Partners In Crime (18 page)

It was the longest speech he had ever made
without interruptions from Edgar Hale. T.S. was, in fact, so
startled at having everyone's attention that he simply trailed off
his words at the end and clasped his hands in front of him.

"What do you suggest?" Preston Freeman asked
quietly. He had abandoned his files and was now listening
intently.

"Give them anything they want," T.S. said.
"Let them follow us into the bathrooms and coat closets if they
like. Cooperate fully. Give them an office to work out of. Offer
phone lines and secretarial support. Feed them. Let them talk to
everyone they wish. Give them access to each and every employee's
and partner's trading account. For the sake of the bank's
reputation, which is irreplaceable, we must resolve this and go
on."

"Can't we take a more active role in solving
this?" someone asked.

"I'm trying," T.S. admitted. "I'm doing some
looking around of my own. Maybe as an insider I'll be able to find
some things out." He shrugged.

"You think someone here at the bank did it?"
Preston Freeman asked slowly. He leaned forward, staring at T.S.
intently.

T.S. shrugged again. "It's possible. The
timing of the murder and the fact that the murderer kept his cool
and carefully wiped the surfaces clean lead me to believe that the
act was premeditated, with Robert Cheswick clearly the target."

They all sat in silence, considering this
information. Even Stanley Sinclair looked startled.
Characteristically, it was Edgar Hale who broke the silence.

"Well, you better come up with something
quick," he said to T.S., his usual gruffness tinged with a note of
desperation. He glared at Sinclair. "I'm not keen on our private
transactions going public and I want this to end. Sinclair, I want
you to stay on top of Abromowitz, you hear me? Be so helpful he
can't take in a thing. Stay on top of him, understand?"

"Yes, sir," Sinclair said crisply. He shot a
glance at T.S., trying his best to eke out a small measure of
victory from the meeting. "I'll take care of the situation. Don't
you worry."

"Keep him off Hubbert's back," Hale
continued, chomping hungrily on his cigar. "He's right. The big
problem here is our image. We epitomize discretion and gentility.
If this drags on much longer, our clients are going to start
questioning our integrity and our reputation. We can't afford to
let that happen." He looked around the table slowly at everyone
present as if each individual were in some way doing his best to
impede progress. He stopped at the empty chair reserved for John
Boswell.

"Where the devil is Boswell?" he asked. No
one answered. "Never mind,'' he dismissed the matter with a wave.
"Cooperation, then. It's cooperation all around and smother them
with kindness." He stood up from the table and slammed his chair
back into place. "Now let's get back to work and make some
money."

His abrupt and carefully timed exit was
upstaged by the whirlwind arrival of his secretary, Mrs. Quincy.
She came flying in the door, her bun askew and glasses slipping
side-ways on her face. Her skin was flushed scarlet and she seemed
unable to breathe.

"Mr. Hale! Mr. Hale!" she gasped, running
headlong into her boss. Hale bounced off the sideboard and went
toppling over the table, knocking his chair over, tripping over
Preston Freeman and eventually landing in Miss Fullbright's lap.
The two of them immediately tipped over backwards. There was a
flurry of shrieks, a waving of legs, flashes of lingerie, muttered
curses and numerous scrambling sounds.

Several confused seconds later, Edgar Hale
huffed to his feet and left Miss Fullbright lying unceremoniously
on the carpet. He gripped the edge of the conference table tightly
with both hands, his knuckles showing white. Mrs. Quincy stood, her
hand to her mouth, staring at her boss.

His voice was quiet and precisely
controlled, the tone deadly in its exaggerated politeness. "What is
it, Mrs. Quincy? What urgent news have you brought us now?"

The panic-stricken woman pushed her glasses
back up on her nose, then turned the gesture into a sign of the
cross. "It's Mr. Boswell, sir," she whispered. "He's washed ashore.
He's washed ashore at Orient Point."

