54.

“DWAYNE?” WETZON GAPED at the attractive redhead.

Naked curiosity crept over the face of the counterman, and only the arrival of a customer stopped him from sidling toward them.

“Shsh. Don’t let on.” Dwayne fluffed his curls and fiddled with one of the long chains that lay across his pert bosom.

It was astonishing, Wetzon thought—but then, she had known some of the dancers in La Cage aux Folles, and they were equally astonishing. “You’re beautiful, but why—?” She stopped. Maybe he was a transvestite away from the office, and she didn’t want to insult him.

Dwayne shook his head. “I dress like this sometimes, but right now I just don’t want anybody to recognize me.”

“Anybody? Give me a for instance.”

“I’m leaving town. Don’t try to stop me.” His hands, with their gaudy red nails, trembled. “Are you drinking your soda?”

“No. You can have it.” She pushed it to him. “What are you afraid of, Dwayne?” Where the hell was Silvestri? She pulled the pieced-together list from her purse and unfolded it flat in front of him. Moisture leached onto the mounting paper from the counter. “Damn.” She snatched it up and wiped the back of the paper and the counter with a paper napkin, then spread it out again.

“Oh, God,” Dwayne said in a tiny voice, when he saw the list. “You know.”

Bingo, Wetzon thought. “Is this why Ellie was killed?”

“Oh, God, what am I going to do?” He got off the stool and picked up a bulging red backpack which Wetzon had not noticed before. “Does everybody know?”

She ignored his question. Better to pretend she knew what he meant. “What about your job, Dwayne?”

“My job? That’s a joke.” He stared at her from behind the dark glasses. His voice broke. “I’m outa here, I’m outa there. It’s not safe.”

Wetzon took the paper off the counter and stuck it under Dwayne’s pretty nose. “I’m not interested in whether you go or stay. Just tell me what this list means.”

“I can’t ... I’ll be dead.”

“Dammit, Dwayne, you’ll be dead if you don’t.”

Dwayne ducked his head. “It’s a list of accounts,” he said in a hoarse whisper, placing his heavy pack on the stool.

“Whose accounts? What broker?”

Dwayne stared at the list until she thought he’d gone into a trance. Finally, he said, “Ellie.”

“Ellie? I can’t—” Wetzon stopped short of saying she couldn’t believe it of Ellie. He looked down at his feet and she saw he was wearing black patent spike heels. When she looked up, Silvestri came into view on the concourse. “Wait a minute, Dwayne. Are these legitimate accounts?”

As Silvestri clapped his hand like a vise on Dwayne’s shoulder, Dwayne let out a small squeal. The counterman and the customer looked over at them.

“Dwayne, have you met Lieutenant Silvestri?” She folded up the list and put it in her purse.

“We’ve met,” Silvestri said. “But stop me if I’m wrong—you had a different hairdo.”

Dwayne smiled nervously at Silvestri, but he spoke to Wetzon. “How could you do this to me? Carlos said—”

Wetzon felt her cheeks get hot. She’d betrayed him.

“Come off it, the woman probably just saved your life. We would have found you, but it may have been too late. Let’s get out of here.”

Silvestri took Dwayne’s elbow and Dwayne squealed again. The counterman stared.

Wetzon put two dollar bills on the counter and followed the odd couple out and up the moving stairs to the renovated Penn Station waiting room. Departing trains were being announced, the digital board was clicking with changes on incoming trains, and people milled around, even at eight forty-five on a Sunday night, waiting for trains home.

Dwayne’s heels tapped rat-a-tat-tat on the marble floor. They took another escalator up and exited at the cab station, where Silvestri’s black Toyota was waiting for them, Mo at the wheel. A long line of exhausted, bedraggled travelers stretched out toward Thirty-third Street waiting for cabs that didn’t come.

“Les, slide in front with Mo,” Silvestri ordered, opening the door.

