Partners In Crime (7 page)

"The list of people who checked out late
last night," O'Hare explained. He unfolded a piece of paper and set
it gingerly on T.S.'s desk. "I made you a copy of it, sir. So that
you can see for yourself that we're thorough. The lieutenant
doesn't believe us." O'Hare's normally soft voice swelled in anger.
"He thinks we left to go to the bathroom or let people pass through
the lobby without signing in."

"Or maybe even fell asleep," Albert piped up
indignantly.

The guard tapped the list with his finger
angrily. "He reminds me of my old lieutenant. And why I retired as
soon as I could." Like many Sterling & Sterling security
guards. O'Hare was a retired police officer.

"We would never do that, Mr. Hubbert,"
Albert interrupted, his voice squeaking in anger. "Why, Sterling
& Sterling is entrusted to us. We'd never let someone through
the lobby without stopping them. If someone killed Mr. Cheswick
last night, sir, his name is on that list." He eyed the paper
fearfully.

"Even when we know people, we make them sign
in," O'Hare pointed out.

"Not just their names, but their employee
numbers, too."

"Even Edgar Hale himself, sir. I’ve stood up
to him many times and insisted he check in and out."

T.S. swiveled his head back and forth as
each man spoke, following the exchange with interest. He wasn't
interested in the words so much as who would come out on top of
this seemingly endless battle for most uncompromising lobby
watchdog.

"Why, Timothy even stopped Mrs. Cheswick
last night," Albert protested, throwing the contest in favor of his
opponent. "Didn't you?"

Timothy looked embarrassed. "Not really. She
didn't actually say she wanted to go in. She just wanted me to call
and see if her husband was there.''

"Lilah Cheswick? What time was that?" T.S.
asked with interest.

"About 9:00, sir. She had her limousine
waiting outside. Thought Mr. Cheswick might want a ride home."

"And no one answered at his extension?"

"No, sir. And Mrs. Cheswick, she just got in
the car and left."

"Did you tell the lieutenant that?"

"Of course." O'Hare rolled his eyes. "He
shrugged like it was no big deal and started grilling me again on
whether I had left the lobby unattended."

"We keep telling him we would never do
that," Albert squeaked.

"He'll get us fired, sir. You know how Mr.
Hale is. And the more I told the lieutenant I would never leave my
post, the more he acted like I was lying."

"I told the lieutenant you were both most
reliable," T.S. assured them.

"He doesn't believe you either, sir," Albert
said. "I know because he questioned me again on his way out. I was
there until 7:00 P.M., just like I said I was." He wagged his hat
angrily.

"I'm sure you were, Albert," T.S.
soothed.

"And I took over then," the security guard
added. "I didn't even leave my post to go to the bathroom until my
coffee break at 10:00 and another guard took over for me while I
was gone. We're under orders not to leave the lobby unmanned, not
even for a minute. Ever since that... well, you know. Ever since
that unfortunate surprise in the Partner's Elevator. And we follow
orders, sir."

He remembered the unfortunate surprise all
too well. They had concocted some story about a visiting pet dog to
mollify the more refined employees. But the real message had been
inescapably clear: at least one employee felt the partners were
worth no more than a pile of… well, he would think of it no more.
Such a prank was nothing in the face of murder.

T.S. looked at the clock. It was getting
late. "I'm sure you both followed orders exactly," he assured the
men. "Believe me, I'll back you up."

"He's barking up the wrong tree, sir,"
Albert added, his brown eyes even sadder and more bassetlike than
before. "We think this list is important."

"There's only one way in and one way out at
night," Timothy declared. "What does he think? That we leave the
windows open for people to creep through?"

T.S. took both men by the elbows and ushered
them out the door. "I appreciate your coming by, gentlemen. I will
personally emphasize to Edgar Hale that neither of you was remiss
in your duties." Albert started to reply and T.S. was forced to
tighten his grip, marching them firmly out the office door to the
main elevators.

They were still shaking their heads angrily
as they entered the down car, inventing improbable scenarios for
each other.

"The cops must think we smuggle burglars in
with the laundry," Albert muttered under his breath.

