Partners In Crime (15 page)

He was not surprised to find Dierdre beside
a vase of flowers, polishing it with a dirty cloth. She was hardly
taller than the stand the vase stood on.

"Just cut them," she told T.S., but he was
not fooled by her innocent demeanor.

"You were listening in, weren't you?" he
asked her.

She shrugged, her round, sloping shoulders
rolling up and down. "So what if I was? I have a right. I knew him
better than anyone."

"You don't seem too upset," T.S.
observed.

She defied him with a laugh. "That's because
going and getting killed is the most surprising thing that boy has
done in years.'' She suddenly stopped, as if realizing that a
stranger would find her reaction peculiar.

"Of course I loved him," she nearly hissed.
"I was probably the only one. I used to change his diapers. He was
a bright boy. Full of fun. Full of life and laughter. Yes,
laughter. You think I'm crazy, but it was true. Always wanting to
try new things. But his father bled all the spirit out of him.
Every drop. Finally broke him completely. I could tell you the day,
but I won't." She shook her rag angrily at T.S.

"He hadn't been my Robert for a good thirty
years," she said softly. "So you'll just have to forgive me if I
temper my grief with some satisfaction at the surprising way he
managed to get himself killed. It was a flash of the old Robert and
I was glad to see it. He died a long, long time ago. Believe me.
You don't know what it was like for him. Growing up an individual
and being squeezed into the mold his father made for him."

T.S. had listened to the articulate words
spilling rapidly from her mouth with a speechless astonishment. And
he was further astonished when she suddenly turned her back on him
and walked briskly away. He soon learned the reason why, when he
heard Lilah descending the stairway.

"Making friends with Dierdre?" Lilah asked.
She held a small slip of paper in one hand.' 'She's really a lovely
woman, you know. Quite well-read."

He was still too stupefied to frame a proper
response. "She was… telling me how much she thought of Robert," he
finally finished lamely.

"She loved him more than
anyone. Including me. Here." Lilah held the piece of paper out to
him. "He was using this as a bookmark. That's all I could find. The
book was called
The Changing Face of
Capitalism.
Do you want that,
too?"

"Good heavens, no." He unfolded the paper
and stared at it. The words made absolutely no sense. "Magritte,"
he read aloud. Lilah stared at him blankly.

"He's written 'Magritte' down twice and
underlined one of them." He looked up at Lilah. "Know a
Magritte?"

"I'm afraid not. It may simply have been a
book he wanted to read, a painting he wanted to buy." She shrugged.
"I would help you if I could, Theodore. Really I would." She smiled
at him and he felt the old confusion flooding back.

"I have to be going," he managed to say
without swallowing his tongue. From now on, Auntie Lil would handle
the Lilah interviews. He'd made a mess of it.

Lilah took both of his hands in hers and
smiled. "You were very sweet to come so far to see me, Theodore.
And if I need any help, you'll be the first person I call."

He nodded, smiling dumbly back, promising
himself that if he didn't trip on the way out, he would consider at
least his exit a success. She fetched his coat herself and he
wondered aloud where the rest of the servants and children
were.

"What servants? I keep Dierdre because she
belongs here but, of course, she's retired and spends most of her
time in the garden. I have a maid come in three times a week and
the kids are at college. They're coming home tomorrow for the
funeral. He wasn't close to them, either. They hurt for him a long
time ago."

"Why did you stay married to him?" he asked
her suddenly.

"What? And leave show business?" She swept a
strong arm around the great hallway and gave a mirthless laugh.

He kissed her on the cheek as he departed.
Her skin was warm and soft beneath his lips and he was rewarded
with a dazzling smile that followed him all the way to his car. He
turned for a final wave good-bye to find her leaning against the
door, watching his departure.

"Good night, Theodore," she called out,
charming him with her little girl wave. "Don't let the bedbugs
bite."

"John Boswell," he thought bitterly as he
pulled out of the driveway and headed toward home. He shook his
head. He should have guessed. He really should have known. How
could she ever get mixed up with someone like John Boswell?

He'd failed utterly at distancing himself
from the problem. And, he reminded himself, he'd forgotten to ask
her why she'd stopped by Sterling & Sterling the night that her
husband was killed.