Wetzon climbed in. “Hi.” Silvestri slammed her door shut and opened the back door, pushing Dwayne in first, hand on his curly red head, then following him.

“Hi.” Mo’s eyes were on Dwayne. “Lovely,” she said.

“Pull up near Thirty-second,” Silvestri said. A driver behind them leaned on his horn. “And stick up the light.”

Mo started the car and they rolled a few yards forward, then she stopped, took the bubble light from the seat, reached a long arm out the window and up, planting it on the roof. The amber light roiled from the roof of the car, making mad reflections on the cement surroundings.

“Am I under arrest?” Dwayne’s voice was ragged.

“Not yet. Take off those goddam glasses.”

“Oh, God.” He took off his glasses and buried his face in his hands. “What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to tell the truth. You have that list, Les?”

Dwayne sat up. His eyelids were caked with gray eye shadow and black mascara all run together. Wetzon handed Silvestri the list and Silvestri unfolded it and thrust it at Dwayne. “Let’s have it all, Dwayne. Come on. You’re a target. We know you didn’t kill anybody, but you were in on the scam, weren’t you?”

“No. I wasn’t. I didn’t. Wetzon—”

“Don’t look to her for help, man. Let’s have it.”

“I told Wetzon. They’re clients.”

“Whose clients?”

“Ellie s, but—”

“What about these accounts? Why did Ellie tear up the list? Cough it up or I’ll haul your ass down to the House of Detention.”

“Oh, no, please.”

“You’re being a little hard on him, Silvestri,” Mo said. “Come on, Dwayne. Tell him.”

“She was upset. I don’t know. Dr. Ash sent the list to her and said he was going to tell everything unless she cut him in. She didn’t know what he was talking about, but when she checked, they were all under her AE number. “

“But you knew what he was talking about, didn’t you, Dwayne?”

“I didn’t know anything, honest to God,” Dwayne blubbered.

“Who knew?”

“Chris Gorham. I mean, we found out afterward that he got the same letter from the fat fuck, but it was the day of the dinner for Goldie, and no one had time to check it out. Then Goldie died and everything began to get crazy.”

“Who called the early meeting last Saturday?”

Dwayne scrunched up his face and sniffled. His mascara gave him black eyes. “The fat—Dr. Ash. I wasn’t there. I don’t know what happened. Please—”

“Was Gorham in on whatever was going on?” Silvestri asked. Wetzon knew he’d love to nail Chris on a murder charge.

“I don’t know. I guess he was going to have to cough up some money, too.”

“Wait a minute,” Silvestri said. “I’m not following you. Gorham and Ellie were being blackmailed? By Ash? Why?”

Dwayne stared at Silvestri, then at Wetzon. “I thought you knew.” He licked his lips, then pressed them shut. “I’d like to talk to a lawyer.”

“Dwayne,” Mo said. “We can hold you as a material witness.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Dwayne, come on,” Wetzon said. “Didn’t you tell me you were scared of someone?”

Dwayne nodded.

“Who are you afraid of?” Silvestri leaned in on him. “Who killed Ellie? Better tell us because he’s sure to come after you if you know who he is. He’s killed three, maybe four people already.”

Dwayne choked. “I didn’t know at first. I didn’t understand. Ellie figured it out after she saw the list, but she didn’t believe it. She was going to talk to him, have him explain.”

“Him? What didn’t she believe?”

“The trades. Ellie did the spreads and picked the stocks—she didn’t know the good trades would go into the phony accounts and the bad ones went into the clients’ accounts.”

“Jesus,” Wetzon said.

“How long had this been going on?”

“I don’t know ... a year, maybe. Clients were complaining about losing money.”

“But it wasn’t Ellie. She couldn’t have known about it,” Wetzon said.

Silvestri gave her a warning look.

“She didn’t.”

“Then who did? Say it, man. Say it and you’re safe.”

Dwayne’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice. He said: “It was David Kim.”