Read Online The Deadliest Option by Annette Meyers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: Mystery
Ads: Link
you to see. I’ll be waiting for you at the elevator bank on the sixty-seventh floor.”
“Why me in particular?”
“Ms. Wetzon, why are you making this so difficult for me? I’d rather not go to the police just yet—”
“The police?”
“I want you to give me your word that you will tell no one about our meeting. No one. “
“My word?” She frowned. “All right. What is all this about?”
“I believe,” his voice almost disappeared into a wheeze, “I know why Goldie Barnes was murdered.”
10.
W ORRIED L.L. R OSENKIND BROKERS were jamming the phone lines when Wetzon got to the office. B.B. was fielding some, sending a few to Harold, fewer still to Smith—who only deigned to speak to the biggest producers—and holding for Wetzon those who had asked for her specifically.
Smith, phone clamped to her ear, mouthed, it’s about time , and made a big X on the suspect sheet in front of her, her loathing for brokers oozing from every pore. “Yes, well, you can be assured we’ll do the very best for you, but at your level you don’t have much choice.” She made a silent I’m throwing up finger-in-mouth motion. “We’ll get back to you with some suggestions.” She hung up the phone. “Lying scuzzball. Can you imagine? He told B.B. his production was half a mil. Sure, it was—in 1984.” Her tone turned petulant. “You’re never here when I need you.”
“I know, I know. But I’m here now and I’ll take over so you don’t have to get your hands dirty.”
“Wetzon, you know something? You’ve become impossible. You have a smart answer for everything.”
“Oh, please!” Wetzon dumped her briefcase under her desk and flipped through her messages. Laura Lee had called. They were planning a tea party for a friend of Laura Lee’s with whom Wetzon had become friendly as well. The friend, Anne Altman, had just gotten engaged.
In Wetzon’s early days as a headhunter she had met Laura Lee Day when Laura Lee was a stockbroker with Merrill and helped her make a move to Oppenheimer. They’d become good friends, much to Smith’s chagrin. Smith was, in fact, jealous of all of Wetzon’s friends, forever trying to cast them in a bad light.
“Okay, forget it,” Smith said. “I can see you’re in a foul mood. I don’t want to fight.” She smiled at Wetzon as if Wetzon were an impossible creature and had to be humored. “I want to talk about Janet Barnes. I spoke with Johnny this morning and told him she’d invited us to lunch on Monday.”
“Excuse me. Johnny?”
“Johnny Hoffritz. Good heavens, sweetie, who else? He says Janet had every reason to want Goldie pushing up daisies.”
Wetzon, who had not been in a foul mood, felt herself losing. Pushing up daisies? Ye gods . She looked down at her datebook. No interviews. Just notes on whom she should talk to. She planted herself in her chair with a thump.
“Smith, if we’re going to do this so-called investigation, let’s do it right. We’ll keep files, notes, and send a report every week on our progress. Let’s not turn this into a raging river of gossip, for godsakes. Who are we supposed to report to?”
“Johnny.”
“Oh sure, Johnny.”
B.B. knocked on the door and opened it. “Bruce Pecora for you, Wetzon.”
“Oh, great,” Smith groaned. “Tell him she’s not here. Don’t you dare talk to him, Wetzon. That dirtbag’s got compliance problems up the yin-yang. They’re pulling his license.”
“My, my, how quickly we change.” Wetzon punched the hold button. “Hello, Bruce, how are you doing?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Wetzon.” Bruce sounded like a low-life thug, but as long as he was producing big numbers, no one cared. However, now that he was in trouble—real trouble as opposed to potential problems—everyone pointed out his déclassé New York street accent. “I’m sitting on the beach waiting for those fuckers to reinstate me—and I don’t like waiting. I’m not making any money. I want you to
“Why me in particular?”
“Ms. Wetzon, why are you making this so difficult for me? I’d rather not go to the police just yet—”
“The police?”
“I want you to give me your word that you will tell no one about our meeting. No one. “
“My word?” She frowned. “All right. What is all this about?”
“I believe,” his voice almost disappeared into a wheeze, “I know why Goldie Barnes was murdered.”
10.
W ORRIED L.L. R OSENKIND BROKERS were jamming the phone lines when Wetzon got to the office. B.B. was fielding some, sending a few to Harold, fewer still to Smith—who only deigned to speak to the biggest producers—and holding for Wetzon those who had asked for her specifically.
Smith, phone clamped to her ear, mouthed, it’s about time , and made a big X on the suspect sheet in front of her, her loathing for brokers oozing from every pore. “Yes, well, you can be assured we’ll do the very best for you, but at your level you don’t have much choice.” She made a silent I’m throwing up finger-in-mouth motion. “We’ll get back to you with some suggestions.” She hung up the phone. “Lying scuzzball. Can you imagine? He told B.B. his production was half a mil. Sure, it was—in 1984.” Her tone turned petulant. “You’re never here when I need you.”
“I know, I know. But I’m here now and I’ll take over so you don’t have to get your hands dirty.”
“Wetzon, you know something? You’ve become impossible. You have a smart answer for everything.”
“Oh, please!” Wetzon dumped her briefcase under her desk and flipped through her messages. Laura Lee had called. They were planning a tea party for a friend of Laura Lee’s with whom Wetzon had become friendly as well. The friend, Anne Altman, had just gotten engaged.
In Wetzon’s early days as a headhunter she had met Laura Lee Day when Laura Lee was a stockbroker with Merrill and helped her make a move to Oppenheimer. They’d become good friends, much to Smith’s chagrin. Smith was, in fact, jealous of all of Wetzon’s friends, forever trying to cast them in a bad light.
“Okay, forget it,” Smith said. “I can see you’re in a foul mood. I don’t want to fight.” She smiled at Wetzon as if Wetzon were an impossible creature and had to be humored. “I want to talk about Janet Barnes. I spoke with Johnny this morning and told him she’d invited us to lunch on Monday.”
“Excuse me. Johnny?”
“Johnny Hoffritz. Good heavens, sweetie, who else? He says Janet had every reason to want Goldie pushing up daisies.”
Wetzon, who had not been in a foul mood, felt herself losing. Pushing up daisies? Ye gods . She looked down at her datebook. No interviews. Just notes on whom she should talk to. She planted herself in her chair with a thump.
“Smith, if we’re going to do this so-called investigation, let’s do it right. We’ll keep files, notes, and send a report every week on our progress. Let’s not turn this into a raging river of gossip, for godsakes. Who are we supposed to report to?”
“Johnny.”
“Oh sure, Johnny.”
B.B. knocked on the door and opened it. “Bruce Pecora for you, Wetzon.”
“Oh, great,” Smith groaned. “Tell him she’s not here. Don’t you dare talk to him, Wetzon. That dirtbag’s got compliance problems up the yin-yang. They’re pulling his license.”
“My, my, how quickly we change.” Wetzon punched the hold button. “Hello, Bruce, how are you doing?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Wetzon.” Bruce sounded like a low-life thug, but as long as he was producing big numbers, no one cared. However, now that he was in trouble—real trouble as opposed to potential problems—everyone pointed out his déclassé New York street accent. “I’m sitting on the beach waiting for those fuckers to reinstate me—and I don’t like waiting. I’m not making any money. I want you to
Similar Books
