trunk that doubled as a coffee table and laid out buff linen napkins, spoons, and a plate of Stella D’oro rusks.

  “I’m not about to turn myself in. I’d be a dead man. Let them do their job and find out who killed me, then I’ll come out.”

  “Well, thanks anyway for letting me know.”

  Diantha smiled at Wetzon’s sarcasm, but the smile faded rapidly. “Well, we needed another head—” Then, hearing what she’d said, “I’m sorry. That’s awful. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Wetzi—” Teddy held her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “You can’t tell anyone. As soon as they find out I’m still alive, I’m dead. I don’t trust anyone.”

  “Teddy, I’ve got someone you can tell. You can trust him. Remember when we talked about having someone special? You told me you had someone and I told you I did too? But neither of us wanted to share at the time.” He took his hands from her shoulders and shook his head no before she could go on. Wetzon looked at Diantha, who was putting a log on the fire and stoking it. “You said your someone special had something in common with me.” Diantha straightened up and carefully replaced the fire screen. She pulled up a footstool and sat opposite them. Wetzon smiled at her. “I now know what we have in common. But did you know we’d already met—accidentally?”

  “Had no idea, at least not then.” He and Diantha exchanged that look again. “No one knows about Diantha, not at the studio, or anywhere. We were keeping ourselves private.”

  “I wasn’t ready to make a real commitment,” Diantha said, “at least not yet. So my office knows nothing about Ted. I figured there was time enough for that.”

  “So this became my safe house—”

  The fire welled up, glowing, warming. “But why would someone try to kill you?” With shaking hands, Wetzon brushed the strands of hair out of her face and rebanded her ponytail. “Do you know Peter Tormenkov was murdered? Does it have anything to do with him? What was that scam he was going to tell you about?”

  “He told me about it. Yeah, I read in the Times that he was killed.” He picked at a small wool ball on his sweater. “Listen to me, Wetzi—he spilled his guts to me. I’ve got him on tape. And the tapes are somewhere in my office. At least they were. I’ve got to get them—”

  “Teddy.” Wetzon turned from him to Diantha. “I’m very confused. The FBI was trying to take me in when Diantha caused a riot and saved me. At least, they said they were FBI.”

  Teddy’s mouth dropped open. “No! Why? Why would they be after you?”

  “Maybe because they know you’re not dead and they think I know where you are. Was Peter Tormenkov really working for them?”

  “Not according to him. But they were trying to get him to testify against his firm. He was involved in it up to his earlobes. He knew if he flipped, he might not live too long. He thought he’d do better with me. If he got a lot of TV coverage, he might be so visible they wouldn’t risk killing him.”

  “Teddy, investment bankers don’t kill each other. They just rat on each other. It’s a different kind of death.”

  “No, there’s more to it than that, Wetzi. It’s a major scam—”

  “Okay, look.” Everyone had forgotten the coffee. She was getting tired and needed something, food or coffee. She sat on the edge of the sofa and poured the hot liquid into each cup. “I told you I have someone I care about and trust. Now let me tell you that he’s a detective with NYPD.”

  Diantha made an odd noise.

  “Oh, Wetzi, I don’t believe it. Not you.”

  “Why not me? His name is Silvestri and I want you to talk to him. I would trust him with my life.” She suddenly realized that no matter what happened between her and Silvestri, she meant that.

  “But what about mine?”

  “Yours, too.”

  “Easy for you to say, Wetzi.” Teddy ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Diantha?”

  “I don’t trust anyone,” Diantha said. She sipped her coffee and watched Wetzon over the rim of her cup with narrowed eyes.

  Wetzon wondered if anyone was a euphemism for cop. “He’s not just a cop. I can’t explain it. You’ll have to trust me. He’s different.”

  A horn honked on the street. Diantha’s body jerked. She put her cup on the trunk and stepped to the side of the window. Parting the blinds a fraction, she looked down at the street. Weary, she let the blinds go and turned back to them. “I’m not for it.”

