Read Online Tender Death by Annette Meyers - Free Book Online Page A

partner—”
    “I’m sorry,” Peter Tormenkov said, pulling out his chair and sitting.
    Wetzon, almost disappointed he’d returned, shifted in her chair and saw that the people whose conversation she was eavesdropping on were the attractive black woman and her younger companion.
    “So, Peter Tormenkov,” Wetzon said, giving him her full attention again. “I’d like to let you get back to work. Let’s talk about what you want to do.”
    “Well ... you know ... I can’t do anything ... you know ... right now. I got ... you know ... this deal I’m working on....” he said, doing a complete about-face. “I’m not supposed to ... you know ... talk about it.”
    “I thought you couldn’t stay there? Now you’ve decided to stay?”
    “Yes.” Tormenkov didn’t look at her.
    “Okay. You have to do what you have to do.” Why was she sitting here wasting her time talking to him? She was feeling decidedly ungracious.
    He checked out the restaurant elaborately, then he pulled his chair closer to hers. “Can you keep ... you know ... this confidential?”
    “That’s part of my job, Peter,” she said, smiling through clenched teeth. “I wouldn’t be around very long if I didn’t keep confidences.” She looked at her watch. Eight forty-five. God, what a bore. Time to cut this short. Tormenkov was clearly in some kind of trouble, so he was sure to be unplaceable. She would not earn a fee on this one. Smith had been right.
    Tormenkov cupped his hand to his mouth. “I’m working for the FBI.”
    She snapped up, eyes wide. This was a new one. “What did you say?”
    “It’s a scam. I was ... you know ... contacted by this group ... you know ... they work as nurses’ aides for these ... you know ... senile old people ...”He glanced around nervously, as if he thought perhaps the skaters beyond the pane of glass could hear him. “I better not say ... you know ... anything more. It’s a secret. I just called them and they said ... you know ... I can’t leave ... I gotta work for them until it’s over ... I could lose my license ... if I didn’t.” He was on his feet again, shrugging into his coat. “I thought maybe ... you know ... after ... you could ...” His voice trailed off.
    “Why don’t you call me when your work with the FBI is finished,” she said. This was a new bit of craziness. Just the thought of the FBI using this twit as an operative made her dizzy. And she’d thought she’d heard everything. Brokers tended to overdramatize the already theatrical situation of brokering. The whole business was built on the grand story, the pitch, the hyperbole, the exaggeration. You couldn’t take any of it too seriously.
    “Thanks for breakfast,” he said. At least he left without you knowing her one last time.
    “Whew. Have some breakfast, Wetzon,” she murmured, watching Tormenkov weave gracelessly around the busy tables. She dug a strawberry out of her yogurt and poured the remaining coffee from the little pot into her cup. Outside, a teacher was giving a lesson to a slim man in a heavy hand-knit ski sweater, who stood stiffly erect on his skates. The wind blew powdery snow indiscriminately over the hardy few.
    She dreaded going back outside, but procrastinating only made it worse. She put her credit card on the bill and the waitress, who had been watching, came and took everything away.
    “Hello, excuse me, I couldn’t help recognizing—”
    Wetzon looked up and into the dark, lively eyes of the woman from the next table. Her probable comrade-in-arms. The woman smiled and put out her hand. “Diantha Anderson,” she said.
    “Leslie Wetzon.” Wetzon took her hand. “I recognized a few familiar phrases here and there myself.”
    “Lawyers,” Diantha Anderson said, smiling, presenting her card. She wound a long lime-green cashmere scarf around her head and neck.
    “Stockbrokers,” Wetzon said, rising, presenting her own card.
    “Can I drop you?” Diantha