Partners In Crime (9 page)

"That's going to take a while."

"I know. That's why we're going to your
house for a nightcap." She snatched the bill from the waiter's
hands and rummaged through her purse for a credit card.

"You think that the list is important?" T.S.
asked.

"For our purpose, it has to be." She stacked
two embroidered handkerchiefs, a dog-eared address book, a large
Swiss army knife, several pens and a box of colored pencils, three
packs of mints and what looked to be a broken charm bracelet on the
tablecloth before she produced a credit card from the depths of her
bag. She flashed T.S. a triumphant smile. "Found it."

"Anyway, we have to start somewhere," she
continued matter-of-factly. "Unlike the lieutenant, we haven't an
army of investigators to pore over security trading tracks. And we
certainly can't investigate everyone at Sterling & Sterling. I
think it's unlikely the killer would have tried to stay hidden in
the building all night. There was no guarantee the body would not
be discovered before morning. And I think there was a body well
before morning."

"But if he was killed during the evening,
that would mean there could be a connection between my party and
his death,'' T.S. said.

She batted at the air absently. "The papers
said he was killed between 10:00 P.M. and 3:00 A.M. He doesn't get
in that early, does he?"

"Not to my knowledge," T.S. answered
reluctantly.

"Then we must assume he was stabbed after
attending your retirement party." She stared at him
impassively.

"You sound as if this makes me guilty of
something," he protested.

"You are guilty of drinking too much at your
party at a time, it turns out, when your memory could have proved
crucial. But we'll see what we can do about that."

"What? What are we looking for?" He was
catching her zest for the hunt, but lagging behind in ingenuity.
The effect was annoying, as though he were in a parlor game and the
only one who did not know the rules, thus doomed to fail from the
start.

"We're looking for clues, Theodore. For
god's sake. Haven't you ever read a detective novel?"

"One or two." In truth, he'd read hundreds.
"Have you?"

"Maybe," she said vaguely. T.S. was relieved
to see she was her same overtipping self as she signed her credit
slip and scribbled in the gratuity quickly, her mind having
automatically computed the amount as she spoke. She opened her bag
and scraped the pile of assorted junk back in, snagging a napkin in
her haste. T.S. watched it disappear, without comment.

"What are we waiting for?" she asked as she
rose and walked majestically through the now crowded dining area,
nodding to several patrons and waving at the staff.

T.S. followed obediently, wondering where in
the world he was being led.

They sat at the dining room table in front
of the sliding glass doors that led to his thirty-fourth floor
terrace. York Avenue snaked before them, winding uptown through the
shadows of nearby highrises before disappearing into the fog. T.S.
had to be content with the view through glass, for Auntie Lil
refused to set foot on the actual terrace, convinced that she might
fall, be propelled off by a gust of wind or be seized by a sudden
impulse to jump. She was a great believer in the theory that the
human race functioned largely according to impulse and was
constantly waiting for one to overcome her, unaware that no impulse
in the world had a chance next to her steely self-control.

T.S. knew this well. He had yet to see her
take any action without a great deal of calculating forethought,
but he was not about to tell her that. Besides, the truth was that
the great height and endless lights stretching under his feet made
him a little bit dizzy himself. He was far more content to stay
within the cozy confines of his apartment.

His personal life was, of
course, as meticulously organized as his professional existence.
Each room in his apartment had a purpose and was carefully
furnished to fulfill that purpose in as expeditious a manner as
possible. The living room was spare and uncluttered—a large blue
rug covered the floor as his sole concession to fashion. He
preferred the simplicity of bare wood because it was easier to
clean. There was a low-slung, sleek couch stretched along one wall
with two matching armchairs arranged on each side. He'd chosen a
special gray upholstery fabric that was guaranteed to repel dirt,
dust, cat hairs and other foreign objects for either his lifetime
or the lifetime of the couch, he never could remember which. He
liked to keep his copies of
Personnel
Manager Monthly
neatly arranged on the
coffee table in vertical rows that were offset by corresponding
rows of
The New Yorker
and
Cat Fancy.
The ashtrays were banished to a special drawer lined with
cedar chips. T.S. usually found smoking messy and intrusive,
depending on the smoker, and made guests ask before they were
allowed to taint his carefully humidified air.

