Tender Death by Annette Meyers Page A

phone number.
    The intercom buzzed.
    “Howie Minton on 9-0,” B.B. said.
    She punched the first extension. “Hi, Howie, you should be on your way home. I hear the Island is a mess.”
    “I’m outa here. Just wanted to know what you thought of Pete Tormenkov.”
    “Well, Howie ...” Wetzon paused. These situations were problematic from an ethical point of view. Howie had recommended Peter, but what Peter had told her was confidential. “I don’t know what to tell you. He doesn’t seem ready to move anywhere.”
    “Wetzon, my friend, don’t tell me he told you that crap—excuse me—about the FBI?”
    “What are you saying, Howie?” she asked cautiously.
    “You’re a good lady, Wetzon, and I think of you as my good friend, so you can level with me. I can tell by what you’re not saying that the schmuck told you.” Howie had lost his usual unctuousness. “Pete’s working with a bunch of lowlifes. There’s no FBI, but there could be, and he’s got to get out of here before the shit hits the fan, excuse me again.”
    “Howie, whatever the truth is, he may have a compliance problem—”
    “Wetzon, believe me, would I lie to you? Peter’s okay. Let me talk to him and straighten him out. Then you can call him on Monday—and be persuasive—as I know you can. Say you’ll do it for me so I can get the hell out of here tonight.”
    “Okay, Howie, I’ll try. Hope the trip home isn’t too bad.”
    “Be well, Wetzon.”
    She sat there thinking, playing with her pen, doodling geometrics. Howie was probably right. On the other hand, nothing that she had seen happen on Wall Street was too farfetched. Anything could be true.
    She picked up the phone and dialed.
    “This is Channel Eight, serving the Empire City in the Empire State.”
    “Ted Lanzman, please.”
    “Who’s calling?”
    “Leslie Wetzon.”
    “Hold on a moment, please.”
    As she listened to canned Bach, Wetzon checked off the phone calls she had made from her daily list. Those she had not gotten to, she wrote on her list for Monday. After she spoke with Teddy, she’d call Kevin De Haven, who would probably want to cancel his four o’clock appointment, which was fine with her.
    “Well, well,” Teddy Lanzman said. “This is a real treat, stranger. How are you?”
    “Great, Teddy. I know how you are because I see you on the box all the time—”
    “Better than that. I’m getting my own half hour, producing and writing features. And you just caught me. I’m on my way to Detroit in a few minutes, if they’re still flying out of Kennedy tonight. Picking up an award for feature broadcasting for my series on the kids in welfare hotels.”
    “That’s wonderful, Teddy, congratulations. I saw most of it. It was heartrending.”
    “You know, Wetzi, although we don’t see each other much, I count you as one of my real friends. Did you ever get my message when that broker was murdered?”
    “Yes, I did, and I’m sorry I never got back to you. So many crazy things were happening—”
    “It’s okay. I understand. I just wanted you to know if you needed me, I was there.”
    “I knew that, Teddy, and I love you for it. But right now I’m calling you about something I’ve come across that might be of interest to you.”
    “Oh yeah?” She could hear the change in his voice.
    “The series you’re doing on the aged ... I’ve heard something about a scam against the elderly, using nurses’ aides ... I guess this doesn’t make much sense—”
    “No, no, I’m hearing you. I want to hear more, but I’ve got to get out of here now, or I’ll miss my plane.”
    “I don’t know much more than that—”
    “Have an early dinner with me on Monday,” Teddy said. “Six-thirty, seven. You may be able to fill in the blanks on something I came across in my research.”
    “But—”
    “No ‘buts.’ Pick me up at the studio on Monday. I’ll leave your name downstairs with security.”
    “We’re leaving now, Wetzon,” Harold said as