  “I don’t think you guys have a choice.” Wetzon was surprised about how severe she sounded. “You’ve got to trust someone, besides me. What about someone at Channel Eight?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Then let me call Silvestri. I’ll ask him to meet me here. I won’t tell him what it’s about.”

  Teddy looked at Diantha, who was staring into the fire. He got up and began pacing, the floor creaking under his feet. Finally he said, “Okay. But, Wetzi, know this. We’re dealing with people who think nothing of zapping helpless old people for their stocks and bonds, and other people who know exactly what’s going on and don’t give a damn, who go along because it comes down to percentages, dollars. Millions. It’s a major fraud, and it involves at least one home care service, and lawyers, brokers, accountants, and brokerage firms. It’s endless.” He stopped pacing and stabbed his finger at her. “If they think nothing of killing harmless old people and each other, there’s nothing to stop them if they decide to kill me—again—or you—or even this noble Silvestri of yours.”

  43.

  THE INTERCOM BUZZED with the signal—two short, one long. They, all three, jumped at the first sound and fell silent, counting mentally to ten between signals. Then two short and one long came again.

  Wetzon stood up. She felt wired; nervous energy flowed through her limbs. She looked down at her hands, two claws, tensed. “I’d better let him in.”

  Diantha slithered on tiptoes, silent as a cat, to the side of the window, barely separated the blinds, checked the street. “Black Toyota?”

  Wetzon nodded, her hand on the banister. “Yes.” Her voice sounded gravelly. She started down the stairs.

  “Wait! Remember, not a word about me from either of you until I say okay.” Teddy walked swiftly toward the second set of stairs and ran up, surefooted, disappearing into the darkness of the upper floor. The floor creaked, then all was silent.

  The women looked at each other, and Diantha nodded. Wetzon crept down the stairs, listening; she opened the door slowly inward, staying behind it. No one entered. Hand on the door, she peered around it into the small vestibule. “Silvestri?” No one was there.

  Perplexed, she edged out the door into the lantern-lit space. Silvestri’s left arm came around her shoulders from the back. “For chrissakes, Les. You have no respect for danger.” He sounded exasperated.

  She didn’t care. She held onto his arm because it felt so good having him there, being able to touch him. He let go of her
, almost shaking her off, and she turned. He had a gun in his right hand. “Are you alone?” he asked.

  “There’s someone upstairs. It’s okay. Really.” She smiled at him tentatively. “You don’t need that.”

  He put his gun back in the shoulder holster under his coat. “What’s going on here?” He had shaved since she’d last seen him, but his beard was a dark shadow on his jaw.

  “Come upstairs.” She pushed the door and went through. He followed her, closing the door behind them, mounting the stairs, alert and taut. She felt, rather than saw, that he kept his hand inside his jacket, on his gun.

  As they reached the top of the stairs, Diantha came forward, her midcalf gray cashmere skirt flowing around her long slim legs. If Silvestri was surprised, he gave no indication.

  “This is Diantha Anderson,” Wetzon said.

  Diantha extended her hand and gave Silvestri’s face a finite examination. He did the same with her, meeting her eye to eye, for they were about the same height. “Can I take your coat?” Diantha asked.

  Silvestri shrugged out of his jacket. “Nah. I’ll just leave it here.” He folded it over the railing of the staircase, his eyes moving upward toward the darkness of the second floor as if he knew someone was up there, listening and waiting. After a brief moment, he left his coat and came back to where Diantha and Wetzon waited. He was wearing his navy blue turtleneck sweater and the brown tweed jacket with the suede elbow patches and blue jeans. “Someone want to tell me what this is all about?” His eyes inventoried the room.

  “Making a list, checking it twice, gonna find out who’s naughty or nice ...” came skimming across Wetzon’s mind. She drowned a giggle in a cough. Just plain silliness, she thought. This is serious. “Silvestri—”

  “Let’s sit down, please,” Diantha said, drawing them to the sofa. Silvestri kept his eyes on her, not giving much.

  Wetzon sank into the sofa again. Her nerve ends were raw, her hands and knees shook. Silvestri sat on the arm of the sofa, near enough to Wetzon for her to detect any seams in his flat professional facade. Diantha took the stool, watching Silvestri watching her.

