Partners in Crime (12 page)

Jane stiffened her back in the uncomfortable chair, listening with only half an ear to the idiotic pleasantries about the balmy fall weather and Princeton traffic. This time she wasn’t going to give in without a fight. She’d caved in too many times, in her childhood, in her career, in her short-lived marriage. She was through with being understanding, with sitting back and letting other people have their way.

She rose from the chair, crossed the room and sank down gracefully in an overstuffed chair to the left of the sofa, stretching her legs out in front of her, inches away from Sandy’s. Her legs were better than Ms. Peabody’s, even if she didn’t have a model’s figure and tawny hair and perfect eyesight.

“Why didn’t you tell Annabel who we were?” she demanded bluntly, breaking through the polite fencing. She was prepared for Sandy’s disapproval of her precipitous question, but he said nothing, leaning back against the cushions with the air of a man about to enjoy himself.

“Annabel wasn’t in any condition to comprehend anything, Ms. Dexter,” Elinor replied sweetly. “I didn’t want to confuse her any more than necessary.”

“You’re the reason she was in that state in the first place.” Jane went on the attack.

“No, I am not.” Elinor leaned forward, forgetting her languid pose, forgetting Sandy. “No one’s responsible for Annabel’s drinking but Annabel herself. And maybe Stephen helps a bit. But you’ve got to realize Annabel doesn’t do that very often. Just every few months when she’s angry with Stephen and feeling sorry for herself. She doesn’t have a serious drinking problem.”

“Yet,” Jane said.

“I didn’t invite you here to discuss Annabel Tremaine’s domestic problems.” Elinor carefully recovered her composure. “As a matter of fact, Ms. Dexter, I didn’t invite
you
at all.”

Sandy finally stirred himself. “I don’t go anywhere without my boss,” he said lazily.

“Your boss? I wondered how you two fit together. Somehow I didn’t imagine you were lovers.”

Jane swallowed the growl that threatened to erupt. Instead she leaned forward, putting a predatory expression on her face that would have done Ms. Peabody proud, and placing a possessive hand on Sandy’s knee. She felt the slight quiver of surprise beneath her hand, and then he was still, watching all this with great curiosity.

“You haven’t impressed me as someone with much imagination,” Jane cooed. “Sandy is my...associate. We’re in this together. In every sense of the word.” Sandy’s knee twitched again, and Jane suspected she’d pay for this later.

But Ms. Peabody merely nodded, her sultriness turned off, all business despite the flowing loungewear. “I’m prepared to help you.”

“Why?”

Ms. Peabody’s smile was quite frightening. “Let’s just say I have a score to even up with Stephen Tremaine. I’m a firm believer in looking after my best interests. But I don’t think my motives concern you. I think what matters to you is what happened to your brother.”

Jane’s languid self-control vanished. “I beg your pardon?”

“Was I wrong? I thought these elaborate charades were connected with your brother’s death.”

Jane had the eerie sense of things swinging out of her tenuous control. “Uncle Stephen wants to sell Richard’s titanium coating process for defense purposes, either to this country or to another, hostile one. I owe it to Richard to keep him from doing that.”

“Do you now?” Ms. Peabody murmured. “How are you planning to stop Stephen?”

“Part of the process is missing,” Jane said. “You know that as well as I do. If I can find it before Uncle Stephen does I’ll destroy it.”

“And your brother’s life work at the same time? You’re very severe, Ms. Dexter.”

“He would have wanted it destroyed, rather than have it used for military purposes,” Jane said firmly.

“I imagine you’re right. Your brother always was a royal pain.” She rose, crossing the pretty pink chintz room and pouring herself a drink. Straight vodka, and she didn’t offer them anything. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you where the missing part of the process is. I don’t know any more than Stephen does. He thinks it’s in Richard’s private laboratory, and we don’t really know where that lab is.”

“Neither do we,” Sandy drawled, finally entering the conversation. “Where did Tremaine go today?”

“Upstate New York. He’s gone to the area where Richard had his accident.”

“Does he think he’ll find some clue there?” Jane demanded. “Richard was just passing through, heading for Vermont when his car went off the road. I wouldn’t think he’d learn anything there.”

