Partners in Crime (8 page)

“Not yet. Where is sister Sally during the grand quest for your brother’s legacy?”

“They never got along. Dick wasn’t that easy a person to be around. People with such high principles seldom are. He didn’t have much patience for compromise, or for people he considered his intellectual inferiors. Which included just about everybody.”

“Did it include you?”

“Oh, me most of all,” she said with unfeigned cheerfulness. “I was anathema to him. The little peacemaker, with no more conviction than a willow tree, swaying with each strong breeze. He was right, I’m afraid.”

Sandy had a sudden swift desire to punch Dick Dexter in the teeth. “Your brother sounds like an intolerant, pompous idiot.”

If he expected an argument he wasn’t about to get one. “I’m afraid he was,” she admitted. “But I loved him anyway. And I mourn his death, though not as much as I should. I suppose that’s why I feel so guilty. I just...can’t really comprehend that he’s gone. I don’t believe it.” She sighed. “I suppose that’s a fairly common reaction to untimely death. Sooner or later it’ll sink in. In the meantime, I have to do what I can to preserve his memory.”

“Ummpphh.” Sandy knew the sound from his throat was uncompromising, and he didn’t care. He wasn’t motivated by any great liking for Richard Dexter. His motivations were pure and simple—keep Jane out of trouble. And have the undisputed pleasure of moonlighting as a con artist while he was doing it.

“We’re not making much progress,” she added. “I’ve been thinking—Uncle Stephen has to sell the process because Technocracies is in such big trouble. If we burn the place it would render the situation obsolete. Either he’d be out of business entirely and we won’t have to bother, or he’ll get so much from insurance it’ll solve his cash flow problems. You can do that, can’t you? Torch an entire building?”

“Don’t look so eager,” he growled. “Yes, I can, and no, I won’t. You’re not thinking clearly again. If the place is destroyed and Tremaine is out of business he’ll cut his losses and sell anything negotiable to the highest bidder. We’ve already ascertained that we don’t know where the process is.”

“Oh,” said Jane, disappointed.

“And I beg to differ with you. We’re making more progress than you realize. I spent an inordinate amount of time in the executive washroom trying to clean computer grease from my hands. Ceramic tile is excellent for carrying sound. Your godfather put off his trip to Europe, and for a very good reason.”

“Which is?”

“He can’t sell the process if he doesn’t have the process,” Sandy said triumphantly.

“He doesn’t have it?” Jane shrieked. “Who does?”

“No one. At least, no one has all of it. Your brother didn’t work exclusively at Technocracies Limited. He had at least one private lab, and maybe more, and your buddy Tremaine hasn’t the faintest idea where they were. All he knows is that when Richard died there was an important piece of information missing from his work at Technocracies. Without it the process is useless.”

He was unprepared for her response. Unprepared for the blazing smile that lit her face, turning her from passably attractive to a raving beauty. He was unprepared for the whoop of joy, unprepared for her to launch herself at him, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing him soundly on the cheek. And he was unprepared for her immediate withdrawal. He reached out, trying to capture her arms and keep her tight against him, but she’d already slipped away.

“Our troubles are over,” she said, her eyes alight.

“No,” he said, “they’re not.” He hated to disillusion her, but she’d figure it out sooner or later, and he didn’t trust her without his restraining presence. She was too damned bloodthirsty. “Tremaine isn’t going to give up. They’re hiring private investigators to find Richard’s laboratories. Sooner or later the information is going to turn up, unless you think he would have destroyed it.”

She shook her head. Her hair was still loose from her earlier transformation, and it tangled appealingly around her narrow face. “He wouldn’t do that. He was too egocentric to destroy anything he’d invented.”

“And of course he’d have no reason to do so, would he?” he prodded. “It was only a coincidence that a vital part of the process is missing. Wasn’t it?”

Jane was lousy at dissembling. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly,” he echoed. “What have you neglected to tell me? If we’re going to be partners in crime we can’t keep things back from each other.” He didn’t suffer more than a slight twinge at the thought of all he was keeping from her.

“I didn’t think it was that important. Dick was always paranoid—I just thought it was part of his persecution complex.”

“What was?”

