Partners In Crime (32 page)

"Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Late twenties.
Something like that."

"Well, then. We have a handful of suspects,
at least."

"Why are you so sure it's a woman?" T.S.
asked. "Maybe it's a son."

"The zippers and John Boswell's floating
bedroom of a sailboat."

"How can you be so sure it's someone we
already know?"

She shook her head. "Too much access to the
building and the victims without leaving hardly a clue. Specific
files missing, as if the killer knew where they were. Those men
knew her. She was able to get close. Would a complete stranger have
been able to pull that off?" She left her questions unanswered.
"We'll have to consider any employee in that age range, especially
anyone attractive. Even Sheila, I'm afraid."

"But we know her mother," T.S. protested.
"For god sakes, you had brunch with her. Sheila can't be Patricia
Kelly's daughter."

"She could be adopted," Auntie Lil pointed
out. "Anne Marie herself admits she was gone from the job for a
year and a half."

"Who wants to march around in front of
everyone pregnant?" he asked.

"Or not pregnant." She let this sink in and
continued. "Of course, this theory lets Lilah Cheswick out." She
looked at him over her glasses. "Lucky for you."

He pressed his lips firmly together to
squelch his retort. Best not to open that Pandora's box again.

"I think this new angle also makes it
worthwhile to look more carefully into the background of every
woman involved with the dead men in any way. Can you get their
files?"

"Of course." He was silent and waited for
instructions.

"First thing tomorrow, you can start
checking their files," she ordered. "Especially against what we
have on Patricia Kelly. Look for inconsistencies. Items that don't
make sense."

"I did that before I approved them for
filing in the first place," he pointed out.

"Yes, but now you know that something is
there," Auntie Lil said, tapping her fingers briskly against the
table top. "I will pursue other angles while you do that."

"What other angles?" When was he going to
catch on to this detecting business?

"Well," she mused thoughtfully, "they say
the dead can't talk. I'm not so sure."

He stared at her. "You're not going to bring
in psychic nonsense, are you?" he asked. Anything beyond the
rational did not belong in the Hubbert way of thinking.

"Don't be foolish, Theodore. I'm going to
take a look at Patricia Kelly's grave," she decided. "I want to
know if it's being kept up. Or if the groundskeeper remembers any
visitors. That would be proof the daughter is alive and in the
area. Besides, maybe it will inspire me. Perhaps the epitaph has
another clue.'* Her mouth curled in a smile and he could tell she
was still pleased over her earlier triumph.

Before he could reply, she stood up and
marched right by the dessert cart without a glance, heading for the
door.

Their neighbor gazed after her in
admiration. "That's some lady," he said to T.S. approvingly. "Got a
lot of spunk. Good appetite. I like that in a woman."

T.S. stared at him. The man was dapperly
dressed in an expensive suit and was obviously a retired man of
some means. With excellent hearing, apparently. "Get your own.
She's taken," T.S. growled as he threw money on the table and
hurried after his aunt. He caught up with her near the front door.
"That man practically asked me for your phone number."

"Did he?" She stood on tiptoe and peered
back into the dining area. "He looks quite interesting. Did you
give it to him?"

"No," he protested loudly. Several people
waiting in line turned to stare at them curiously. "You better be
careful," he warned her in a calmer voice.

"Of what? Old mashers?"

''No, tomorrow at the graveyard.''

"Worried about the living dead?" She smiled
at him and shrugged on her coat.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Where are
you going now?"

"Home, of course. It's so much nearer all
the graveyards. It will make my search much easier to wake up in my
own bed ready and raring to go." As if she ever woke up ready to do
anything but go.

"I'll help you get a cab," he offered.

"No need. No need." She waved him away and
headed for the door. "I can manage by myself."

Of course she could, he reflected. She could
manage better than he.

Auntie Lil did, in fact, snag a cab
immediately. Little old ladies were excellent passengers late at
night, as they didn't tend to pull out pistols and demand money.
Cabbies always screeched to a halt for her.

