Partners In Crime (22 page)

"Don't be humiliated for me," she said. "I
knew what I was getting into. It was certainly no great love
affair. We'd slept together exactly three times total since New
Year's Eve. That was when I weakened. At the partners' New Year's
Eve party. All the wives were there. I guess he'd pretty much
exhausted all the other possibilities by then and decided to start
over with me. He was very flattering and it suddenly seemed to me
the most natural of resolutions to do something, anything, to break
out of the pattern I was in. So I agreed to start seeing him. But
once I agreed, he lost much of his enthusiasm and I've seen him
very little since. You want to know the funny part? He wasn't any
better in bed than Robert. I would just as soon have been by
myself, reading a good book, or out riding one of my horses."

T.S. gulped and looked at his shoes for
comfort.

"I don't want to tell the police, Theodore,"
she said to him. "And Megan Boswell is one of my closet friends. I
couldn't face her if she knew."

"Couldn't you just say he came over to
express his condolences?"

"He was supposed to be at a business
conference in Japan. At least that's what he told his wife. Megan
would smell an immediate rat."

T.S. stared thoughtfully at the floor.
"Where was he for the rest of the weekend then? Did he tell you
anything that may be important?"

"Yes," she said simply. "That's why I'm
here. I may be an adulteress, but I'm not a murderer. I'd like to
see whoever killed them caught."

"Killed them? You're assuming Boswell was
murdered by the same person?"

"Of course. There's hardly been a pickpocket
in the two hundred years of Sterling & Sterling's history and
suddenly two partners die in three days. John Boswell drown? He
nearly made the Olympic team in swimming. He would never have
drowned."

"What did he say that was so important?"
Remembering Auntie Lil's methods, he pulled his notebook from his
pocket and prepared to take notes. Lilah stared at him pointedly.
"It's just for my own use," he assured her.

"Do you think this will make up in some
small way for what I did to Robert?"

Robert Cheswick was dead. Lilah Cheswick was
not. "I think it's more a question of what he did to you," T.S.
reminded her gently. "You're only human, remember?"

"Yes, I am. That's what I hate. Being so
predictable."

He managed a smile. "You're one of the least
predictable people I know."

She began. "He arrived at my house about
10:00 A.M. He didn't even call first, just showed up. I suppose he
knew I would be furious about Thursday night. The night Robert
died. John was supposed to meet me at a little French restaurant in
the Village while Robert was giving the speech at your retirement
party. But John never showed up. I waited about an hour, then left.
The maitre d' was very kind and kept apologizing on his behalf. I
decided to stop by my husband's office around 9:00 or 9:30 P.M. to
see if he was still there. He'd been staying quite late in the
weeks before his death. I thought maybe he could join me for
dinner. I'd assuage my conscience and pride all at the same
time."

"But the guard couldn't find him?"

"No. I thought he must have already left to
spend the night at the Yale Club. So I returned home. I was quite
upset. You see, John had mentioned our taking a long weekend
together. He had said we could christen his boat for the season and
take her on a three-day sail, maybe to Block Island. Megan was in
Oregon visiting relatives and I told Robert I was going to a spa
for the weekend. It was to be our first trip of any length
together. But John stopped mentioning the trip about a week before
we were to go and I had counted on making final plans at the
restaurant. So there I was. Stood up. And no excuse to tell my
husband as to why I wasn't going away. I felt like a fool."

She spoke harshly, as if she deserved the
punishment. "In the end, I didn't need an excuse. When they called
me on Friday morning and said Robert had been murdered, I tried to
call John, but his housekeeper said he had gone for the day. He
wasn't at work, either. I took a real chance by calling him there.
I think Robert's secretary answered the phone. I tried to disguise
my voice, but I doubt I fooled her. The picture became very clear
to me—John had met someone he preferred more than me and wanted me
to just go away. So I called his house again and left a message to
call me. Then I began to telephone my own family with the bad news
about Robert's death."

"Did Boswell call you back?"

