Partners In Crime (16 page)

"Can it, Stanley. This is Hubbert. You were
supposed to have the financial files to the police on Friday before
you left. What happened?"

"There's been a problem. Mr. Hale agrees."
Stanley Sinclair had a high, reedy voice that never failed to grate
on T.S.'s nerves.

"No. You have a problem right now.
Lieutenant Abromowitz will be in your office in precisely three
minutes and I expect you to have those files ready." He hung up the
phone and decided he didn't care if he had any authority anymore or
not. He just wanted to get Abromowitz out of his office and into
someone else's. Preferably Stanley Sinclair's. If ever two people
deserved each other, they did.

"Efficient this morning, aren't we?"
Abromowitz remarked sarcastically on his way out the door.

T.S. shrugged and took off his coat.
"Sinclair is two flights up," he said. "I assume you can find your
way." When the lieutenant glowered at him, T.S. lowered his big
gun. "By the way, get any fingerprints from the conference
room?"

The lieutenant's frown deepened. "That
secretary's, of course. Everything else was wiped clean. Including
the showcase that held the knife." He paused and looked T.S. over.
"I don't see any need to mention what happened, do you? I mean,
about the misunderstanding?"

"You mean the contamination of evidence by
the carelessness of your men?" T.S. spread both palms up and
shrugged. "You give a little. You get a little."

The lieutenant sighed. This was one game too
dangerous to play any longer than was absolutely necessary. "What
do you want to know?"

T.S. stared at Abromowitz thoughtfully. How
could he phrase it without arousing suspicion? "Mr. Hale was
anxious to know if you had removed anything from the premises," he
finally said. "Anything from Cheswick's desk."

The lieutenant stared back at him. "Dead
flowers. Blood scrapings. That's all. Like them back?"

The paperweight had been removed by the
killer. But why? If Cheswick had even had one. Anne Marie hadn't
thought so. How could he find out for sure?

"What about personal papers?" T.S. risked,
pushing his luck.

"The guy had none. At least we haven't found
them yet. I'm going to talk to the secretary again. And you've used
up all your favors." The lieutenant turned to go, but paused just
before he disappeared around the corner. "Just one more thing," he
added, "your partner was loaded at the time of his death. Extremely
drunk indeed."

T.S. threw his coat onto the windowsill and
loosened the dragon tie. He hated not having a few minutes of peace
in the morning. And he had a feeling that the chaos was just
beginning. Remembering the many phone messages, he took them from
his coat pocket, thumbed through them quickly and tossed them in
the trash.

Four more sips into his coffee, Mrs. Quincy
charged in the door. As secretary to Edgar Hale, she was Sterling
& Sterling's most senior administrative employee, the
self-proclaimed queen of all partners' secretaries and head
busybody of the entire firm. She had an unattractive habit of
constantly scowling and bossing everyone, even other partners,
around—with the sole exception of Edgar Hale. Rebukes or attempts
to put her in her place sailed right past her without effect. He
might have liked her had she merely been a character but, as it
was, she was an unpleasant woman and stirred up far too much
trouble for his taste.

"What is it, Mrs. Quincy?" He was attempting
to restack the rejected files.

"Mr. Hale sent me up personally," she
declared. "Since you refuse to return his calls." She seated
herself in his visitor's chair with all the aplomb of Queen
Elizabeth. "He says there's an emergency and he must meet with you
at 11:00 A.M. in the conference room on the second floor.'' She
waited impatiently for his reply.

"An emergency? Very well. I'll be there.
What is this about?"

"I am not at liberty to divulge that, but if
you ask me, it is something that you should have anticipated. As it
is, Mr. Sinclair had to cover for you."

He turned his head slowly and stared at her.
It seemed as if the dragon on his tie was sending him signals of
strength, that if he opened his mouth and roared, flames of fire
would lick over Mrs. Quincy and singe her hair into a frazzle. It
was an appealing thought. "Mrs. Quincy, I am retired. I technically
have no responsibilities here other than those that I choose to
perform as a favor. I have nothing to oversee and. thus, nothing to
overlook. Understand?"

She stood her ground firmly. "I'll tell him
you'll be there. The Management Committee, as well as Mr. Sinclair,
will also be present. Mr. Hale has asked me to get all new details
on the investigation from you prior to the meeting."