As she slid happily into the backseat and
chirped out her address, neither she nor T.S. noticed the shadowy
figure of an older Asian man leaning against the wooden wall of a
nearby construction site. He pulled his coat tightly around his
body. Shadows shielded his face as he watched Auntie Lil's exit. A
blue Buick was parked nearby.

T.S. once again spent the night fighting off
dreams of murder. This time, he and Auntie Lil were locked in a
linen closet at the rest home. He was peering out the small
porthole window while Auntie Lil poked him from behind with her
umbrella. Ralph Peabody rolled jauntily by in an enormous
wheelchair with Sheila on his lap. She snuggled against him happily
and ruffled his hair as they took turns inhaling from a small
oxygen tank and giggling together. As they passed the window,
Sheila's face began to age, skin cracking and wrinkles swelling
around her eyes and mouth. Her hair bleached gray and faded to
white. She looked over her shoulder at T.S. and he saw that she had
turned into Lilah Cheswick—without her teeth. Suddenly, Robert
Cheswick appeared at the end of the long hallway, crawling slowly
along the corridor and leaving a trail of purplish blood behind
him. T.S. watched in horror as Cheswick was crushed beneath the
huge wheels of the chair, neither Lilah nor Peabody even noticing.
Cheswick began to scream and Auntie Lil joined in, the sound
filling the tiny closet.

No wonder he woke screaming himself, to find
that he had once again overslept yet was still exhausted. How long
had the alarm been buzzing? Brenda and Eddie meowed at him in
reprimand as he dressed hurriedly and dashed out the door.

To be rising at 9:00 A.M., he thought in the
subway on his way in, to be waltzing into Sterling & Sterling
just after 10:00 and in disgrace yet—his discipline was going to
seed much more quickly than he'd ever dreamed possible.

"Sheila in yet?" he asked Margaret as he
flew by, hat in hand. He was determined to jump into business
immediately and quickly clear up this nonsense about Sheila being
the missing daughter.

"No," the receptionist answered tersely,
ringing phones surrounding her. "She called in and she's taking a
personal day. She won't be in until after the weekend." She turned
her back to him and spoke hastily into two phones at once.

Was it his imagination or had she treated
him with less respect than usual? Perhaps word was already out—he'd
made a fool of himself yesterday in front of Edgar Hale and was now
in disgrace. An exemplary thirty-year career ruined by one foolish
mistake. He hoped fervently that Auntie Lil was right about
Patricia Kelly's daughter, despite the fact that he knew nearly
every suspect personally. He could think of nothing else that might
salvage his reputation or that of the firm.

Miss Fullbright rushed past, looking
extremely harried, and ignored T.S. when he called after her. Effie
must be doing a good job of referring media requests to her line.
Or perhaps the absentee rate had continued to climb. The lobby and
elevator had been deserted. There was no doubt that the firm was in
chaos. Soon the only employees reporting to Sterling & Sterling
would be Miss Fullbright's trauma team. They'd have to sit around
in an empty building and analyze each other.

Not even that thought cheered him. It seemed
to him that he had been removed from the inner circle, that the
many and varied tasks he had dispatched so well were now in the all
too capable hands of Miss Fullbright. He sighed and settled in at
his desk. What was he doing here anyway? His time had passed.

How dare Miss Fullbright not even return his
greeting? What in the world could be so important that he would be
ignored?

In revenge, he would examine her file folder
first. The thought of Miss Fullbright being led away in handcuffs,
a sea of Sterling & Sterling employees parting for her exit,
lifted his spirits.

His satisfaction evaporated after a close
examination of her file. There was nothing to indicate she was not
who she was and he was suddenly ashamed of his animosity. She was
just a hardworking single woman, brought up by her mother, who had
paid her own way through City College and aspired to greater
things. If she had attained those heights, even at expense to his
pride, who was he to question her worthiness? He felt very small
and mean, peering through her file. Her father had died when she
was young, according to her application. It could not have been
easy for either her or her mother.

He pushed the folder away and mused. Might
the dying father be an excuse for no father at all? Surely not. But
where had she been the last few days? He had not really seen her
alone since she had interrupted his discussion with Herbert Wong
and made fun of the old messenger. She had kidded him about Bruce
Lee movies and then pointed out to T.S. that Wong was on the list
of people who had checked out late the night Cheswick was
murdered.