"No. He had his housekeeper call early
Saturday to say that he was taking care of the arrangements. That I
was not to worry. That he would call in a few hours. He didn't, of
course." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her evening purse and
lit up, smoking with an angry vengeance. T.S. marveled she'd been
able to hold off so long. "I gave these up and now I'm giving up
giving them up," she said.

"Perhaps I'll have one," T.S. agreed,
surprising them both.

"Only if you don't tell Auntie Lil," she
warned.

He smiled. "I won't if you won't."

The cigarettes were comforting. They puffed
away like two kids sneaking smokes behind the bam.

"What did he say when he arrived on Sunday
morning?"

"He made some terrible joke about the rainy
weather and how it was good we hadn't gone out on the boat. The
look I gave him made him stop in his tracks. He then said he was
terribly sorry about Robert, that he knew it was an awful strain on
me. All the things he was supposed to say."

"Where had he been on Friday and
Saturday?"

"I don't know. With someone else, I'm sure.
He didn't say that, but..."

"When did he last see your husband?"

"He said he'd had an argument with him about
some business matter and last seen him around 8:00 Thursday night.
He tried to make it sound like that was why he'd stood me up. I
wasn't buying it."

"Was he upset about your husband's
death?"

She ground out her cigarette in a silver
ashtray attached to the front seat and shrugged. "To be perfectly
frank, I don't think he gave a shit. Let's face it. Robert was a
terrible drag on the bank. He'd exhausted his connections and
usefulness some time ago. He had apparently bungled some big
accounts lately and was growing mean as a defense against
criticism. John's lack of sorrow wasn't the curious thing."

"What was curious?"

"He didn't seem surprised. I was still in
shock about Robert. Not from grief. Just from surprise. Who would
bother to stab him? But John didn't act surprised at all."

"What else did he say?"

"He tried to say that he had never thought I
was serious about going away with him for the weekend and that's
why he hadn't gone through with our plans. I heard better excuses
than that thirty years ago in college."

"You're sure he didn't really believe that?
Going away with him was an extraordinary chance for you to
take."

"Of course I'm sure. I'm not a total fool.
Just selectively foolish. He found someone better, that's all. No
doubt someone younger. With Megan out of town, it was too good an
opportunity to waste on me."

"Do you have any idea who it might have
been? Did she have a name? Was it Magritte?"

"No," she said, staring at T.S. curiously,
but giving no sign that she remembered seeing the name on her
husband's bookmark. "And I didn't feel like pressing him for
details. He was anxious to go at that point and I was anxious for
him to leave. He didn't even bother to hang up his jacket. He was
all dressed up in his captain outfit and ready to go out on his
boat." She spoke bitterly. "I don't even know if I told him
good-bye or not." She stopped, considered this statement, and
abruptly burst into tears again.

T.S. fumbled for his handkerchief and
pressed it on her. He had never gotten used to giving emotional
advice and was reduced to patting her on the shoulder repeatedly
with an occasional "There, there."

"If I'd known he was going to be killed, I'd
certainly have told him good-bye," she choked out through her
sobs.

"Was he concerned about his personal
safety?" T.S. asked her when her new tears subsided.

She sniffed. "I don't remember. I was too
upset." She gave a long sigh, shook herself and sat up straight.
"That's it. That's all. No more tears. Damn, I was a fool. I am far
too old for things like this."

T.S. unclenched her left hand from a fist
and patted it gently. "If we worried about making fools of
ourselves, we'd never get a chance to live."

"That sounds like Auntie Lil." She
considered the advice briefly, but spent little time weighing its
merits. "What am I going to do?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "It's important
that they know Boswell's whereabouts on Sunday. Especially if foul
play was involved."

Lilah leaned forward suddenly and tapped on
the partition. The chauffeur woke suspiciously quickly, hopping to
attention.

"Where are you going?" T.S. asked her.

"To the police. I'll tell them he came by at
10:00 Sunday morning to express his condolences. They can figure
out the rest on their own."

He reached for the door handle. "Thank you
for trusting me," he said quietly.