Since he was a man of simple tastes and
rarely had company, the kitchen was tiny. His one indulgence was
bottled water and an entire shelf of black olives stuffed with
anchovies, a brand available only in Spain. The local grocer
brought T.S. a carton each time he returned from visiting his
family there. T.S. had invested some of his relative wealth in a
coffee machine that looked as if it required a license to operate,
plain bone china, and heavy sterling silverware of a geometric
pattern that annoyed Auntie Lil for no clearly discernible reason.
The attached dining room held a heavy oak table and four matching
chairs that, while a bit large for the area, had been the only
heirlooms he had chosen from his parents' house. The set had
belonged to his mother and he was not above judicious
sentimentality. A low sideboard along the wall held a dozen each of
water and wine glasses. He'd had both sets for over a decade now
and had yet to break a single glass, an achievement Auntie Lil
found amusing.

The rest of his apartment was equally
utilitarian. His bedroom held a bed and dresser set of fine quality
but too modern in design for Auntie Lil's bohemian tastes. Several
Broadway show posters on the wall provided a rare peek into his
private passions, as did a stack of programs on the bedside table
that had been carefully saved through fifteen seasons of the
Metropolitan Opera (center orchestra, ten rows back, just to the
right of the oboes).

There was a spare bedroom in the unlikely
event T.S. should have overnight visitors. Sometimes Auntie Lil
would sleep over if they found themselves out late, but most of the
time he used it as a home office. It had all the charm of a
Pentagon briefing room and was lined with tall bookshelves filled
with tomes on theater, opera, psychology, and the latest
non-fiction. He arranged his books by subject and height, with
alphabetical preference awarded by author should the heights of any
two books match. Every volume was hardback and retained its
original, immaculate paper cover, mainly because he gave his best
seller detective and mystery paperbacks to a neighbor down the hall
before Auntie Lil could tease him about them. They were his
passion. He loved to read about murder and mayhem before falling
off to sleep each night. It made him feel even safer, not to
mention more satisfied, to be so cozily surrounded by his own
peaceful, well-ordered kingdom.

But T.S. was most proud of his bathroom,
kept scrupulously clean by a cleaning lady so bored at the lack of
dirt that she had nearly scrubbed the enamel surfaces away. He was
proud because he'd had a special closet constructed at one end to
hold Brenda and Eddie's litter box. A discreet, small swinging door
was inset into the larger closet door and afforded unlimited
entrance to his pets. All T.S. had to do was open the larger door
slightly and shut it again to automatically send a shower of
deodorant spray over the contents when the cats were done. It had
been an ingenious, germ- free solution to the housekeeping problems
Brenda and Eddie presented, well worth the ribbing from Auntie
Lil.

Of course, the extreme cleanliness of his
home meant that every time Auntie Lil entered, he had to endure the
same old joke: "Anyone home?" she would call out, then move from
room to room, shouting back at him, "Nope. No one lives in here
either, it's obvious." She'd finish by holding up a white-gloved
finger and saying, "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Theodore,
but once again I've found a speck of dust."

He'd been spared Auntie Lil's comedy routine
that night. She was too interested in getting down to business.
They sipped hot tea, per her orders, while T.S. told her, as well
as he could remember, the sequence of events at his retirement
party. It was easier the second time around and his earlier
rehearsal with Lieutenant Abromowitz helped encourage new memories.
Auntie Lil interrupted often with questions that seemed to lead
nowhere. But he was not fooled—Auntie Lil was always leading
somewhere.

"Where was it held?" she asked him.

"In a lounge on the thirteenth floor."

"Oh, dear."

"It was quite a nice lounge," he protested.
"We have client seminars there. Heavy red brocade curtains along
the walls. Lovely furniture."