She made a face. “He called me a couple of days before he died. He must have had some sort of premonition. He said if anything happened to him I had to make sure Uncle Stephen didn’t misuse the titanium coating process.”

“Was that a premonition?” Sandy asked. “Or did he know he was in danger?”

Jane sat very still. “You think it wasn’t an accident?”

“I don’t know what to think. There’s a lot of money at stake, and Stephen Tremaine is not known for his ethical restraint. You know the man better than I do. Do you think he’d balk at murder?”

“Absolutely,” Jane said. And then a moment later, “At least, I think so.”

“Thinking’s not good enough. I think we’re going to have to be extra careful. If he’s killed once there’s nothing to stop him from killing again.”

“This is ridiculous. No one’s killed anybody. You sound like some sort of murder mystery. People don’t go around killing other people.”

“Yes,” he said gently, “they do.”

The dingy motel room was silent, with only the sound of the traffic from Route One filtering through the thin walls. In the distance Sandy could hear the sound of a television set turned up too loud, the noise of a shower two rooms over. And the sound of Jane’s steady, troubled breathing.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” she asked finally.

“No.” He could say that both for himself and for the real Jimmy the Stoolie. Though of course he shouldn’t have taken Jimmy’s word for it—the man was a pathological liar. But in his years of practicing law he’d learned to tell, not necessarily who had and who hadn’t committed murder, but who could and who couldn’t. Jimmy definitely fit in the hadn’t and couldn’t category.

But Jane Dexter was a question mark. Common sense told him a civilized Midwestern librarian wasn’t about to go around wreaking havoc, but her frustration level was high. And if it turned out that Stephen Tremaine really had murdered her brother, he had no idea what her reaction might be.

“We have several options open to us,” Sandy continued. “We can drop everything, hope that Tremaine never finds the missing part of the formula, and go our merry way. Or we can try to outfox him and find the rest of the formula before he does. After that it’s up to us. We could always sell it to the highest bidder ourselves...”

“No.”

“Just a thought. Or we can destroy it. Or just salt it away someplace until we make up our minds.”

“Or we can torch the place.”

Sandy shook his head. “Jane, Jane, you must curb these violent impulses. It wouldn’t do any good at all. Tremaine’s no fool—he’ll have copies of the formula.”

“Then I guess we really have no option at all. We’ll have to find the rest of the formula before he does. That way we can blackmail him into selling it to someone we approve of, and Richard will be satisfied.”

Richard won’t care, Sandy wanted to point out, but he tactfully controlled himself. “Personally I approve of the highest bidder, but I bow to your wishes.” He shifted on the bed, moving imperceptibly closer. Jane was so caught up in her plans that she didn’t even notice.

“How much does Uncle Stephen know? Does he have any idea where Dick’s labs might be?”

“I’m not sure. He and Peabody got a bit...distracted, and gentlemanly restraint forced me to stop eavesdropping.”

Jane snorted. “I hadn’t noticed you plagued by gentlemanly restraint. Are you telling me Uncle Stephen is sleeping with Ms. Peabody?”

“I don’t think they were sleeping.”

Jane shook her head. “The swine.”

Sandy shifted closer, so that his thigh pressed against hers. “Some men are,” he said innocently.

“They are indeed. We’ll go back to Dick’s apartment,” she said decisively.

“Now?” While the bed they were sitting on wasn’t terribly comfortable, it had the undisputed merit of being readily available.

“Tomorrow. I went through that place with a fine-tooth comb but I might have overlooked something.”

Sandy nodded. She smelled like flowers and pizza and soap—an undeniably erotic combination. “It would help to have a fresh look at the place.”

“And you’re exceedingly fresh. Move your leg.”

He didn’t. He looked at her for a long, thoughtful moment. She didn’t blink, though he could tell she wanted to, she didn’t fiddle with her blouse, though he knew she wished to hell she’d rebuttoned it. She just looked into his eyes with an I-dare-you kind of glare, and Sandy Caldicott couldn’t resist a dare.

He shifted, smoothly, gracefully, so quickly that she didn’t have time to squirm away. In seconds she was sprawled on the bed, beneath him.

“I didn’t know you numbered rape and assault among your crimes,” she said through gritted teeth. His face was inches away from hers, and behind the wire-rimmed glasses her dark brown eyes were blazingly angry and not the slightest bit frightened.

