The Deadliest Option Read Online Free Page A

shoulder-length hair sat behind a glass-topped desk talking on the phone and writing on a message pad. “Thank you for your thoughts,” she said. “I will convey them to everyone.” She hung up and smiled at them. She had perfect teeth and wore very little makeup. “How may I help you?”
    “Xenia Smith and Leslie Wetzon. We have an appointment with Destry Bird.”
    “We know we’re a bit early,” Wetzon added and got a glower from Smith.
    The woman picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Hi, this is Maggie. Ms. Smith and Ms. Wetzon are here.” She waited. “Okay.” She hung up and gave them another vision of her perfect orthodontia. “Mr. Bird is in a meeting, but he should be with you shortly.”
    “Where is your ladies’ room?” Smith asked.
    “Just past the elevators. The second door on the right.”
    “I’ll wait here,” Wetzon said. She of the slow burn was just beginning to feel abused by Smith’s admonition to let her do the talking. Not on her life. Who did Smith think she was? Don’t tell me, tell her , was what Wetzon’s friend Carlos always said, but Smith was so mercurial that she seemed to sense when Wetzon had reached her boiling point and immediately became caring and attentive, deftly deflecting Wetzon’s anger.
    “Suit yourself,” Smith said airily, “though I think you could do with a little more color in your face. You look totally washed out.” She paused and, when she saw her comment had no effect, shrugged her enviable shoulders and went on past the elevators and disappeared to the right.
    Two workmen in paint-streaked overalls got off the elevator, bringing with them the bitter, pungent combination of cigarettes and old sweat. The larger of the two carried a paint-spattered stepladder. The shorter one handed a piece of paper to Maggie. “You Miss Gray?”
    The receptionist nodded, inspected the work order, and directed them up the staircase.
    The group of pantslegs at the top of the stairs parted for the workmen, then two pairs started down the stairs and came into Wetzon’s view. Surprise flushed her face pink.
    The first man was tall and slightly stooped, with the pouchy-eyed look of a basset hound. The other was a stocky man with thinning dark hair; he wore a new dark gray suit. The first man was Artie Metzger, Detective Sergeant, NYPD, and the second was Silvestri, who had bought the new suit for his promotion to detective lieutenant the previous month.
    What an interesting turn of events , Wetzon thought. But Destry had mentioned to Smith something about meeting with the police this morning. Wetzon walked slowly to the foot of the stairs and waited for Silvestri and Metzger to see her. But they were engrossed in conversation and probably perceived her peripherally as just another skirt.
    “What are two nice guys like you doing in a place like this?”
    “Les—” Silvestri stared down at her. For a brief moment, genuine astonishment stripped his face of its professional mask.
    Her response was an impish grin. Silvestri always accused her of flying by the seat of her pants, interfering in police business. What would he say now? After all, she was there innocently, on business for her firm. “Hi, Artie,” she said to Metzger, ignoring Silvestri’s puzzled look.
    She made a grand show of shaking hands, first with Metzger, and then with Silvestri, aware of the watchful eyes of Maggie Gray, and walked with them to the elevators. Metzger touched the down button and a light blinked, a door opened. The men got on and turned, facing her. “Please choose your floor,” the elevator commented. “Press L to return to the lobby.”
    “See you later, Les,” Silvestri said. He took out his little notebook and was flipping through pages as if he were looking for something. Having recovered from the shock of seeing her there, he was giving her nothing, and he knew she was dying to know what was going on.
    “Wait a minute, guys.” The doors started to close. “What