Partners In Crime (29 page)

T.S. could not imagine Preston Freeman
noticing other human beings, much less doing them harm. "How do you
know this?"

Lieutenant Abromowitz took over. "We
discovered his record during a check of all partners and
executives."

"I would have gotten that information before
he was hired," T.S. protested. "During a routine background
check."

"Well, you didn't," the lieutenant pointed
out happily. "Apparently, it's obvious that John Boswell
intercepted the police report before it got to the Personnel
Department and kept it in his confidential files. If you had
checked your records better, you would have noticed that Boswell
had recommended Preston Freeman be hired. Freeman's the son of a
good friend of his. No doubt someone in the mailroom or, more
probably, your department preferred to be loyal to Boswell, not
you." He gave T.S. a sympathetic smile. "Boswell got die file on
Freeman first and kept it from you as a favor to his friend. We
suspect Cheswick somehow found the report, perhaps going through
Boswell's drawers for information on his wife, and used it to force
Freeman to cooperate."

"Information on his wife?" T.S. asked
faintly.

"Rumor has it that Lilah Cheswick and
Boswell were involved," Abromowitz explained. "If I heard it,
Cheswick probably did."

"How do you know Boswell ever received the
police report on Freeman in the first place?" T.S. countered,
hoping to change the subject.

The lieutenant smiled sweetly. "Because I
received Freeman's original police report record anonymously in the
mail yesterday and it was still in an inter-office envelope,
cracked with age, addressed to John Boswell. Face it: someone in
your department passed it on to him before you could get hold of
it. Too bad you didn't know what was going on in your own
department."

"I may not have been here at the time," T.S.
replied, trying very hard not to sink to the lieutenant's level.
"Aren't you curious as to who so conveniently discovered this
missing police report and incriminating inter-office envelope?"

"Perhaps Boswell's wife discovered the
report among his papers at home and, not wanting to be involved,
merely mailed it to me. You know how those high society ladies are
about staining their reputation with police involvement."

"Did you ask her?" T.S. inquired calmly. "I
wasn't aware that the world at large knew you were heading up the
investigation and possessed your name and address."

"Of course I didn't ask her.'' Abromowitz
waved a chubby hand impatiently. "What good would that do? The
report was sent anonymously. Obviously, the source plans to remain
unknown. Who's going to confess? As to my heading up the
investigation..." His voice trailed off and he inspected his
fingernails for cleanliness. "I'd say that it wouldn't be unusual
for word to get around that they've brought in a top gun to head up
things. I've got quite a reputation, you know."

Yes, T.S. did know. Sheila had told him. But
it probably wasn't the reputation Abromowitz imagined. T.S.
shrugged. "I suppose you think Boswell was engaged in insider
trading, too?"

The policeman shook his head. "No. We think
he started poking around after Cheswick started acting strangely,
and discovered what was going on. He may even have been the one to
eventually persuade Cheswick to turn himself in. Several witnesses
saw them arguing before their deaths."

"You've got it all figured out," T.S.
admitted, "although I confess that the idea of Stanley Sinclair
blackmailing Freeman is rather startling. It goes against his
character to even disagree with a partner, much less double-cross
one. I myself never would have been able to make the great logical
leap from bungling accounts to insider trading, hidden police
reports, wife-stealing, teen-age murderers and cowardly
blackmailers."

Abromowitz missed the edge of sarcasm in
T.S.'s voice and preened importantly by the window.

Edgar Hale finally spoke up. "My best man.
Preston Freeman was my best man. He brought millions into the firm.
We paid him millions." He shook his head sadly. "I wouldn't care if
he strangled his own grandmother on the banking floor."

T.S. patted the old man on the back. "He's
wrong, Edgar. I'm convinced the lieutenant is wrong. All they
really have is information that Cheswick was botching his accounts.
Worried. Upset about something. Perhaps he was simply under
tremendous strain for some other reason. A reason that has to do
with his murder. Have they found any evidence of wrongdoing in
Cheswick's trading accounts to back this theory up?"