"Or pull up easy chairs and snooze the night
away," O'Hare answered bitterly as the doors closed upon them.

"Perhaps he thinks my grandmother did it,"
Albert offered as a last retort, his squeaky voice fading down the
elevator shaft.

Despite their excess indignation, T.S.
watched them go with sadness—sadness because he believed them. And,
if they were right, the killer's name was on that list. A list that
contained the names of some of Sterling & Sterling's finest
employees.

T.S. checked his watch and pocketed his copy
of the late check-out list. He was due to meet Auntie Lil for
dinner at 6:00. He would have just enough time to sneak an early
drink. He hoped Frederick would be on duty at the bar.

It was just his luck. Faced with a crippling
workers' strike, the Daily News was publishing a temporary
afternoon edition in a bid to regain readers—and making the most of
Cheswick's gruesome death. The minute he hit the sidewalk, T.S.
heard the cry: "Blue Blood Runs Red on Wall Street! Blue Blood Runs
Red on Wall Street!"

It was shouted from every corner, including
the one not thirty feet from where they had carried the body away.
A cluster of curious people, all holding newspapers, stood staring
at the imposing entrance to Sterling & Sterling and, for a
brief instant, T.S. thought that the crowd had taken up the cry.
But, of course, it was the newspaper hustlers and they were doing a
brisk business indeed. T.S. resisted for perhaps three seconds
before digging for change and tucking the screaming headline
quickly beneath his arm. He looked around but no one he recognized
had spotted him.

Well, it was no crime to purchase a tabloid
on an occasion such as this. Besides, he may have been quoted for
all he knew.

And there he was, in a paragraph attributing
possible motives: "According to an unidentified knowledgeable
source, the subject had no known enemies or personal problems which
may have contributed to his death."

"Damn thee with faint praise," he muttered
beneath his breath.

"What's that, Mr. Hubbert? Like another?"
Frederick stood over his bar like a lord of old, his handlebar
mustache carefully waxed, his arms stretched wide along the length
of the bar's polished oak surface. He was the perfect man to
preside over the bar of Harvey's Chelsea Restaurant, an
establishment that still managed to preserve a veneer of gentility
and hushed elegance—if you ignored the occasional construction
worker, with tastes a cut above his usual crowd, such as the one
who sat at the end of the bar nursing a beer.

"Oh, why not?" T.S. said amicably to
Frederick. After all, he was an unidentified and knowledgeable
source. And certainly knowledgeable enough to know when another
drink was in order.

"Meeting Auntie Lil tonight?" Frederick
placed a healthy Dewar's and soda in front of T.S. Olympic-sized,
in fact. The man could read his mind.

"Who else?" He raised his glass in cheers
and sipped.

"You could do a lot worse," the bartender
allowed. "Believe me, I've seen them all. Give me Auntie Lil any
day."

As if on cue, Auntie Lil entered the
restaurant, seemingly borne in on a gust of cold wind that followed
her. She wasted no time in getting right to the point, hissing to
T.S. loudly across the entrance floor even as the maitre d'
struggled to relieve her of her coat. She never gave it up
willingly.

"It was a woman," she whispered ominously.
"I know."

T.S. looked around, but Harvey's hummed on,
blissfully unaware that Robert Cheswick had been stabbed.

"Now, Auntie Lil." He took her elbow and
steered her to the dining area entrance, hoping to slip her past
the bar without stopping. "How can you be sure?" She wore a black
silk pants suit—Auntie Lil loved pants—and the fabric rustled
agreeably beneath his touch. Her perfume smelled of apples and her
white hair was upswept with a smart lacquered comb. Her thick hair
framed a strong, almost masculine face that had been referred to as
handsome in her heyday, primarily because of the stubborn and
confident spirit that emanated from it. Her skin was remarkably
unwrinkled for her age. She swore she used nothing but soap, but
T.S. tended not to believe her because she also swore her eyes were
perfect and he had one afternoon discovered a pair of reading
glasses hidden beneath the cushions of her couch.