Reactions to the news varied. T.S. observed
them all with great interest. He himself felt a great sadness, less
for John Boswell than for Sterling & Sterling. This second
death made it clear that the first had been no accident, that the
motive had more to do with the bank and less to do with the
individual—and that chances were good the killing would continue if
the reasons were not uncovered. And it strengthened the
lieutenant's theory that financial impropriety was the motive, a
situation that could easily mean death to the firm itself. And
however much he made fun of Sterling & Sterling, it had been
his home for over half of his life and T.S. had come to respect the
integrity it strove to preserve. Boswell's death would hurt it
greatly and he searched his mind for ways to stem the damage.

Stanley Sinclair reacted to the news with
sudden silence. He stared straight ahead at the wall, his face
impassive. Only his eyes moved in his head and they shifted
nervously from wall to wall. For once, his precious files were
forgotten. A few seconds later, an almost imperceptible tremor
passed through his body and his eyes reflected a puzzlement quickly
replaced by the darkness of an even stronger emotion. Perhaps
fear.

Miss Fullbright grasped his arm at the news
and clung tightly to T.S. He looked down at her. Her lower lip had
started to quiver and her eyes glittered nearly black. He resisted
the impulse to draw away. She was not really of such stem stuff
that two murders would not affect her greatly, but he had not
expected it to, well, almost excite her.

Meanwhile, the Management Committee partners
were staring at Mrs. Quincy as if the messenger bearing bad news
deserved immediate execution. She stared wildly back at them, her
body pressed against the wall. Her tongue was hanging out in a near
pant, as if she were facing the firing squad. Her worst fears had
come true. She expected to be arbitrarily dismissed from her job at
any moment.

Only Preston Freeman retained his composure.
He stared down at the open file before him, his lower lip stuck out
thoughtfully. He was certainly a cool one.

The biggest change occurred in Edgar Hale.
As T.S. watched, it seemed as if the Managing Partner actually
shrank in size. His shoulders sagged, his stomach became a paunch,
his face drooped and he stubbed his cigar down absently in the
ashtray. He ran a hand tiredly through his thinning hair and
wrinkles appeared on his forehead. Putting a hand out to steady
himself, he lowered himself into Boswell's empty chair and placed
his head in his hands. He changed from a contentious and volatile
leader to a weary and frightened old man before their eyes.

T.S. took it upon himself to break the
ominous silence. "How did you hear this, Mrs. Quincy? Are you
sure?"

Everyone's eyes shifted to T.S. and the
secretary relaxed her posture, answering almost politely in her
relief at being removed from the center of attention. "Yes, sir.
I'm quite sure. Mr. Boswell's housekeeper called to notify us. The
police just told his wife and she is too distraught to make the
formal identification. They were hoping someone from the office
could do it."

"Yes, of course," T.S. said automatically.
"Send Jimmy, he'll be able to take it." As valet to the partners
for decades, Jimmy Ruffino could be counted on to undertake the
unpleasant task with bearing and aplomb.

"Did she give any details?" The assembled
group let T.S. lead the way.

"Only that he was found this morning about
10:00 A.M. by two women who were painting seascapes from a bluff
out on Orient Point, sir," Mrs. Quincy replied.

T.S. nodded. He knew the area. It was a
small seaside town on the northern claw of Long Island.

"He'd drowned," she continued when no one
responded. "They say there was no question of reviving him. They
are checking the marina now. He had a sailboat, you know. It was
his pride and joy."

Edgar Hale nodded at this statement and T.S.
remembered that John Boswell had probably been Hale's closest
friend at Sterling & Sterling. As the nearest to him in terms
of power, Boswell was one of the few individuals Edgar Hale could
relax around or confide in. T.S. looked at the grieving man, then
addressed the group.

"We don't know if there's a connection. This
may be a sad coincidence. " He sighed. "However, the media will
certainly connect the two incidents, whether rightly or wrongly. I
suggest we keep this to ourselves for now. I will ask that all
calls be forwarded to my department. There's very little more we
can do except cooperate with the police."

