Partners in Crime (7 page)

“Executive vice-president,” Ms. Peabody corrected him. “The promotion went through last month, remember?” She nodded at Jane, a curt greeting. “You’re familiar with IBM computers and software?”

“Yes,” Jane lied.

“Elinor, I haven’t finished interviewing her yet...” Charlie complained, but Ms. Peabody sailed right over his objections.

“You don’t need a life history for a temporary employee, Charlie.” She was using a “be charming to the subordinates” voice that Jane found fascinating. She could hear Charlie Pilbin’s teeth grinding. “I’m sure Judy will be able to catch on quickly enough, and you can finish up the paperwork later.”

“But...”

“Thanks, Charlie.” She put a hand on Jane’s arm and swept her from the room with a backward glance. “It doesn’t do any good to be wishy-washy about these things,” she announced. “If you find a home at Technocracies Limited, you’ll soon learn that Stephen Tremaine’s creed is fast decisions and deal with the consequences. You seem
reasonably
well-equipped. I have no doubt you’ll do just fine.”

Jane began to grind her own teeth, but Elinor Peabody was too caught up in her own master plan to notice. Five minutes later she found herself plunked in front of a computer screen, staring at blinking amber blips and trying to wish away the cold sweat that had broken out on her forehead.

At least Ms. Peabody had turned it on for her. Jane leaned forward, peering desperately at the letter
A
flashing back and forth and praying for guidance.

“Are you nearsighted, Ms. Duncan?” Peabody demanded abruptly.

Jane kept staring at the screen, then belatedly realized the woman was talking to her. How could Jimmy... no, Sandy keep his aliases straight?

“I have new contact lenses.” The lie came so easily Jane was secretly horrified. She’d always prided herself on being scrupulously honest and completely straightforward. She’d slipped into the shadowy life of half truths so easily she wondered if she’d ever make it back out again.

“You shouldn’t let vanity get in the way of efficiency,” Elinor Peabody intoned, and Jane swallowed a retort. Elinor Peabody was born with the kind of beauty that very little could tarnish. Perfect bone structure combined with an indomitable will left nothing to chance. If she ever needed glasses she’d probably order her eyes to improve. Doubtless those china blue eyes of hers would comply.

“I won’t, ma’am,” Jane muttered, reaching out and pushing a key. The damned machine beeped at her, and once more Elinor Peabody raised her head.

She rose and circled the wide teak table that served as a desk, coming to loom over Jane’s unevenly padded shoulders. “Sorry, I forgot to let you into the file. You need two passwords, and I’m not about to give either one of them out.” She leaned past Jane and began tapping on the keys, and Jane got a full dose of her perfume. Poison, by Christian Dior. Wouldn’t you know it, Jane thought with a sigh, cursing her partner in crime for getting her into this mess.

“There you go.” Ms. Peabody moved back. “It’s certainly a simple enough task. Just enter the new tax information for each employee, then go on to the next one.”

“Simple enough,” Jane muttered, peering at the screen. Personnel files at her fingertips, if she could just manage to move from one name to the next.

God bless them, the creators of the software provided a help file at the top of the screen. Holding her breath, Jane pushed a key. To her amazement, a personnel file appeared in bright amber. Adamson, George Social Security #156-42-5917.

She pushed another button. Allman, Gregory. Astor, Jacob. Her face was flushed with triumph, and she pushed her irritating mop of hair away from her eyes, hunching closer. Computers were easier than she’d ever imagined. What a fool she’d been to be terrified of them. Bachman, Joyce.
Ballard, Alice. Butler, Charles. Cashill, Patricia. Davis, Alexander. Debrett, Piers. Dunbar, Glenn. Eddison,
Larry.

She stopped, perplexed. The personnel files held records for all employees, past and present. Larry Eddison had retired four years ago, Alice Ballard had worked as a consultant for three months in 1978. Where was Richard Dexter’s file?

She looked up at the Help file, but this time the programmers let her down. They refused to tell her how to go back, only how to move forward. All she could do was forge on ahead and hope the damned files would start all over again when she got to Z.

Fairbanks, Robert. Kellogg, Roger. Peabody, Elinor. Sullivan, Nancy. Tremaine, Stephen.

That answered one question. The files covered everyone, from corporate head to mail clerk. Richard’s file must have been deliberately deleted.