  “Silvestri—” Wetzon tried again. His eyes met hers fleetingly, the coldest, toughest slate. They turned back to Diantha. He was on duty all the way. “Silvestri, Diantha ...” She picked over her words, feeling for the right ones. “ ... Diantha was a close friend of Teddy Lanzman’s.”

  “Oh?” Silvestri crossed one foot over the other at the knee. He was wearing soft black leather loafers and white socks.

  Diantha said nothing. In the sepia shadows of the room, one was left with an impression of high molded cheekbones and dark flinty eyes.

  “We have something we want to tell you about Teddy,” Wetzon said, looking up at him.

  “Les, if you’re holding out information about a murder, you’re in trouble.”

  “I’m not, Silvestri. Honest. I just found out.”

  “Ms. Anderson?”

  Wetzon leaned forward. “Diantha, I’m begging you,” she pleaded, “you’ve got to trust him.”

  “Wait a minute, Les. Ms. Anderson, technically, if this is information about the Lanzman murder, you should be talking to Bernstein at Manhattan North.” He got to his feet.

  “Bullshit, Silvestri!” Wetzon’s fist hit her thigh. She was fuming. She felt he was playacting for some reason known only to him.

  “Okay, let’s cut through this,” Silvestri said, talking to Diantha, ignoring Wetzon. “What do you have?”

  “I know someone,” Diantha began slowly, “who may have some information about this, but he feels his life is in danger and he wants protection before he comes forward.”

  “Shove over, Les.” Silvestri settled on the sofa next to Wetzon. He sat back, totally relaxed, as if what Diantha had just said was something he had been waiting to hear. “Is there more coffee in the pot?” he asked casually.

  Diantha gave him a questioning look. “Wetzon, I wonder if you’d be good enough to bring us another cup and the rest of the coffee.”

  Wetzon stared down at the tray on the antique Chinese trunk. It held three cups with coffee in each at various levels. Three. Silvestri knew. She looked quickly at Diantha.

  Diantha smiled a cautious smile at Silvestri. “Touché,” she said. Her fingers worried the gold stud in her earlobe.

  As Wetzon creaked across the long expanse of floor into the dining room, she heard Silvestri ask, “What do you do, Ms. Anderson?” Ha! That was good for a small laugh. Last year when he and Wetzon had first met, she had to explain what a headhunter was. Now he knew three headhunters.

  There was a fine Oriental carpet in mellow roses, browns, and greens under the cherry French country dining table. To her right was an arched doorway that led, as she had thought earlier, to a small but immaculate kitchen, very efficiently laid out. All white, cabinets and countertops, with black trim, Eurostyle was the word for it.

  The Braun coffee maker was also white and black. She opened and closed two of the tall cabinets before she found the cups and saucers. Everything was so neat and orderly, she summoned up guilty thoughts about her own messy cabinets. She had let things go because Carlos wasn’t housekeeping for her anymore.

  She detached the coffeepot, carried it and a cup and saucer back into the living room, where she found Silvestri leaning across the trunk talking intently to Diantha, gesturing with a half-eaten rusk.

  “I give you my word,” he was saying, “that if need be I’ll go directly to the commissioner—”

  “If need be? Who will decide that?” Diantha asked tersely.

  “I will. You’ll have to trust me.”

  Wetzon silently set the cup and saucer down and poured coffee for Silvestri, placing the coffeepot on a folded napkin to protect the old trunk from the heat.

  “Ah,” Silvestri said, but he wasn’t looking at her or the coffee. He was looking over Wetzon’s shoulder. She and Diantha turned. Teddy had come down the stairs and was walking slowly toward them.

  Silvestri went to meet him, extending his hand, his smile broader than Wetzon had ever seen. “Dr. Livingston? Or should I say, Ted Lanzman?”

  “I have no one else to trust, Silvestri,” Teddy said, taking his hand. “This better be good.”