The sunny weather of Sunday afternoon
continued into Monday morning and T.S. arose filled with vigor, his
troubling thoughts of murder, spiteful partners, age, unfaithful
wives, strange servants and lost chances banished by a good night's
sleep.

Hoping to avoid a repeat of Friday, he stood
for several minutes in front of his tie rack looking for a
compromise candidate. He would wear a tie, but one only he would
like. That would show them he was now his own man. There were
several possible choices and he considered them carefully. He
rejected the string cowboy tie brought back to him from Sante Fe by
his cleaning lady, and settled instead on a wide crimson silk,
given to him last Christmas by Herbert Wong. Wong was a loyal
Sterling & Sterling messenger, now retired, who for years had
brought gifts back from his vacations as thanks to T.S. for having
been granted a job neatly fifteen years before. The mementos ranged
from plastic coasters painted with hula dancers to a Mexican
sombrero. Last year, Wong had traveled home to Singapore and
returned with a special tie for the esteemed Mr. Hubbert.

Mr. Wong was not of the American culture and
thus actually grateful to have a job. These kinds of employees
were, on the whole, the only ones T.S. found himself liking these
days.

The tie was intricately embroidered with an
enormous dragon, its bottle green scales giving way to a golden
mane and black eyes. The widest part of the tie highlighted a
gaping dragon mouth, featuring long white fangs and orange fire
spitting forth. It was just the thing to keep him going. He
selected a pair of matching red socks for good measure and
completed the ensemble with an impeccably cut charcoal gray
suit.

Once on the subway, he
quickly found mention of the murder on page 1 of the
Times
Metropolitan
Section, indicating the power of Sterling & Sterling's
influence on the city's financial circles. The brief article
tastefully recounted the incident, providing no new information on
the crime. The murder was described in such a low key manner that
the deed came off sounding practically routine. But with the murder
in the Times, the story had surely spread across the nation.
Clients, kooks and the press would inundate Sterling & Sterling
with phone calls. This thought made him hurry and he waited
impatiently in line for coffee at the mobile cart before charging
into the Personnel Department.

He should have stayed in bed. It became
immediately apparent that chaos reigned supreme in his former
kingdom. Margaret, the receptionist, scurried from desk to desk,
dropping off handfuls of messages and grabbing phones two at a
time. She handed him a stack of memos before he could slip by, and
shot him a grim glance.

"Mr. Hale has called three times," she
squeaked and scurried off again. He stuffed the messages into his
pocket, rounded the comer and smacked directly into Sheila. She had
a pencil stuck behind one ear, a pile of medical files under one
arm and two cups of coffee stacked one on the other balanced in her
free hand.

"Going into hiding. They're driving me
crazy," she shouted as she sped by. Her eyes shimmered with a
desperate gleam. "The blue rinse crowd is at me. They haven't a
thing to do and everyone is calling me for details!"

As head of employee benefits, Sheila oversaw
the welfare of Sterling & Sterling retirees. With news of the
murder spreading, they had called from Florida to Arizona, and
every state in between and beyond. No doubt crazy Miss Turnbull
would be next.

A former typist in the defunct steno pool,
Miss Turnbull took a morbid and unseemly interest in the deaths of
Sterling & Sterling employees, especially fellow retirees. Not
a demise went by without Miss Turnbull sending Sheila clipped
obituaries and any personal details she could dig up. It was a
ghoulish hobby for someone so advanced in age as she. Although T.S.
had not actually seen her for years, in his mind Miss Turnbull
always wore a black cloak with a white dress beneath and stood
looking down on Sterling & Sterling survivors with the beady
eyes of a vulture. No wonder Sheila was going into hiding.

He was looking forward to the calm of his
makeshift office but this was not to be. Lieutenant Abromowitz sat
in his seat, waiting patiently for his arrival. T.S. stopped in the
doorway, coffee cup in hand, and stared. Abromowitz was happily
inspecting the contents of T.S.'s desk drawer without any apparent
attempt at discretion.