The list? T.S. sat up straight and stared at
her file. How had Miss Fullbright known which employees were on the
list and facing investigation by the police? He had not heard of
any of them being questioned yet. The guards would know to keep the
names to themselves. Even if Abromowitz had questioned Miss
Fullbright, he wouldn't have revealed the names to her. She was a
stranger to him, and the investigation had been compromised enough.
Yet she'd spoken so confidently, T.S. decided, as if she were privy
to information denied him.

Once he began to suspect her, other
questions emerged. Why had she been so sunburned the Monday after
Boswell's death? What better place to get sunburned than out on a
boat on an unexpectedly sunny afternoon? Why had she attempted to
pump him for information on what he'd found out? Where had she
rushed off to just now? Was this what Auntie Lil had meant by
pieces that didn't fit?

Perhaps an unconscious desire to regain his
position of esteem at Sterling & Sterling fueled this immediate
suspicion against Miss Fullbright. Perhaps he was simply afraid.
Whatever the reason, his anxiousness caused him to blurt out his
unanswered questions to Miss Fullbright herself, when she appeared
unexpectedly in his doorway.

"Sorry, T.S.," she said. "I didn't get a
chance earlier to say good mom—"

So now she was trying to butter him up,
deflect his suspicion. "Why did you stay late the night Cheswick
was stabbed?" he cried, not falling for her little trick. She
stared at him in astonishment. "You left the building more than an
hour after leaving my party," he remembered angrily. "Where were
you during that time?"

"I was moving my things into my new office.
Why are you asking me this now?" Her voice grew in pitch as she
realized his implications.

"Then where did you get your sunburn last
weekend?" he demanded loudly, even his ears shocked by his fury.
"How did you know Herbert Wong was on the list of people who
checked out late?" He rose from his chair and took a step toward
her. "Where were you the Sunday that Boswell died?" Much to his own
embarrassment, he found himself pointing the classic accusatory
finger at her.

For a moment Miss Fullbright simply stared
at him, mouth open and face gone white. Then she darted forward and
he realized the foolishness of what he had done. If she had a
weapon, he would be next. But all she did was slap him solidly
across the face with amazing strength. Rubbing her hand, she
marched to the door in visible disgust, stopped with one hand on
the doorknob and fixed him with a withering glare. "It's none of
your damn business what I do on my time off!" she shouted. "It's no
one's business but my own!" She slammed the door in his face.

T.S. stared at the door's smooth surface in
surprise, his heart pounding. What had gotten over him? Was the
panic sweeping the employee population affecting him as well? He
took a deep breath. There were disturbing questions about Miss
Fullbright, that was true, but it didn't prove she was the
murderer. He had acted foolishly. Had allowed his personal feelings
to interfere with his job. It had never happened to him before.

In that moment, he realized the precarious
hold he had on his own composure and how deeply he mourned the loss
of the Sterling & Sterling he had known and loved. He felt a
much closer kinship to Edgar Hale than he ever had before. He vowed
not to give up on the investigation until the truth was uncovered,
no matter who was to blame. Not even if it was Auntie Lil
herself.

He would look like an ass, he might turn out
to be a fool, but he would do no less than his best in finding out
who was responsible for this destruction of years of caring and
pride. And he would begin by looking through the remaining
files.

He had not even opened the first of them
when the phone interrupted his thoughts. Perhaps Auntie Lil was
calling in with a progress report. He did not like being out of
touch with her.

"Mr. Hubbert, thank god you're there!"
Effie's unmistakable operator voice carried sharply over the phone
line, her crisp military tone throbbing with the emergency
announcement she was about to impart. "We have a real crisis, sir,"
she said. "Mr. Hale won't see anyone. He's just sitting alone in
his office and refusing to let anyone in or even any calls through.
Which, of course, means that Quincy is in a tizzy and taking it out
on all of us. I thought she was going to slap Anne Marie this
morning for coming in late. I tell you, sir, the situation is
escalating."