by Anne Stuart
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.”
Chapter Six
Plain 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 bef
ore 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?”
“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 h
e 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.”