He doubted that, but it was a good try on
her part. "Two new developments, Mrs. Quincy," he said sweetly. She
waited expectantly, ears on the verge of quivering. "Number one,
Sterling & Sterling is about to get some very bad press indeed
because Stanley Sinclair is too stupid to cooperate with the police
and number two, we have concrete evidence that a partner's
secretary murdered Robert Cheswick."

She stared at him with open eyes and he
nodded wisely. "Yes, we found a piece of paper on the floor by his
feet. He'd written part of a name on it in blood: 'QUIN' it began,
before he ran out of life. You don't know who that might be, do
you?"

He was greeted with an icy stare. He smiled
back. Mrs. Quincy leapt up from the chair, looked as if she might
slap him, whirled on her heels and stomped from the room, plowing
down Herbert Wong in the process. The messenger was hovering about
the door, angling to be invited in.

"Herbert," T.S. said loudly, hoping to shame
Mrs. Quincy. "Are you okay? Let me help you brush off your jacket."
Mrs. Quincy, however, had long disappeared and T.S. simply shrugged
and waved him in the door.

"Mr. Hubbert, sir," the elderly man said
with a bow. "A good morning to you this fine day." When he
straightened up, dignity settled on him with a quiet authority.
T.S. suspected that Herbert Wong, though meek, was, in his own
quiet way, a most unusual man. He was tiny, meticulous in his
appearance, and just beginning to round out with old age. Sienna
age spots had seeped up through his burnished skin and this,
combined with his thickening middle, made him look like a large,
ripening pear. His thinning white hair had been carefully combed
back over an extremely round and shining scalp in anticipation of
his meeting with the hallowed Mr. Hubbert.

"Good morning to you, Herbert. You're
looking fine. Retirement agrees with you. I wish it did with me."
T.S. sat quickly in his chair, stifling the reflexive urge to bow
back that always seized him when confronted with the custom. "Would
you like to sit down?" He waved toward a chair and the retired
messenger stealthily moved toward it, shuttling sideways with a
curious gait. What in the world had gotten into the man?

"You are wearing my tie!" Mr. Wong cried
suddenly.

T.S. jumped up from his chair, nearly
spilling the rest of his coffee.

"You are wearing my gift," Mr. Wong cried
again, his face breaking into a grin.

"What? Oh, yes. So I am." They stared down
at his tie together and T.S. fingered the embroidered scarlet
dragon.

"A fine tie," Mr. Wong finally said into the
silence. "A fine tie."

"Yes," T.S. agreed. "One of my favorites.
Absolutely." He sat back down and folded his hands on his desk,
coughing discreetly. The retired messenger beamed at him. "So, Mr.
Wong," T.S. finally said. "What can I do for you?"

"For me?" He leapt to his feet. "No. Not for
me. I have come to see what I can do for you." He bowed again, then
stood tall and proud. "I have heard you are investigating the
untimely death of our partner and I wish to offer you my
services."

"Your services?" T.S. asked. "The obituary
has been delivered."

"No, no. Not as a messenger. As your
investigative assistant." The old man bent low and thrust out a
tightened fist, banging it back into his chest with a thump that
made T.S. jump a second time. He definitely needed to cut back on
the caffeine.

"I have training," Mr. Wong said, lifting up
one leg and bending his other knee in a crane-like stance. "It is
not a joke. As a young boy." He held up a fist and let T.S. inspect
it. "It's very strong. Could be useful."

"Yes, well, Herbert. I don't know what to
say." T.S. stared at the man for a moment. "It's very kind of you
to offer. But I'm leaving that sort of thing to the police. I'm
really just unofficially assisting in some of the paperwork. A few
inquiries. Things like that."

The elderly messenger seemed quite dejected
at this news. He stared for a moment at T.S., then shook his head.
"It's not right," he said. "They should put you in charge." He
moved over and pounded T.S. on the back. "You are a fine man and
very, very smart. Much smarter than the partners, even, I always
say. They should put you in charge."

T.S. managed a smile. "Thank you, Herbert. I
appreciate the vote of confidence."

"Well, then it looks like we all have
confidence in the esteemed T.S Hubbert." Felicia Fullbright lounged
against the doorjamb, watching the scene with amusement.

