The Deadliest Option Read Online Free Page B

brings you onto my turf?” She put her briefcase in the door, which opened slightly, just enough for her to hear Silvestri’s intentionally melodramatic response.
    “Murder,” he said.

5.
    “M URDER? ” SHE REPEATED , staring at the closed elevator doors.
    “Murder? Is that what you just said?” Wetzon had not even heard Smith come up behind her.
    “Smith!” She spun around. Running through her mind was the musical refrain, he said murder he said, da da da dum, he said murder he said.
    “Excuse me, Ms. Smith, Ms. Wetzon. Mr. Bird would like you to go up to the conference room now.” Maggie Gray, in her creamy beige silk, stood beside her desk motioning to them.
    Who was murdered? Wetzon’s thoughts roiled. Who had died, except ... As they approached the staircase, the two workmen started down from the floor above. One carried the ladder, the other a large painting half covered by a dirty piece of canvas. Smith forged ahead, up the stairs, brushing between the men. The canvas was dislodged slightly, revealing an oil portrait of the late Goldie Barnes.
    “The king is dead, long live the king,” Wetzon said.
    Smith turned and looked down at her. “Whatever is the matter with you? Come on.”
    The stairs led to a gallery that overlooked the floor below. On this floor were the penthouse, with the executive dining room, and the top executive offices. Only the same iron railing stood between the edge of the gallery and open space. Overhead was the skylight, through which the midday sun streamed, giving the area an inside-outside feeling. A Picasso from his Dada period—all angled, anxious edges—hung on the facing wall. Loud voices surged from the half-open door of the conference room.
    Wetzon put her hand on Smith’s arm, slowing her.
    Johnny Hoffritz’s voice, with its succulent Alabama rhythms, was unmistakable. “... couldn’t go quietly ... you’d know he’d try one more time to fuck us up.”
    “Well, you could hardly expect him to go quietly.” Destry Bird’s accent was strictly upper-class Virginia, fine old family. Someone guffawed, then Destry continued, “Better this way—”
    “For us.”
    “Ladies ...”
    Smith and Wetzon, caught eavesdropping, started. They were now confronted by a royal corpulence, a grossly fat man in an immaculate gray pinstripe and crisp white shirt, the costume of an investment banker or broker.
    Wetzon recognized him immediately as the man who had been sitting to Goldie Barnes’s left at the banquet.
    The fat man’s breath came in short puffy pants, as if he’d run up the staircase, which he probably had, and under his arm he carried a flat leather portfolio. Emitting a stale minty odor, he attached himself to Wetzon’s elbow, she being closer to his height than the formidable Smith, who was at least a head taller. Thus, he walked Wetzon right into the conference room, with an amused Smith bringing up the rear.
    “Ah, there you are. Good. Let’s get going here. “ Hoffritz was seated, tilting back in the big leather chair at the head of the walnut conference table, his lanky body draped territorially—in Goldie’s chair. On the wall beyond his head was a big empty spot, a shade lighter than the rest of the room, where a large painting had once hung. With his small head and receding chin, there was something of the praying mantis about Johnny Hoffritz. His hazel eyes were wide apart and hooded by fine, almost transparent, lids. A cigarette lay disintegrating in the cup of black coffee, which he pushed rudely aside. “More coffee all around ... Chris?” His hand made a lazy flick in Chris Gorham’s direction.
    Gorham’s high-cheekboned face flushed red up to his too-short, sand-colored hair. Jaw tightening, he rose, hardly acknowledging Smith or Wetzon, and left the room. He was obviously low man on this totem pole.
    “Take a seat,” Destry drawled to Smith and Wetzon. He shook hands with the fat man without getting up. “Doctor—” Destry had