Xanatos, Grigor. Zallman, Yeshua. And then a blank screen, with nothing more than a blinking, taunting letter
A.

She allowed herself a brief glance over at Ms. Peabody, but her golden head was bent over her spotless desk, the bright sunlight gilding it. Jane managed a silent snarl and went back to the screen. It had been fairly simple so far. All she had to do was punch a few buttons and the program would reappear. It had been remarkably easy when Ms. Peabody did it, and despite Jane’s deep-rooted feelings of inferiority she told herself that anything Ms. Peabody did, she could do.

The computer disagreed. For long minutes it sat there sullenly, flashing that bright
A
at her while she pushed keys and combinations of keys. And then suddenly it went wild, letters and numbers and figures that looked like they were part of the Greek alphabet began hurling themselves onto the screen. The damned thing began buzzing, a rude, grating noise, mocking her, and then, just as Ms. Peabody rushed to her side, the entire screen shuddered and went blank.

Dead silence reigned in the office. “Move out of the way,” said Ms. Peabody. The words were bitten off, and Jane moved.

The older woman sank gracefully into the chair Jane had vacated, bowed her head in what appeared to Jane as silent prayer, and set her fingers on the keyboard. Jane held her breath.

But even the indomitable Ms. Peabody couldn’t coax life from the recalcitrant computer. After long, fruitless moments she moved away, icy rage vibrating through every cell of her elegant body. “Twenty-three years of personnel records lost, Ms. Duncan,” she said in a deceptively mild voice. “I think, I’m afraid, that you won’t do for Technocracies Limited.”

Her very calm was terrifying. Jane managed a weak smile, wondering whether she ought to plead, ought to protest. She decided she’d be lucky if she escaped with her life. “I’m terribly sorry...”

“Just leave,” said Ms. Peabody, sweeping past her and heading for the phone. “Marcus,” she said into the receiver, “bring me that new computer genius you hired. It’s an emergency.”

Jane was still hovering by the door. Ms. Peabody fixed her with an icy stare. “You can leave anytime,” she said, then looked over her shoulder at the opening door. “There you are, Marcus. Let’s hope your new wonder boy is all he’s cracked up to be.”

Marcus turned out to be a middle-aged man complete with nerd pack and potbelly. In his wake came Sandy, a Band-Aid wrapped around one corner of
her
glasses. He was stooping just slightly, his coat flapping around him, and as he passed Jane he reached out and pinched her backside, well out of view of the other two people in the room.

“What seems to be the trouble, ma’am?” His voice was nasal, just this side of an adolescent whine, and it took all Jane’s willpower not to giggle.

Ms. Peabody opened her mouth to speak, then spied Jane still lingering at the door. “Go!” she thundered. Jane turned and ran.

They’d taken both cars, and Jane couldn’t rid herself of the suspicion that Sandy hadn’t had much faith in her chance of success. It was understandable—she didn’t have much faith either. She drove home through the early-afternoon traffic, muttering under her breath, replaying the scene in her mind and coming up with alternatives that cast a more flattering light on her efforts.

She slammed into the room, yanked the tissues from underneath her bra straps and squinted into the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her thick brown hair tangled, and she couldn’t see without her glasses. It had been dangerous enough driving home, peering through the windshield of her Escort. It would be foolish indeed to go out again.

She flopped down on the bed. She was starving, she was edgy, she was tired, and her head ached. Surely Richard wouldn’t demand this kind of sacrifice on her part. He was dead, surely he was past caring.

He might be, but she wasn’t. As tempting as the thought might be, she couldn’t turn her back on her responsibility. Today had taught her a lesson, however. Subtlety wasn’t her strong suit. When Sandy came back she’d ask him about pipe bombs.

The spiky high heels he’d made her wear hurt her arches. She kicked them off, reaching up to fasten her blouse, then dropped her hand.
The hell with it,
she thought tiredly, rolling onto her side and curling in on herself. There’d be time enough to change later.

She always hated sleeping in the middle of the day—her worst nightmares came then. She dreamed she was in a car, rolling over and over down an embankment and then bursting into flames. But the fire smelled of pepperoni and onion, not of gasoline, and the brightness wasn’t the bright glow of fire, it was the meager bedside light. And that wasn’t Death leaning over her, it was Sandy, squinting through her glasses, holding a square white box that could only contain pizza in front of her nose.

