Partners In Crime (4 page)

"I hung up my coat first," T.S. barked back.
"Okay by you?" There was no answer to this relatively daring
retort, an unusual response given the Managing Partner's customary
surliness. Ever since Edgar Hale's wife had died, he'd been a world
class grouch. It was one reason why T.S. had retired as soon as he
could.

T.S. counted to three beneath his breath and
resolved to remember that he was retired now, above and beyond the
reach of partnership politics. Fate had thoroughly tainted the
genteel veneer of Sterling & Sterling, throwing them into a
panic where appropriate reactions were not preordained. They needed
him now, to hold their hands. Edgar Hale would just have to realize
that, sooner or later.

"What did you think you were attending here?
A golf game?" The old man glared at T.S.'s sweater and slacks.
So—it was going to be later, much later.

"Look, Edgar," T.S. replied, knowing the old
man hated to be called by his Christian name. "I'm retired now and
here as a personal favor. I'll wear what I want."

The old man tried to stare him down but soon
gave up with a grunt of extreme dissatisfaction, and switched
gears. "Who cares what you're wearing?" he said gruffly. "Just get
to work and untangle this mess."

"I'm hardly qualified to solve a murder,"
T.S. pointed out.

"I didn't ask if you were qualified," Edgar
Hale thundered. "I just said to do it." He stomped out the door,
leaving T.S. standing in a sea of assorted official uniforms and
activities, ebbing and flowing about him as if he were
invisible.

"Who the hell are you?" A nasal voice
heavily rimmed with a New York City accent startled him out of his
confusion. T.S. found himself staring at the forehead of a
roly-poly, swarthy man whose thinning black hair was combed over
his scalp in a last ditch effort to hide impending baldness. T.S.
noted the suit—straight off the rack and badly fitting—at the same
time he noticed the man's massive torso. It strained his shirt, a
huge chest barreling down to a waist gone soft. The man was short
and slightly plump, but unmistakably powerful. T.S. took a
reflexive step backwards, sending the fireplace rack and tools
tumbling over with a tremendous clanging. He was instantly pinned
in the silent scrutiny of dozens of pairs of trained eyes until, as
if on mass cue, the steady hum of activity began again and a
multitude of tasks resumed.

T.S. retrieved the tools with disgust,
savagely clanging them back into place. He was really getting tired
of people screaming in his face. "My name is T.S. Hubbert. I'm the
retired Personnel Manager of Sterling & Sterling. I am here at
the request of Edgar Hale, Managing Partner, and I don't like it
any more than you. And while we're at it, who the hell, may I ask,
are you?"

The man had observed T.S. during this speech
with an expression vacillating between contempt and amusement. He
stared at T.S. passively, then casually dug wax out of one ear and
shrugged. "I'm Lieutenant Abromowitz. I'm in charge of the scene.
You can remain since the old man made such a stink. But stay where
you are. I don't want anyone interfering with the physical
evidence. It already looks like a tribe of Ubangis tramped through
here."

"I understood the young lady who called the
police did an excellent job of preserving the scene," T.S. replied
stiffly. If this guy was any indication of the brilliant minds at
work, they could go ahead and file this one under "unsolved."

"That what she says?" Lieutenant Abromowitz
allowed, before adding cryptically, "That's what they all say."

Before T.S. could think of a suitable reply,
they were interrupted by a scrawny young cop wearing a uniform
shirt T.S. estimated was at least three sizes too big and pants
that were too small. The kid's skinny legs poked out from the
bottom of the trousers, leaving an inch thick strip of pale white
skin before meeting black rubber boots. His hair stuck out like
dried wisps of straw, though it was brushed flat in front as if he
had at least tried to tame it. He looked like he'd escaped from a
prison farm for minors in Ohio and taken a wrong turn somewhere,
landing in the big city by mistake.

"Um, lieutenant," the little cop stammered
nervously. "No one can find Tommy Shaunessy." He gulped as if
expecting the lieutenant to smack him with a riding crop at any
moment.

"Who the hell is Tommy Shaunessy?"
Lieutenant Abromowitz demanded.

"You know. The secretary's husband."

"Oh, him." The lieutenant scowled. "Not home
yet?"