Herbert Wong looked carefully from T.S. to
Miss Fullbright and back to T.S. "I must go," he said quickly,
bowing again and backing toward the door.

"I'd lay off those Bruce Lee movies if I
were you," Miss Fullbright advised the retreating messenger
sweetly. Mr. Wong contented himself with a dignified bow in
reply.

"President of your fan club?" she asked T.S.
as she straightened out an imaginary twist in the large bow she
wore in lieu of a tie.

"Thank god for employees like Herbert Wong,"
T.S. replied fervently. Who was she to make fun of his hires?
Especially ones that had been at Sterling & Sterling for
fifteen years—almost twice as long as she had.

"An employee like Mr. Wong may well have
stabbed Robert Cheswick," she pointed out, making a beeline for the
visitor's chair. "He's on the list of people checking out late that
night."

"Won't you come in, Miss Fullbright?" he
asked, a shade too politely, as she flopped into the chair's
still-warm seat.

"Thank you, I will." Her face was flushed
scarlet, but when he saw that her neck was equally red, he realized
she'd been badly sunburned over the weekend.

"Looks like you had a wonderful weekend
outdoors." He looked with longing again at the blue sky outside. It
was probably a great day for golf. If only he golfed.

"I've got some problems here and I need your
advice," she said, ignoring his attempt at small talk.

"My advice? I'm sure you're perfectly
capable of handling anything."

"Of course I am, but no matter what I
decide, I'll be wrong so long as you're here. I'm not stupid, you
know. Retired or not, if I don't get your okay, they'll hang me.
This way they'll hang you." She shot him a glance. "I'm not the
naive person you think I am. I know the office politics around
here."

Yes, she had probably spent all weekend
analyzing them while she lay out too long in the sun. Made a flow
chart or two. "How is the trauma team?" he inquired
pleasantlyy.

She looked at him suspiciously but his face
remained impassive. "They're fine. I put them in the empty
classroom down the hall."

"Line going out the door yet?"

"I haven't noticed. I expect it will take a
day or two for word to get around, even with my memo."

"Well, if things continue as they've started
today, I may be first in line to see them." He picked up his coffee
and took a healthy gulp. Perhaps Sheila had a Valium he could
cadge, though that was hardly discreet and might be taking his
newfound freedom a bit too far. His mind fled Miss Fullbright
momentarily and settled on Mrs. Quincy's message. He could not
imagine what emergency Edgar Hale had discovered that could top the
stabbing of a partner. And what could Stanley Sinclair have to do
with it? T.S. smelled a dead rat and its features were suspiciously
similar to those of the treasurer's.

"What's the problem?" he asked Miss
Fullbright, hoping to extricate himself rapidly from this
conference.

"Several things. For one, absenteeism
skyrocketed today. It's absurd and we're terribly shorthanded. Some
people will take any excuse to stay out of work."

Normally he would have shrugged it off and
hoped that the situation improved the next day. But he was no
longer in any kind of mood to be charitable. "Have everyone called
and tell them they must bring in a doctor's note tomorrow or
they'll be fired. If they can't get a note, they had better be here
by 2:00 this afternoon. Next problem."

Miss Fullbright stared at him. "Isn't that a
bit severe?"

"They're slackers, all of them. Cheswick was
stabbed. They weren't. Next problem." He ran his hand under his
collar and loosened the dragon tie. My, but it felt good to be
decisive and not worry about treading lightly for a change.
Retirement was certainly exhilarating.

She leaned forward and smoothed her skirt
nervously. "I was just curious. How is the investigation going?
Found out anything the police have overlooked?"

T.S. shrugged. "Not really. Anything else I
can help you with?"

"One more thing," she added quickly. "I
thought a memorial service in-house for Mr. Cheswick would be
appropriate. A candlelit gathering on the Main Floor, perhaps. With
a small string quartet, flowers, some speeches and suitable
refreshments."

"How about a mariachi band and flamenco
dancers?" he suggested. Her mouth fell open. "Come, come, Miss
Fullbright. Hold a memorial service twenty feet from where he was
stabbed and on company time to boot? Besides, no one liked him
anyway and he himself would loathe the idea of employees leaving
their desks to mingle about sipping white wine in his memory. The
official memorial service is scheduled for Wednesday evening. Let
those in his department go an hour early so they can be sure to get
there on time. That should do it."