Her smile was brief and lacked its usual
brilliance. "Thank you for not judging me," she said. "I'm having a
little trouble standing myself these days. My only consolation is
that Robert never knew."

He blessed the discretion that had kept him
from telling her about the overheard argument between her husband
and Boswell. Was she the woman they'd fought about? If she was,
T.S. preferred to leave her with some peace, even if his own had
been uncomfortably disturbed by the knowledge that the rumors had
been true.

He watched the sleek black limousine pull
away from the curb, then walked slowly through the lobby, ignoring
Mau-moud's admiring glance.

Women, women, women, he thought. But who was
Magritte?

Auntie Lil's suggestion to
confront Stanley Sinclair in the morning sounded simple, but the
execution of it was proving impossible. T.S. arrived at the office
early, stopping only to buy the
Post
and the
Times
. The
Times
had no mention of Boswell's
murder, but the
Post
had gotten hold of someone who had talked and the headline
screamed
Floating Love Nest Turns
Deadly,
with a subhead proclaiming:
Killer Stalks Wall Street Elite.
The pitcher of margaritas figured prominently in
the story as did a mysterious blonde he'd been spotted with at the
marina. That was news to T.S. There went Megan Boswell's dignity.
Anyone reading it would have gotten the impression that John
Boswell had been found floating naked with the pitcher still
clutched in one hand and the blonde in the other. Everyone
connected the two murders, it seemed. If not already, they would
once the media got through.

With this thought came the
recognition of Stanley Sinclair's expression the day before. He had
immediately connected the murders. Not out of fear. Not out of
coincidence. But because of knowledge. T.S. lowered the
Post
to his desk and
debated whether to get coffee first or call right away. He
called.

"Mr. Sinclair is not in yet," a secretarial
voice informed him.

T.S. left a message and wondered. He was
still not in by 10:00 A.M. and T.S. left yet another message. By
10:30 it was apparent that he was not the only one to have noticed
Sinclair's absence.

Edgar Hale stormed into his
office just before 11:00 A.M., a copy of the
Post
under his arm. He seemed to have
recovered from the death of Boswell, as he was sputtering and
roaring in his usual manner, anger fueling his storm.

"Did you read this?" he screamed at T.S.,
waving the paper above his head. His face turned an alarming shade
of red. "This is a fine thing for the memory of my friend and an
equally fine thing for the reputation of Sterling &
Sterling."

"Sit down, Edgar. Sit down." T.S. put his
hands on the old man's shoulders and, surprisingly enough, Edgar
Hale obeyed. He sat in the visitor's chair with a plop and flipped
angrily through the newspaper. "My god, they make him sound like a
Sybarite! Like he fell overboard during a drunken bacchanal."

"They have to sell papers," T.S.
explained.

"Yes, and I'm selling respectability.
Respectability which is rapidly going down the drain."

T.S. made soothing noises but Edgar Hale's
cork was popped too far to be worked back in.

"That's not the worst of it, Hubbert," he
hissed. He was a rather short man, but stocky, and now he hopped to
his feet and leaned across the desk, anger building to a fever
pitch. "Do you know who is missing today?" he said. "Do you
know?"

T.S. knew, but he wasn't about to bite.

"How curious," Edgar Hale said in a suddenly
deadly calm voice. "How curious that our Mr. Sinclair should not
have come in today. His wife has no idea where he is. Says he left
for work as usual."

T.S. did not reply.

"Don't you find that odd, Hubbert?" Edgar
Hale breathed in his face and T.S. caught a whiff of peppermint
mouthwash. "Don't you find it odd that he would try to stonewall
those records and now conveniently not show up?"

"Yesterday you found his IRS theory quite
convincing." Touché. T.S. suppressed a satisfied smile.

"If that snake," Hale began, ignoring the
comment, "if that slippery snake has stolen one penny from this
firm, one single penny, I will personally kill him. I will kill him
myself with these bare hands." He threw the newspaper to the floor
and held up his two hammy hands for T.S. to admire. "These are the
hands of a former championship wrestler." T.S. remained wisely
silent.