  Wetzon felt a tiny surge of pride as she watched Silvestri. He was the director of the play, without any doubt. There he was, slightly shorter, stockier, nor nearly as handsome as Teddy, but he was very much in charge. “You knew, Silvestri,” she said. “You knew all along.”

  Teddy sat on the floor next to Diantha. He rested his hand on her thigh. She touched his hand, his face, his neck, his hand again.

  “I didn’t know anything,” Silvestri said, pleased. “But the dead man was carrying someone else’s ID, and then the M.E. report came through. That did it.” He sat down again next to Wetzon. “Man, I thought you’d never come out.”

  “Who was it?” Teddy asked.

  “An FBI agent, name of Lawrence King.”

  “Dear God,” Diantha murmured.

  “FBI again,” Wetzon said. “Maybe that’s why they were trying to pick me up.” She described what had happened at the Hyatt.

  “Yeah,” Silvestri said. “But they get a little too pushy. This is our case and one of their guys stuck his nose in. They’re looking for you, Lanzman. They think you did it.”

  “Me! But I didn’t even know who this King was. He was going through my desk. That’s not exactly legal, is it?”

  “Will you go to the commissioner now?” Diantha demanded.

  “Yes. But I want the whole story. Beginning to end. I knew if you hadn’t done it, you would have to surface at some point, and there was a good chance you would get in touch with my friend here.” His hand fell lightly on Wetzon’s knee and then left.

  Teddy asked, “How do you want to do this?”

  Silvestri’s notepad and pen came out from his inside pocket. The movement revealed his gun in the shoulder holster. Diantha’s eyes met Wetzon’s acro
ss the trunk.

  “I’ve got Tormenkov on tape. He spilled the whole scam.” Teddy bit nervously on his knuckles. “They killed him—”

  “Yeah. Where is it? Do you have it?”

  “It’s in the office.”

  Silvestri’s face fell. “It’s probably gone. Either the killer has it or the FBI does.”

  “Nah,” Teddy said lazily. “I guarantee it’s still on the shelf with the others.” He licked his thumb and wiped it on the front of his sweater.

  “How could you know that, Teddy?” Wetzon grumbled. Teddy had switched from earnest and sincere to egotistical and obnoxious again.

  “Oh, I know, Wetzi-Petzi. I marked it ‘Interview with Dan Quayle.’”

  Diantha let out a shriek of near-hysterical laughter, shocking them, and Wetzon followed. Even Silvestri laughed.

  “Look, Silvestri,” Teddy said, “I want a promise from you. You give me that and I’ll cooperate all the way.”

  “I’ll see the commissioner, Lanzman. We’ll give you protection until we get the killer, and then some.”

  “Nah, man, I have to go with that. That’s understood. But what I want is an exclusive. I want this story, it’s mine. It’ll get me to Sixty Minutes. That’s what I want, man.”

  “Ted, for godsake,” Diantha said.

  Wetzon stared at the handsome, arrogant face. Teddy knew what he was doing.

  “I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll talk to the commissioner.” Silvestri didn’t seem a bit put off, but then Silvestri hardly ever reacted to anything.

  “You do that,” Teddy said.

  “I could really use a beer,” Wetzon said, trying to keep her sentiments about Teddy out of her voice.

  Diantha got up. “Anyone else?”

  “Yeah,” Teddy said. “Silvestri?”

  Silvestri nodded.

  “I’ll help you.” Wetzon stood and stretched her arms high, lowering them slowly.

  They settled in with Millers, which was not Wetzon’s choice but all Diantha had, drinking from the cans.

  “The lawyer,” Teddy explained, “feeds the old folks to this home care service, Tender Care. Tender Care sends an attendant into the home and practically takes over the old person’s life. That’s how it starts. They’re looking for stock certificates and bonds. Lots of these elderly don’t trust brokerage houses. They like to have the certificates at hand or in safe-deposit boxes. The bare bones is, they rip these old people off of everything they own that’s negotiable, and if an old guy or gal gets suspicious, accidents happen. A peaceful death in sleep, by asphyxiation with a pillow, a fall.”