"No sir. And his precinct says he didn't
have the night shift like he told his wife. In fact, he's due in
any minute to start his real shift."

Abromowitz sighed. "You'd think these guys
could come up with more original stories." He rolled his eyes and
turned to T.S. "Every cop who plays around thinks he can get away
with it by claiming night shift."

The younger officer waited nervously,
gulping as if his throat were dry. T.S. wondered how anyone could
be intimidated by the lieutenant.

"Keep trying," Abromowitz ordered his man.
"But don't tell the wife. You never know when we'll need cover
ourselves." His laugh veered between lascivious and familiar, which
equaled repugnant in T.S.'s estimation. "If he's not in within the
next ten minutes or so, I'll question her myself without him.
Wouldn't hurt to have the best on the job, anyway, since she was
the first on the scene and knows the victim so well. Might have
noticed something useful. In fact, tell everyone to lay off her.
I'll handle this myself. Make sure no mistakes are made."

As the skinny cop hurried away with his
instructions, T.S. was appalled to realize that the lieutenant had
actually turned to him and winked. "You married?" he asked T.S. in
a repellingly confidential tone.

T.S. was not opposed to winking on
principle. He had even been known to wink himself, specifically in
the event of specks of dust, eye infections and, occasionally,
small children. But he was vehemently opposed to winking at tawdry
indiscretions and pretended not to have noticed. "No, I'm not," he
replied stiffly.

The lieutenant stared at him as if he found
this peculiar. "Hmmmm," he said, eyeing T.S. even more closely.

"Well, are you married?" T.S. asked back
defensively.

"I was," the lieutenant countered, as if
daring T.S. to make something of it. "Until a couple of months ago.
What's it to you?"

T.S. made a mental note to remember to
congratulate the newly divorced Mrs. Abromowitz on her recent good
fortune, should they ever be introduced.

The lieutenant gave T.S. one more suspicious
glare, then tucked his clipboard under a sweat-stained armpit and
took a couple of steps toward the screened-in area before pausing
and turning back to T.S.

"You're the Personnel Manager here, you
say?" he growled at T.S.

"Was. I retired yesterday."

"You don't look much like a Personnel
Manager to me." Abromowitz eyed T.S.'s sweater and slacks.

T.S. drew himself up to his full height.
"Maybe I'm on my way to a golf game. Why is everyone so preoccupied
with my dress?"

"In this weather?" The lieutenant jerked a
thumb toward one heavily draped window. "Don't get so defensive.
Geeze. I was gonna say I liked your sweater."

"Thanks." He spit the word out with a lack
of gracious- ness quite unlike him, then attempted to regain his
dignity. "I assure you I will not be in the way. I have no doubt
that you are quite capable of performing your duties without my
interference. But if my presence here comforts the partners, I see
no harm in it."

"Okay by me." The man tapped his pen against
his two front teeth and stared absently at T.S. "Not that anyone
here seems to need too much comforting. If you know what I
mean."

"This is a very reserved firm," T.S.
explained out of die side of his mouth. "Tradition."

"Yeah. Tradition." Abromowitz folded his
arms and dangled the pen between two fingers. "I'm interested in
the traditions around here. Been here long?"

"For thirty years." T.S. noticed the bright
glare of lights behind the leather screen. A still photographer
emerged and signaled a video cameraman, who shouldered his
equipment and stepped behind the intricately tooled barrier. Robert
Cheswick had been a rich man. They were taking no chances and
pulling out all the stops on this one.

"Thirty years? That's long enough. You
probably know a lot about this place. Being in Personnel and all."
The lieutenant was scrutinizing T.S.'s face openly, as if searching
for bloodstains on its surface. T.S. fought an undeniable urge to
scratch one of his cheeks and casually reached up to do so. The
lieutenant followed his move.

"You're the guy who had the retirement party
last night, aren't you?" the lieutenant pointed out.

"Well, yes," T.S. admitted. "It was given
for me. I didn't pick out the date."

Abromowitz nodded and stared at him without
comment.

T.S. stared back at the lieutenant and
noticed for the first time how tired he looked. There was a small
spot of crusted egg still clinging to the lieutenant's chin. He,
too, had probably been called out of bed. T.S. resolved not to hold
it against Abromowitz personally for being a buffoon. He'd hold it
against the NYPD.