Jane looked up at him. “I’m not going to ask how you got in here without a key,” she said in her calmest voice. “I simply want to know whether there are anchovies on that pizza.”

“What if there are?”

“I’ll scream for help.”

He grinned at her, flipping open the lid. “No anchovies. I guess our unholy alliance continues for a bit.”

Slowly, wearily Jane pulled herself into a sitting position. Sandy had plopped himself down on the bed beside her, helping himself to a generous slice of pizza. Reaching out, she pulled her glasses off his nose and settled them on her own. The metal frame was warm from his body heat, and she wished she’d let him hand them to her.

She touched the white Band-Aid that was wrapped conspicuously around the frame. “Did you have to break them?”

“Don’t worry—the Band-Aid is for effect, nothing more. You certainly screwed up their computer.” He finished his slice of pizza, crust and all, and reached for another.

Jane decided she’d better move fast or she’d starve to death. “I told you I didn’t know anything about computers. Neither do you. What happened when they found you couldn’t fix it?”

“They still don’t know. The PC in Ms. Peabody’s office is completely out of whack. They think I’ll be there first thing tomorrow morning to pull the personnel files from its bowels.”

“Oh, God,” Jane murmured.

“Is that ‘Oh, God’ in response to the splendor of the pizza or the destruction of the computer?” Sandy had put his long legs up on the bed, his tie was off, and he’d rumpled his blond hair into a spiky punk look.

“Both,” she said, reaching for another slice. “So neither of us gets to go back.”

“Just as well. Your boss of five minutes found out who you are. By tomorrow they’ll tumble to the fact that we were hired together.”

The pizza began to feel like lead in her empty stomach. “How’d she find out?”

“Who else but your beloved godfather?” Sandy said, kicking off his shoes and making himself comfortable. “Eat that last piece and you die.”

She eyed it wistfully. “It might be worth it. How did Uncle Stephen know?”

“He had an anonymous tip that you broke into the place last night.”

“How in heaven’s name did he know that?” she demanded, horrified.

“Very simple,” said Sandy. “I told him.”

P
lain Jane looked absolutely adorable sitting there with her blouse gaping open, the Band-Aided glasses perched on her nose, her lips red from the pizza. “You did what?” she demanded.

He smiled sweetly, ripping apart the last piece of pizza, and handed her the smaller portion. “I gave Uncle Stephen an anonymous tip. I thought it would be useful to see how he reacted—whether he called the police or went to ground.”

“And...?”

“No sign of cops anywhere around the place. Ergo, he’s trying to cover up something. Unless he has a soft spot for you and doesn’t want to get you in trouble.” He frowned suddenly. He hadn’t thought of that possibility until now, but if it had been up to him he wouldn’t have turned Jane in.

“Uncle Stephen doesn’t have a soft spot for anything without a bottom line. Don’t you think you were taking a big risk? They may have connected us sooner than you hoped. If he had called the police you would have been back in jail so fast your head would swim.”

“Back in jail? I wasn’t in jail before.”

“What about the arson and conspiracy charges? Didn’t they arrest you?”

Thank heavens for his ability to think fast. “You forget, Alexander Caldicott is one of the world’s great lawyers. He got me out on bail before they even locked me up.” Not strictly true, Sandy thought. The real Jimmy the Stoolie had spent an uncomfortable night in custody before he’d managed to spring him on his own recognizance.

“I still think you were taking too great a risk.” Jane sat up and tucked her feet underneath her. “I didn’t find anything I didn’t already know. Richard’s personnel records have been deleted from the files.”

“Everybody’s personnel records have been deleted, thanks to you.”

“Don’t be pedantic. Before my little mishap I went through all the employees. They had everyone listed who’d ever worked there, from Stephen Tremaine on down, and no mention of Dick whatsoever.”

“Dick?” Sandy echoed, momentarily diverted. “As in Dick and Jane?”

“Our parents weren’t very imaginative.” Her narrow shoulders were hunched defensively.

“I don’t suppose you have a younger sister named Sally?” He knew he shouldn’t push it but he couldn’t resist.

“Living in Dubuque with her second husband and three children,” she said gloomily. “Could we get back to the subject?”