“Maybe not. All I can tell you is he isn’t any farther along in his quest than you are. He hasn’t the faintest idea where the lab is, and all his private detectives aren’t helping. Is that what you are, Mr....?” She let it trail, eyeing him over the rim of her glass of vodka.

“Just Sandy,” he replied modestly. “And no, I’m not a private detective.”

“Then just what are you?”

Time to intervene again, Jane thought, rising briskly. “We appreciate your help.”

Elinor shrugged. “It wasn’t much.”

“You could keep in touch. Let us know if Tremaine comes up with anything.”

“I could. We’ll see how I feel.”

Jane headed down the hallway, Sandy strolling casually along beside her, when she turned to look at Elinor’s still figure. “I just wish I knew why you were willing to help us.”

Elinor’s smile was icy. “Let’s just say I didn’t bargain for getting involved in murder.”

“He couldn’t have been murdered,” Jane insisted for the twenty-seventh time. She was sitting cross-legged on her motel bed, her hair shoved behind her ears, her glasses slipping down her generous nose, her blouse unbuttoned lower than she doubtless realized. Sandy looked at her and controlled a wistful sigh.

“Why not?” They’d repeated this conversation too many times for him to remember. “Do you think Stephen Tremaine is incapable of murder?”

“Not necessarily. But I can’t believe he’d risk it. I wouldn’t think the stakes would be high enough. Damn that woman! How could she just say something like that and refuse to explain?” Jane fumed, bouncing on the bed in her agitation.

“Ms. Peabody knew exactly what she was doing. She wanted to get you riled up and not thinking straight.” He was lounging against the wall by their connecting door, trying to decide how he could get beside her on the bed without having her throw a major fit.

“She succeeded. Do you suppose that was why she did it? That this was all part of Uncle Stephen’s plan to get us so confused we went off in a thousand directions?” Her eyes were swollen with unshed tears. He knew she’d shed tears in the darkness on the long drive home, but she’d refused to cry in front of him.

“It’s always a possibility.” He managed a casual stroll over to the front windows on the pretext of looking out into the artificially lit parking lot. That little maneuver got him a few feet closer to the bed and kept her off guard. If only she’d start crying again he’d have an excuse to comfort her. He’d been on fire since she’d made that phony pass at him earlier—he could still feel the imprint of her hand on his knee and hear the very real possessiveness in her voice.

Jane shook her head. Her thick brown hair was coming loose from the braid down her back, and her glasses were slipping down on the end of her nose. “I don’t think so. There was real hostility in her voice when she talked about Uncle Stephen. I think she’s definitely out to get him. I just don’t know whether getting him involves lying or not.”

Sandy crossed to the bed, leaning over her and resting his hands on the sagging mattress. “If she was telling the truth, if Richard really was murdered, then this isn’t a game anymore. It’s a matter for the police.”

“Is that what it’s been to you? A game?” Her voice was tight and throbbing with tension, and she was so angry she didn’t realize how close he was, didn’t comprehend the possibilities when he sat down on the bed beside her.

“No,” he said, pushing a strand of hair back from her flushed face. “But it wasn’t a matter of life and death, either.”

“I keep forgetting,” she said bitterly, not moving beneath his hand.

“Forgetting what?” His voice held no more than mild curiosity as he reached out and pushed the glasses back up her nose. He would have liked to have taken them off her, but he decided that would be pushing his luck.

“That you’re an amoral criminal, selling your expertise to the highest bidder.”

He wasn’t even affected. He looked down at her, a gentle smile on his face. “But at least my body’s for free,” he said, and kissed her.

He more than half expected the reaction he got. For a moment her mouth softened beneath his, her whole body-radiating warmth and desire. The next moment he was shoved away, the stinging imprint of her hand on his jaw as he toppled off the bed and onto the threadbare carpet.

He looked up at her from his ignominious position, sprawled on the floor. She was kneeling on the bed, holding her hand and staring down at him in shock and dismay. Her hand must hurt her a good deal, he thought, because it sure as hell hurt his face.

“I’ve never hit anyone in my life,” she said, her voice dazed. “Not since I was eight years old.”

He kept a straight face for a moment longer, then grinned up at her. “Maybe you should have hit your ex-husband,” he said, sitting upright on the hard floor. “Not to mention your self-centered brother.”

“Don’t. He’s dead.”

“That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have benefited from a good wallop,” Sandy said gently.