He stood up to signal that the meeting was
over and Miss Fullbright followed his lead. The members of the
Management Committee hesitantly stood as well. Stanley Sinclair
virtually sprang to his feet, tugging his files under his arm and
walking stiffly to the door. Edgar Hale remained seated, staring
quietly at the smooth polished surface of the table. T.S. patted
the man's shoulder on his way out the door and stopped to speak to
Mrs. Quincy. "Perhaps Mr. Hale would like a cup of tea. And then he
may want you to call his driver. It has been a difficult day for
him."

"Yes," Edgar Hale echoed, raising his head.
His voice was uncharacteristically soft. "Please have my driver
bring the car around. I must drive out to see Megan Boswell. I am
sure she will need a steady hand and a friend to guide her through
this."

Miss Fullbright followed T.S. from the room,
nearly trampling his heels in her haste. He turned to glare but she
had been transported in her excitement or fear and took no notice
of him, instead gliding past and heading for the elevator in a near
trance. He stared after her.

He was saddened and sickened by this latest
news but, most of all, he was filled with resolve. There had to be
more they could do to get to the bottom of the murders. He would
not sit idly by while the police got bogged down in money transfers
and stock transactions. His first talk would be with Sheila.

He entered her office without knocking. She
was attempting to end a phone conversation with an anxious
retiree.

"No, Mrs. Gladden. I'm sure no one is out to
get Sterling & Sterling employees. Mr. Cheswick's death was
probably an accident of some sort. Perhaps he was surprised by a
burglar. I doubt the killer will be in Arizona any time soon."

There was a silence, and she looked up at
T.S., rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "Yes, I'm sure. And please
don't hesitate to call me if you need me. Good-bye." She hung up
the phone and sighed, rubbing at her temples. "It's been like this
all day," she said and waved for T.S. to sit down. "Some of them
are really frightened. I can't imagine what they think. That some
maniac is picking names at random from the Sterling & Sterling
employee directory?"

T.S. tucked his feet beneath the chair.
"Sheila, John Boswell has been found drowned in Long Island
Sound."

She had been reaching for the phone again,
but froze at his pronouncement. The blood drained from her face and
her lips trembled against her suddenly pale skin. The lips moved
but no sound came out. She moved them again and this time a very
faint "What?" floated to T.S.'s ears.

"I'm sorry. John Boswell has been found
drowned in Long Island Sound."

Sheila leaned back in her chair and stared
intently at her feet, then pressed a hand over her eyes and
sighed.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." He
had not expected her to be so distressed at the news.

"I'm all right," she said weakly. "Just
surprised. One was enough. But two ..." Her words trailed off and
she stared to the right of T.S. 's head.

"Yes. It's all the more tragic because I
doubt it's a coincidence. They found the body this morning. We
don't know any details yet. I'm afraid I need your help."

"Of course. What can I do?" She spoke
quietly, still stunned.

"Are you and your husband on speaking
terms?"

"Yes. I say good morning and Brian says
good-bye. He's been working the night shift at his precinct.
Probably on purpose."

"Do you think he could get us the details on
Boswell's drowning? I don't think Abromowitz is going to be much
help. I think they've brought him in on the drowning and he's not
going to have time for someone like me."

"What makes you say that?"

"He was called out of here suddenly this
morning by his office, according to Stanley Sinclair. It had to be
because of Boswell. The police would connect the two
immediately."

"As they should," she said without
emotion.

He nodded. "As they should. But I need to
know details. Anything that might help us. I admit that my
investigation started out as a scheme to humor Auntie Lil and
relieve the pending boredom of retirement. But I don't like the
looks of this at all. I saw Edgar Hale turn into an old man before
my eyes. People may be in danger. People here at Sterling &
Sterling. And I don't believe the police are on the right track.
They're convinced that financial hanky-panky is behind Cheswick's
murder, but I just don't see it. He was an honest man, if nothing
more."

"What do you want to know?'' She had pulled
out a small pad and a pen and was ready to take down
instructions.

"Everything you can find out about the
circumstances of Boswell's death. Was anything found with him? Was
there anything missing? What was he wearing? Were there any
similarities between his condition and that of Cheswick?"

"Such as what?" she asked.