Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4) by Annette Meyers

frail man with an osteoporosal hunch and a tremor in his hands. They must be regulars, because the maître d’ asked after their children and grandchildren as he whisked them away into another wood-paneled room.
    Wetzon stepped up to the desk. “Mr. Pinkus,” she said. Behind her were two couples, older men with much younger women. The women were modishly dressed in cashmere and silk, hem lengths that stopped about four inches above slim knees. Their escorts were both tall, white-haired, and distinguished, one deeply tanned as if he’d just stepped off his yacht. Was this a place, she wondered uneasily, where older men brought young women?
    “This way, please, Ms. Wetzon.” Caught off guard, Wetzon turned to see the maître d’ waiting for her.
    She followed him up a flight of stairs to the bar area, which had a decidedly ’20s quality and was peopled with attractive, clever types that might have stepped out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. Alton Pinkus was sitting in a booth just past the bar talking to a distinguished, balding man, compact in a good tweed sports jacket. They both rose to greet her, and Alton introduced her to George Lang, the owner of Café des Artistes. She shook hands with Lang, who was at once called away by the maître d’. And her hand was quickly swallowed by Alton’s great warm paw. He waited till she was seated, then asked, “You’re drinking?”
    “Amstel Light.” She had hardly gotten the words out when it arrived.
    “You have gray eyes,” Alton said. “Why did I think blue?”
    He seemed to want an answer, and she was unexpectedly tongue-tied. Damn you, Silvestri , she thought, flustered. What the hell is the matter with you, Leslie Wetzon? she asked herself. In her mind she heard Laura Lee shriek, Get a grip!
    She was saved by the maître d’, who announced that their table was ready, and they rose and traveled back down the stairs into a large crowded room, passing an amazing buffet of appetizers and a cornucopian dessert display. The leaded windows were almost obscured by plants, couples sat tête-a-tête, all observed somewhat cynically by the Christy nudes in their pastoral setting.
    “We could have stayed upstairs, but I rather thought you’d like this room. I do.”
    They were seated in an almost-private corner, her back to the greenery-covered window, Alton opposite. Her hardly-touched beer had somehow miraculously appeared on the table, along with Alton’s glass of what looked like Scotch.
    A waiter approached with two huge menus and asked Alton if he wanted another drink. He shook his head and ordered a bottle of Pellegrino, looking to Wetzon for agreement. “Mineral water is fine,” she said. She felt like a stranger to herself, as if the real Wetzon wasn’t sitting here, that some part of her had spun off and established itself, like a clone, and she was simply observing.
    “... wine with dinner,” Alton was saying. “Is that all right?” He was waiting for her answer.
    “If it’s white and dry.”
    “We’ll make sure it is.” His eyes were medium brown with darker edges, heavy lidded beneath unruly gray brows.
    The waiter reeled off the specials, then discreetly withdrew to let them decide.
    “Everything sounds wonderful,” she said, listening to the warm hum of voices around her. “I’m much better when I have only a few choices.” She hid her face behind the immense menu. It was daunting. This whole situation was daunting. He obviously liked her, and she didn’t know what to do with herself. Why was it so easy for her to talk to strangers but the minute there was the suggestion of intimacy between her and a man, she became an inarticulate idiot? She had felt safe with Silvestri; now she was adrift.
    Sighing, she stared at the words on the menu, not seeing them, until Alton gently took the menu away from her and folded it.
    “Would you like me to order for you?”
    She nodded, feeling her cheeks blaze. “Something from the sea, please.”
    He