She stared at him for a long moment. “God, Sandy, what am I going to do?” she said finally.

There were a number of possibilities, most of which she’d find completely unacceptable. He’d already mentioned the police, and clearly she hadn’t liked that idea. He’d tried another pass, and while she’d been more amenable, common sense had reared its ugly head. That left only one possibility. The real Jimmy the Stoolie and his impressive underworld connections.

“What we’re going to do,” he corrected gently, “is get a good night’s sleep. I’m going to make a few phone calls, see what I can stir up, and tomorrow we’ll head into the city.”

“Why?”

“Because if Stephen Tremaine really was responsible for your brother’s death, you can bet your cookies he didn’t do it himself. He hired someone. And in New York we can find out exactly whom he hired.”

“How?”

“I have friends,” he said modestly. “Friends in low places. We can even stay in my lawyer’s apartment while we’re checking out leads.”

“Your lawyer pays your bills and lends you his apartment?” Jane said, mystified. “Why?”

Sandy shrugged. “What can I say? He likes me.”

“Are you blackmailing him?”

This being a criminal has its drawbacks, Sandy thought, swallowing his outraged protest. Righteous indignation had no place in his scheme of things. “No, I’m not blackmailing him,” Sandy said patiently, with only a slight edge. “He owes me a few favors, I owe him a couple. It all works out.”

“So the glorious Alexander Calderwood owes favors to a gangster,” Jane mused. “Remind me not to hire him if we get caught torching Technocracies.”

“Caldicott,” Sandy corrected, the edge coming out. “And you couldn’t ask for a better lawyer.”

“I could ask for a more honest one.”

He just managed to keep from growling. “Besides, I’m not a gangster. I’m just a minor talent.”

“True enough. You can barely manage to pick a lock.”

Enough was enough. Sandy’s romantic mood was thoroughly banished by now, his jaw was throbbing, and Jane was looking decidedly cheerful. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

“Fine,” she said, lying back on the bed, seemingly unaware that her skirt had ridden up her thighs, exposing those beautiful legs of hers, that her glasses were sliding down her nose again, and that no matter how mad he was right now he still found her absolutely delicious. “I don’t think we’ll find anything, but it will help matters to know for sure.”

“You’ve decided Tremaine didn’t kill your brother?”

“I don’t think so. Call me irrational, but I think I’d know. I trust my intuition about people, and I just don’t think Uncle Stephen could have done it. It had to be an accident.”

Sandy had made it to the connecting door, but he stopped for a moment. “You trust your intuition about people,” he echoed. “What does your intuition tell you about me?”

He would have given ten years off his life to have been able to read her mind right then. Whatever she was thinking, it was powerful. Her eyes widened, her mouth grew soft and tremulous, and for two cents he would have crossed the room and landed back on the bed with her.

And landed back on the floor, no doubt. Within seconds she’d wiped the incriminating look from her face, tightening her mouth and narrowing her eyes. “That you’re nothing but trouble,” she answered. “Good night.”

That was true enough, he thought. But he wished he knew what else she’d been thinking for that brief moment before her defenses shuttered down again. “Pleasant dreams,” he said, hoping they’d be lustful ones.

There was no question that his would be.

The whimpers woke him. It was sometime in the middle of the night—the Princeton Pike Sleep-a-While Motel didn’t supply digital clocks to succor the insomniac, and he could only peer at his thin gold watch and guess that it was after three. The fluorescent lights from the parking lot glared into the room, and he lay in the uncomfortable bed, his ears straining for the sound that had pulled him from a deep sleep.

Maybe the sparsely populated motel had rented the room on the other side, and right now some energetic couple was being slightly vocal in their endeavors. Or maybe some stray alley cat was lurking outside, prowling along the cracked cement walkway, looking for a juicy mouse. Or maybe, he thought, as the sound came again, his partner in crime was crying.

He pulled himself out of bed, and headed for the connecting door, grabbing for his bathrobe as he went. Not that she hadn’t already seen him in his underwear, but in her current fragile state he didn’t want to do anything to alarm her further.

He wouldn’t have put it past her to barricade the connecting door, but it opened easily, silently at his touch. He expected a shriek of outrage when she realized he’d faked locking the door, but all that came from the narrow figure on the bed was another muffled whimper.