Her German heritage was evident in the
strong, rounded chin and her prominent apple cheeks—much like his
own face. She used a light brush of powder and a sprinkling of
rouge because it suited her elegant clothes, not because she needed
it. As sturdy as they come, Auntie Lil was the type of woman who
had settled whole states in pioneer days.

They never bothered to wait to be seated at
Harvey's. Auntie Lil preferred to charge forth unfettered, taking
the dining area by storm. Because their favorite table was seldom
occupied this early, the maitre d' had long since given up reining
in Auntie Lil. She strode through the dining room, her firm step
belying her eighty-four years of age. Auntie Lil liked to sit in
the rear, looking out over the other tables so she could remark on
fellow diners while they ate. She also liked the extensive dessert
cart to be parked to her right, so she could take her time and
gauge which concoction was proving most popular before making her
own selection.

She gave the double chocolate mousse pie a
long hard look before answering her nephew. "It was a stabbing. Am
I correct? Right above the heart?"

"I see you've been reading the News." He
made no mention of his own copy, which he had given to Frederick
once he was through.

"How else am I supposed to keep current?"
She looked about the dining area and waved the waiter over with a
broad sweep of her sturdy arm.

"What does one have to do to get a drink
around here?" Auntie Lil muttered.

"Well, how does the fact that he was stabbed
prove it was a woman? "T. S. mulled over whether or not to order
another drink while she was at it. However, Auntie Lil was staring
at his full glass rather fixedly and he gave the notion up.

"Because I saw it happen once before." She
announced this with great conviction, leaning forward and staring
him intently in the face, using her most forceful whisper. She had
a most intimidating habit of voicing her opinions in a
conspiratorial and confident manner, moving her body closer so that
it was virtually impossible to disagree.

"Ms. Hubbert." The waiter nodded his head
and beamed. She was a notorious overtipper. "The usual?"

"Yes, please. Heavy on the Tabasco." She
drank Bloody Marys and Bloody Marys only, regardless of the time of
day. She could easily drink T.S. under the table.

"You saw it happen before?" he asked. Auntie
Lil was an endless fount of information and stories on human
nature, having spent six decades in the fashion industry as an
assistant designer. It was an occupation that suited her practical
nature well. She took the illusions and dreams of some of the
biggest names in haute couture and forged them into reality with
her sharp eye, skillful hands and uncompromising perfection. Even
today, at her advanced age, she was in demand during peak
seasons.

"Yes. In 1938. My best cutter, a Sicilian
woman whose husband had run off with a dancer. Her name was Maria,
I believe. If not, it should have been. She'd taken a lover. An
Albanian, I recall. Someone she knew from the neighborhood. She
obtained a job for him at the warehouse unloading dresses. Soon
after being hired, he had the bad taste to leave her for a fat
housewife of his own nationality. At least Maria said she was fat.
'A filthy pig of a woman' were her exact words. For all I know, she
looked like Sophia Loren. She's Albanian, isn't she?"

"No, she certainly isn't," he said firmly.
Auntie Lil had to be corrected forcefully and at once or else she
was capable of carrying a misconception to the grave. "And she
stabbed the housewife?"

"Sophia Loren?"

"No, Aunt Lil. Maria. Your employee." All
this talk of stabbings was starting to get to him. He waved
anxiously at their waiter. Perhaps a fresh drink after all.

"No. She did not." Auntie Lil plucked a
bread stick from the basket and examined it closely before biting
into it with gusto. "She stabbed the Albanian." Crumbs flew as she
talked. Auntie Lil waved what was left of the bread stick as if it
were a baton, using it to emphasize her points. "She stabbed him
right through the heart. I saw it all. Out in the hallway near the
water cooler during a break. Absolutely no warning. She used her
finest scissors, a German pair. Impeccably crafted, of course."

"He died?"

"Certainly. She was the best I've ever seen
with the scissor. An unerring sense of where and when to cut. He
died without a sound. Crumpled at her feet. She stood over him
staring down as if a tramp or street bum had dared to block her
regal passage. It was majestic and terrifying. Black eyes flashing.
Dark hair flowing over a white smock."

Auntie Lil would no doubt have trod the
boards on the Great White Way had it been more respectable for a
young girl in her day.

"What happened then?" he asked.