"There was food?"

"Of course." He was slightly offended that
Auntie Lil was failing to grasp that his retirement had been a big
deal. "They pulled out all the stops, you know. The staff from the
Partners' Dining Room put on quite a spread: shrimp, roast beef,
caviar. Usually they just set out cheese dips and chips."

She leaned over and patted his hand. "I
understand, dear. It was much nicer than when, say, a custodian or
messenger retires."

He wasn't sure if he should be mollified or
not.

"Who decided who was invited?" she
asked.

"I did. That is, anyone with over
twenty-five years at the bank was automatically invited and I
submitted a list of additional employees I wanted as guests."

"Why wasn't I invited?" she asked
archly.

"Employees only. Just in case you had any
doubts about the partners being cheap. Even when they're being
generous."

"Have you got the guest list?"

"Of course." He was slightly offended. He
knew exactly where it was—in the third file back in the middle
drawer of his large home desk. Everything in its place and a place
for everything. He retrieved it within seconds.

Auntie Lil scanned it carefully. "Who
decided that Robert Cheswick would be the one to speak?"

"He did." T.S. allowed himself a rueful
smile. "Technically, I reported to him. I would have preferred no
speech at all. But it wasn't worth making a fuss."

"What time did he get to the party?" Her
interrogation style was distressingly like that of Lieutenant
Abromowitz.

T.S. thought for a moment. "About an hour
and a half alter it started. Maybe about 6:00. After the jumbo
shrimp ran out. I remember Mrs. Quincy—she's Edgar Hale's
secretary—complaining long and loud about how cheap the partners
were to only put out five pounds of shrimp, which would have been
plenty if she hadn't been there, when in walked Cheswick, stopping
her in mid-gripe and mid-bite."

"Was he usually late for those kinds of
things?"

T.S. thought again. "No. He usually arrived
right at the start and left early. I always suspected he wanted to
get a head start on the bar."

"Did he drink more than usual last
night?"

"There was no usual for him," T.S. admitted.
"He sometimes hit the bar hard and fast. Probably trying to down it
all before the other partners arrived."

"Did he drink a lot last night after he
arrived?"

"He started right in, as I recall," T.S.
said. "Jimmy was acting as bartender and had stashed a bottle of
Dewar's for me behind the bar. Cheswick spotted it immediately. I
made a joke out of sharing it with him. He took full advantage of
my generosity."

"In front of the other partners?"

"There were only five or so there, but, yes.
He did continue drinking quite heavily in front of them. I think
John Boswell may have said something to him."

"John Boswell?" she asked. "The handsome
partner?"

"Yes. I saw him pull Cheswick aside and
behind the heavy curtains. They had quite a discussion."

"That may be important, dear."

"Probably not. It may have been a business
matter that needed to be settled that evening or he may have been
telling Cheswick to lay off the booze."

"How was the speech?"

"Cheswick's? Dreadful. It sounded like he
was talking about his butler retiring or something. Or else someone
I'd never met."

"Those kinds of speeches always do," Auntie
Lil soothed. "Was there anyone at the party you didn't
recognize?"

"No, of course not. It was my party."

"No one? What about guards? Catering staff?
Maids?"

"It was the same handful of people. Regular
staff whom I can recall," T.S. insisted.

"What time did people leave?"

"Well, the party had started at 4:30 P.M. I
guess the partners can't bear to give up more than half an hour of
official time for these things. Some people actually left the party
at 5:00. You know the type. Work ends at 5:00, even if it isn't
work. Most people left about 6:30 or 7:00 when the food and drink
started to run out. The hardcore stayed until 8:00 or so. A handful
beyond then, most to help clean up."

"When do you have to start signing out in
the lobby?"

"At 6:00. And Albert and the rest of the
guys run a very tight ship. I tend to believe them when they say no
one got past without signing in or out."

Auntie Lil was nodding wisely, as though he
had confirmed some great hunch.