“I’m not going to rape or assault you,” he said in his most reasonable voice. “I’m just going to kiss you.”

“I don’t want to be kissed.”

He was holding her hands down, his hips were pinning hers, and her breasts were pushing against him. “Tough. I deserve something for combat pay. Not to mention the pizza.” And he dropped his mouth down on hers.

She tried to jerk away, but he let go of her hands and caught her jaw, holding it in place for a long, leisurely kiss. He could feel her hard little fists pounding at him, but he ignored them, lost in the sweetness of her lips. She bounced her hips, trying to throw him off, but it only aroused him more. And for all her fight, for all the anger in her hands, her mouth was soft, pliant, and opening to him.

She was no longer beating at him. Her arms had slid around his neck, her tongue had reached out to touch his, and her body was softening beneath him as his was getting harder and harder. She made a little noise in the back of her throat, half a moan, half a whimper, and he wanted to hear more. He wanted to hear her crying against him, wanted to feel that surprisingly lush body wrapped around his, he wanted to turn off the lights and shut out the depressing little motel and lose himself in Jane Dexter’s wonderful body.

He paused for breath, lifting his head to look down at her through passion-glazed eyes. She lay there, panting, her lips slightly swollen from his kisses, her eyes closed behind the glasses. Beneath the closed lids, hot tears were pouring down her face.

Sandy jumped away as if he were burned, cursing loudly and profanely as guilt swamped him. “For God’s sake, Jane, it was only a kiss!”

She opened her eyes and to his disgust and amazement she grinned at him. “Neat trick, eh?” She pulled herself to a sitting position, rebuttoned her blouse almost to her neck, and stood up, keeping well out of his reach. “It’s my one accomplishment. I can cry any time I want to.”

He just stared at her. No longer did he have any desire to push her back on the bed. There was nothing he hated more than tears—like most people he couldn’t deal with them, could do nothing but feel guilty. He felt tricked on the most fundamental level, and his temper was fraying around the edges.

“I’d be more than happy to give you something to cry about,” he snarled.

“You would.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You would give me something to cry about,” she said calmly, moving over to the wavery mirror and wiping the tears off her cheeks. “You’d give me nothing but trouble and misery, and I’m not about to let myself in for it. I’ve had enough misery in the past couple of years to last me for a long time, and I’m not going to make any more mistakes when it comes to men.”

“And I’d be a mistake?”

She met his eyes in the mirror. “The biggest,” she said, sighing. “So we’ll keep this as a business partnership, all right? I’m sure you can find someone who’s more your style. Some leggy blonde who’s not into commitment.”

“They’re all into commitment,” he said gloomily, ignoring the little shock he’d felt at her words. How did she know he liked leggy blondes? Hell, who wouldn’t? Except right now he had no interest in leggy blondes whatsoever. He was only interested in petite, bespectacled ladies with rumpled brown hair and tears still glistening in their eyes.

Crocodile tears, he reminded himself. “I think,” he said, “I’ve had enough for one day. I’m going to bed.”

“Good night.” She was cool and unmoved, watching him as he headed for the door.

Sandy considered sulking. He considered slamming the door, he considered telling her what he thought of her phony tears. And then his sense of humor surfaced. “It’s not going to work,” he said, opening the door and standing there in the cool night air.

“What isn’t?”

“You’re not going to be able to keep from making mistakes.”

“I can try.”

“Yes, you can. But it won’t do you any good. And next time I kiss you I won’t mind if you’re awash in tears.”

She glared at him. “There won’t be a next time.”

“Oh, yes, there will.” He shut the door behind him, stepping out into the night. And through the thin walls he heard her voice.

“Yes, there will,” she said out loud. And Sandy, his good humor totally restored, headed back to his own room.

Richard’s apartment didn’t look any different from the last time Jane had been there, three days ago. The boxes she’d packed were still neatly stacked in the hallway, the curtains were drawn, everything exactly where she’d left it. She stepped into the musty smelling apartment, waited until Sandy closed the door behind them, and announced, “Someone’s been here.”

“How do you know?” He wandered past her into the boring, box-shaped apartment. “Is anything missing?”