"There's hardly a thing in here," the
lieutenant said in lieu of a greeting. He held up a box of paper
clips and a pen, then stuffed them back in the drawer, slammed it
shut and smiled at T.S. "Brought me coffee? Great, I'm only
half-awake this morning." Abromowitz reached for the coffee and
T.S. relinquished it automatically.

"Good morning, Lieutenant. Please have a
seat." Sarcasm was wasted on Abromowitz but it didn't stop T.S.
from trying. He stood by his own desk, looking around for somewhere
to sit.

Abromowitz moved a stack of partners' files
off of the extra chair and patted the seat. "Thanks, I did. Here,
take a load off. Say, did you see your old office yet?"

"Yes. I noticed it this weekend when I came
in at your request and spent my entire Saturday looking for
files."

"Looks like a regular botanical garden in
there.'' He pried the plastic top off of the coffee and sniffed
appreciatively at the aroma. "That Miss Fullbright's a talented
lady."

Talented? She was the Lizzie Borden of the
plant world. Pruned her poor greenery to death. T.S. sat
reluctantly in the visitor's chair, staring at his commandeered
coffee. "Is there something I can help you with this morning?"

"Yeah, you can." The lieutenant dipped the
tip of his tongue in the liquid. "Any sugar in this?"

"One pack," T.S. replied grimly.

"Perfect." He slurped loudly at the steaming
coffee and T.S. watched the vapors longingly. Abromowitz took his
time deciding what to do, then abruptly shoved the stack of
personnel files over to T.S. "These are useless," he said in a tone
of voice that clearly implied T.S. had planned it that way.

"It's all I've got," T.S. reminded him
firmly. "I told you I thought they'd be of little help."

"These aren't of little help. They're
useless. There's nothing in there but petty stuff that happened
twenty, thirty years ago. I want the trading records of all
partners and executives. What stocks they've bought. What bonds
they've sold. You're required by law to keep them. We can subpoena
them, you know."

"You're welcome to all the financial records
you can lay your hands on. I don't know what else there is. I asked
the treasurer to get them to you on Friday."

"Yeah, well. He didn't." The lieutenant
arched an eyebrow and regarded T.S. thoughtfully. "You're not by
any chance hiding anything in those financial files?"

"Don't be absurd. And give me my coffee
back." T.S. reached over and reclaimed his cup. "I'll call Stanley
Sinclair this instant if you'll kindly get out of my seat."

The lieutenant stood up silently and moved
to the window. T.S. wiped off the rim of his cup and glared at
Abromowitz as he dialed the treasurer's extension. He didn't know
what was worse. Dealing with Abromowitz or dealing with
Sinclair.

Stanley Sinclair, Treasurer of Sterling
& Sterling, was an unabashed sycophant from way back. He lived
to serve the partners, never disagreed with anything they said, and
raced to point the finger of blame whenever anything went wrong.
T.S. had long loathed the man's stalling, servile ways and he was
angry that the financial files had not been sent to Abromowitz as
requested.

Naturally, Sinclair did not answer his own
phone. This was beneath his standing. Instead, a breathless voice
answered, "Good morning. Office of the Treasurer. Sterling &
Sterling, Private Bankers. Mr. Sinclair's line. How may I help
you?"

By the time the introduction was over, he'd
nearly forgotten why he was calling. "This is Mr. Hubbert in
Personnel. Put Stanley on the line."

"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Sinclair left explicit
instructions not to be disturbed by anyone. May I take a message?"
This was delivered in a confident tone, full of the expectation
that such orders dare not be breached.

"Get that toad on the line now or I'll be
sitting on his desk within three minutes with Edgar Hale on the
line."

There was a sharp intake of breath and the
voice asked, "Who did you say this was?"

"Mr. Hubbert. The Personnel Manager." Forget
retired, let her sweat.

"Yes, sir."

T.S. could feel Abromowitz staring at him as
he waited and he looked up and glared back. Abromowitz mouthed the
words, "Very masterful," and T.S. turned his back on the oaf to sip
his coffee before he lost his temper again. He stared out the
window at the blue sky and white clouds with longing.

"This is Mr. Sinclair speaking. How can I
help you?" The treasurer had refined being supercilious to an art,
having practiced just the right voice inflection for years.