"No, but they will. It fits too well with
what I saw with my own eyes. I can no longer deny it. Cheswick had
been under some great strain. Boswell was angry at him about
something." Edgar Hale looked up at T.S. with as grateful an
expression as he was capable of—one bordering more on distaste than
thanks. "You've really tried, T.S., I know that. I appreciate it.
But I think it's time to give it up."

"Listen to me. Abromowitz is wrong." T.S.
ignored the lieutenant's incredulous laugh and pulled out the chair
next to Hale. He placed the musty file box on the table in front of
them. "Do you remember Patricia Kelly?"

Edgar Hale looked up at him in horror. "This
is hardly the time or place to bring that mess up again. It's long
over. We have enough trouble as it is."

"It's not over," T.S. spoke so emphatically
that even the lieutenant moved over unwillingly and placed a finger
on the file.

"What's this all about?" he demanded.

"I went to see Ralph Peabody," T.S.
explained to Abromowitz. "He was Personnel Manager many years
ago."

"Don't go into this," Edgar Hale commanded,
his imperious manner returning. But his hands trembled and he
placed them against the tabletop to stop the shaking.

"No, Edgar. It's vital. I'm convinced there
is a connection." T.S. removed the old letters, postcards and
photos from the file and spread them out across the table. He
opened the individual personnel folder on Patricia Kelly that he'd
found hidden with the other papers and spread it in front of the
men. A faded black-and-white photograph of a hopeful-looking young
woman stared up at them. "Look at this. This is a woman who was a
secretary here more than thirty years ago. She seems to have had
affairs with quite a few men here at the firm. Men who later became
very important. Partners. Heads of other firms. Then she went off
the deep end, starting writing obscene letters. Ralph Peabody has
stripped all mention of her from the files, as if she never
existed."

"We were all very young then," Edgar Hale
interrupted. "She was unstable. Imagined it all. Poor woman. Let it
be. It's in the past."

"No, it's not in the past," T.S. said once
more. "Look at these." He handed the lieutenant various letters.
"Read them. These are clearly the work of someone who is mentally
unstable. Look at this list." He held up the list containing names
and sexual ratings. "The first three names. Cheswick. Boswell.
Sinclair." His voice faded and trailed off as he suddenly realized
he was approaching Edgar Hale's name. Best not to bring everything
up at once. He deftly slipped the list back into the pile.

The lieutenant grabbed a particularly
pornographic postcard and studied it. "Where did you get this
stuff?"

"From Ralph Peabody. He had hidden them.
When he retired, he apparently culled the files of nearly every
embarrassing memo he had ever put in a file."

"What?" Edgar Hale was outraged. "Why, I
paid him to..."

"He had an attack of conscience. I think he
was ashamed of himself. To be perfectly honest, I know how he
felt," T.S. said. "You paid me well, Edgar, but not well enough to
be Big Brother and still sleep soundly at night. At least not every
night." He cast a reproachful look at the old man.

"You're saying that this woman is killing
off the men she slept with years before?" the lieutenant asked
incredulously as he paged through the notes and letters. "She'd be,
what? Fifty, sixty years old by now? And a nut case to boot?"

"She didn't sleep with anyone," Hale
sputtered angrily. "It was wishful thinking."

"Look what was found on Boswell's boat,"
T.S. told the lieutenant, ignoring the partner's distress. "A
pitcher of margaritas."

"Big deal,'' the lieutenant mumbled,
although he was rapidly scanning the file with a panicked look on
his face.

"But Cheswick and Boswell were arguing about
meeting someone at Magritte's for a margarita the week before they
both died," T.S. said.

"Where'd you hear that?" Abromowitz
demanded, staring at T.S. suspiciously.

"I have inside sources," T.S. interrupted.
"Just let me finish. Look how she signs all of her letters and
postcards. 'Meet me for a margarita at Magritte's.'"

"Magritte's?" the lieutenant echoed,
stumbling over the unfamiliar name.

"Who knew what she meant?" Edgar Hale
shouted angrily. "She was deranged. Don't you understand?" He shook
his head. "God, what trouble this woman caused."

T.S. resisted the urge to point out that,
technically, it was unlikely she had caused the trouble on her own.
Someone had no doubt taken his pants off. "You've got to admit that
there are some strange coincidences here," T.S. pointed out.