"I probably know more than anyone else about
Sterling & Sterling," T.S. reluctantly admitted. "It was my
job."

"Including the financial aspects of it?"

"What do you mean?" T.S. wondered if anyone
would notice if he just craned his neck a bit to try to see over
the top of the screen.

"How profits are divided. Which partner gets
what. That kind of thing."

"I know the procedures they follow to
allocate profits among partners," he answered. "But the actual
shares—no one knows that but the partners themselves. And, I
assume, the IRS."

The lieutenant considered this. "I can do
without actual amounts for now. Just the procedures will do. Feel
free to throw in your impressions of the parties involved."

It was T.S.'s turn to stare at the
lieutenant with a cross between contempt and amusement. "On the
record?" he asked incredulously.

"Some on. Some off. I can be discreet."

T.S. was appalled to realize he'd been
winked at yet again. "It's a complicated situation," he began.

"I've unraveled some pretty complicated
situations in my time," the lieutenant interrupted with a tight
smile. "Try me."

"They hold a meeting once a year to hash out
which partner gets what percentage of overall profits. It's tied
pretty closely to the performance of each partner's area of
business."

The lieutenant seemed genuinely interested.
"That sounds pretty simple to me."

T.S. shrugged. "Maybe. But if you're
suggesting that money had anything to do with this, I can assure
you that you are very much mistaken."

"Why is that?" The lieutenant took a step
forward and breathed into his face. The smell of a garlic and onion
bagel, tinged with coffee, wafted past. But not far enough.

T.S. could not retreat further back without
crashing into the fireplace screen, so he stood his ground as
firmly as was possible under the circumstances. This resulted in
his bending over backwards while the lieutenant leaned over him
like a sergeant preparing to chew out a boot camp inductee.

"Money would be the last thing a Sterling
& Sterling partner would get murdered for," T.S. tried to
explain.

"Oh, I think you'd be surprised. It's nearly
always money. Or love. Or love of money." The lieutenant laughed at
his own joke. T.S. merely waited. "But this guy looks a little old
for love, if you ask me." Abromowitz gazed at T.S. with a scrutiny
that seemed better suited to a suspect. Perhaps it's the only
expression in his repertoire that approached thoughtfulness, T.S.
decided charitably.

"Maybe," T.S. conceded. "I'd certainly be
surprised at either motive."

"Why's that?" he demanded, blasting T.S.
with another burst of bagel breath.

"Sterling partners all have more money than
they could possibly ever need and would consider it the height of
gaucheness to bring up the subject of their earnings in a
conversation, much less question the decision of the other partners
once a consensus had been reached. Nor, in my opinion, would any of
them murder on its behalf."

"Hmmph," was all he got in reply to his
eloquent theory, a frequent reaction among strangers unused to
T.S.'s sometimes formal way of speaking. It was a trait T.S. was
uncomfortably aware of, but powerless to change. His articulate
stiffness was the legacy of a most demanding schoolteacher
mother.

A voice from behind the screen interrupted
their chat. "Hey, Manny!" a female voice called out. "Want one more
look before we wrap things up here?" Another unseen voice laughed
mirthlessly at this unintended pun and a look of irritation crossed
the lieutenant's face.

"Yeah. Hold up. I'll be right there." He
stared into T.S. 's face for a moment, then wagged his pen at him
for emphasis. "I want to talk to you some more. Don't go anywhere."
He eyed T.S. as if he were about to bolt the room.

"Maybe."

"Maybe? What's maybe? Wait here until I get
back."

T.S. had made up his mind. "I'd like to see
the body."

"Oh you would, would you? Not quite the
well-bred gentleman you seem?" A distinct note of scorn crept into
the lieutenant's voice.

"I talked to the young woman whose mother
discovered the body," T.S. replied calmly. "Something she said
stuck in my mind and I can't figure out what. I thought taking a
look would stimulate my memory."

"Oh, well, in that case," the lieutenant
made an exaggerated bow and swept his hand forward. "Be my guest.
In fact, let me carry you there on my back. We're desperate for
assistance. We have only fourteen officers professionally trained
in solving murders to assist us here today."