The lieutenant was scratching his head. "I'm
taking this with me," he finally announced, pulling the file box
over to his side. T.S. pinned the woman's official personnel folder
firmly to the table—he wasn't letting go so easy.

"Not so fast," T.S. told the lieutenant
indignantly. "I figured it out. I think you should at least give me
the courtesy of participating in..."

"You stumbled onto this by blind luck. You
should have known earlier and given it to the police right away,"
the lieutenant decreed. "I haven't got time to mess around with
amateurs who think that—"

A firm knock at the door interrupted his
warning speech.

"Go away," Hale shouted, his anger
returning.

"It's me," Sheila called out. "I have
something for Mr. Hubbert. He said it was urgent."

"I sent her to pull out the old medical
files on this woman," T.S. explained. "We may be able to figure out
where she is now. One of those memos indicates that Sterling agreed
to pay for her treatment, at least for a while. We know she was
eventually committed to a mental hospital. Sheila's been calling
around trying to find out when she was discharged."

"Come in, then," Hale barked in reply. "I'll
have your badge for breakfast if you've leaked anything about
Preston Freeman to the press prematurely," he warned
Abromowitz.

"I've explained the situation," T.S. told
Sheila. She was holding a slim file in her hand and gazing
apprehensively at Edgar Hale. "What did you find out? "

"She's dead," Sheila said, tossing a manila
folder on top of the table. "She died last month." She stared down
at the official file beneath T.S.'s hands and leaned forward for a
better look, peering at the old photograph. Her eyes blinked.

"What?" T.S. looked at her. "Are you
positive?"

Sheila was still staring at the photograph.
She blinked again, as if to banish its vision, then swallowed and
finally turned to T.S. She spoke more slowly than before. "Am I
sure? Absolutely. The poor woman never even got out of Creedmoor
the last three years of her life. She died there, a ward of the
state. No family. I called a friend in administration. I deal with
her all the time, since some of our employees use their outpatient
services. She double-checked for me. Patricia Kelly is dead.
There's no question about it."

T.S. was too stunned to reply. He surveyed
the letters and postcards spread across the table with mounting
horror. What had he done, dragging up this mess without more proof?
He looked up. Hale and Abromowitz were exchanging a glance that
clearly indicated T.S. was now part of the problem, rather than the
solution.

  “
It's a good thing
you go on evidence," the lieutenant told him with a smile. "Rather
than mere theory."

T.S. stared apologetically at Edgar Hale. "I
was so sure. It made so much sense."

Hale pushed the file away with a quick,
angry shove. "Get this trash out of here," he thundered. "And don't
ever remind me of it again." He glared at T.S. "Maybe it was time
for you to retire. Of all the things to bring up."

"I was only trying to help," T.S. said
helplessly.

"Give him some credit," the lieutenant said
soothingly. T.S. stared at him with sudden suspicion. Abromowitz
had picked a sheet of paper out of the mess and was reading it with
great appreciation. "T.S. was only trying to score points with the
boss."

"See here," T.S. began, but was quickly
interrupted by Abromowitz.

"After all, Edgar," the policeman said,
sliding the sexual performance rating memo across the desk, "with
Sinclair gone, look who's next on the list."

Edgar Hale glanced at it briefly and threw
it back across the table. "So what? My name and a lot of other
people's. Don't be impertinent."

"He could have saved your life," the
lieutenant pointed out obnoxiously. "Let's see what she has to say
about you— ah, here it is. You were satisfactory. Not bad, I
suppose. And you wanted it the most. Now, is that a compliment or
an insult?"

Edgar Hale's mouth tightened so firmly it
all but disappeared. He stood and walked to the door. "Meeting's
adjourned. Do what you have to do, Lieutenant. And T.S., for god's
sake, try to make up for this lousy idea by doing a thorough job on
damage control with this Preston Freeman thing. Don't leave it to
that silly replacement of yours. Not that it will do any good.
Sterling & Sterling is ruined."

He left a speechless Sheila staring at T.S.,
while Abromowitz whistled happily. T.S. gathered the rejected files
into his arms and walked silently out with Sheila.