Partners in Crime (Anne Stuart's Bad Boys Book 4)

by Anne Stuart

  Suddenly Jane was transported back to her teenage years, when a bunch of kids would pile into someone’s old Beetle and drive to the shore for a day of sunburns and junk food and very little sea water. It had been a wonderful time, spent hidden behind prescription sunglasses, stuffed into a bikini she blushed to remember, playing WNEW-FM too loud and irritating everyone else on the beach. She had very few memories of such innocence—those times had been few and far between during her ordained quest for academic excellence. It wasn’t until she flatly announced to her parents that she was refusing Stanford, Harvard, and Princeton in favor of a small liberal arts college in the Midwest that she once more experienced that heady feeling of youthful joy and power.

  The old house on the ocean hadn’t changed much. Unlike its neighbors, it hadn’t been freshened with a new coat of paint, the shingles were streaked and weathered, and weeds were poking out of the cracked walkways. She’d been there once since Richard inherited it, and with him had made the tour of rusty pipes, outdated wiring, cheap furniture and rattan rugs. The house had smelled of boiled cabbage and dead fish, and four years later it smelled the same. There was no apparent sign that Richard had been back in the past few years.

  The first thing Jane did was open all the windows. The second was to check that the power and phone were working. The former was, the latter wasn’t, but that wouldn’t matter for one night. Not unless she murdered the man with her and then wanted to turn herself in.

  She couldn’t think of him in terms of anything but a pronoun or a four-letter word. It didn’t matter that she’d been calling him Sandy, clearly an often-used nickname for Alexander. It didn’t matter that she knew him as Caldicott—she still thought of that little weasel as his lawyer, not as his client.

  “We’re spending the night here?” the creep inquired as he came back down the stairs.

  Jane turned off the rusty tap water and turned to face him. “You can go back to your lawyer’s apartment if you want,” she said sweetly. “I’m staying here.”

  “I’ll stay. Though what you think we’ll find is beyond me. It doesn’t look as if anyone’s been here in years.”

  “Richard wasn’t the type to settle in. He probably just brought a suitcase and ate out. That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t leave some sort of sign. He left directly for Vermont from here. Chances are we’ll find a reason.”

  “I don’t see any sign of a laboratory. Not unless it’s hidden behind fake walls or something.” He shoved the sleeves of his rugby shirt up to his elbows and peered into the empty refrigerator.

  “The wiring hasn’t been upgraded. He couldn’t have had a lab here. His work requires some sophisticated instruments and a decent power source.”

  He shut the refrigerator door and leaned against it, staring out the grimy kitchen window at the ramshackle garage. “So we’ve come to a dead end.”

  “Not necessarily. That’s what comes from being on the other side of the law, Jimmy,” she said with just a touch of malice. “You don’t have to put your energies into discovering things, you have to put them into keeping from being discovered. It’s different when you’re the one who’s looking. There’s trash in the wastepaper baskets, there are papers and envelopes less than two months old in his desk. He left his McDonald’s wrappers here—we’ll be able to look at it and see whether he was alone or whether there is enough trash for two.”

  “You do have a devious mind,” he said admiringly.

  “I’m probably better suited to a life of crime than you are, Jimmy.”

  “Call me Sandy,” he said with a trace of irritation.

  “Sandy’s too bland and innocuous a name,” she replied sweetly. “I prefer to think of you as Jimmy the Stoolie. After last night’s encounter I have no doubt at all that beneath that wishy-washy exterior lurks the soul of a completely sleazy liar, but it’s easy to forget and think you’re a decent, upstanding citizen.”

  He just stared at her, at a complete loss for words, and she watched him with limpid delight. He couldn’t very well insist that he wasn’t a rotten liar—after all, he’d gone to a great deal of trouble to convince her that was exactly what he was. He couldn’t very well insist what she termed his wishy-washy exterior was the real thing, that bland and innocuous Sandy was his real name. All he could do was glare at her from across the large, old-fashioned kitchen.

  “It’s always nice to know what my partner in crime thinks of me,” he said finally, pushing away from the refrigerator and moving toward her.

  Jane eyed him warily. No matter how furious, how outraged and murderous she felt, she couldn’t rid herself of the irrational, utterly degrading attraction she still felt for him. “Why don’t you go out and find us something to eat,” she said, forestalling his steady approach, “and I’ll make a start on the trash?”

  “That sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.” He stopped his headlong advance. “Wouldn’t you rather go out for dinner?”

  “I’d rather get started. The longer we take the greater the chance that Uncle Stephen will find the missing part of the formula first. We’ve wasted too much time as it is.”

  He didn’t reply to the indirect criticism. “Do you want to make a list?”

  “See if you can find a place with take-out fried clams. We’ll also need some instant coffee and maybe something for breakfast.”

  “No instant coffee. We get ground coffee or we go without. I think I’ll see if I can find a bottle of Scotch, too. Something tells me it’s going to be a cold night.”

  “It’s Indian summer,” she pointed out.

  “I wasn’t talking about the temperature. Anything else?”

  Enough rope for you to hang yourself, she thought sweetly. “Anything that strikes your fancy, Jimmy.”

  “Let’s leave it at wishy-washy old Sandy, okay?” he said, his voice just short of a bark. “I’m used to it by now.” The door slammed behind him, the Audi screeched out of the driveway, and Jane stood at the kitchen door, trying to fight the burning feeling of anger and tears that had lodged in her chest since early that morning.

  “Damn you, Alexander Caldicott,” she whispered, trying the name on for size. It suited him, all right. How could she have been so blind and stupid?

  *

  She hadn’t bothered to mention to him that the house already contained a bottle of Scotch. Her brother’s one human weakness in his entire austere life had been a fondness for the best Scotch he could buy, and he could buy the best. There was bound to be a bottle of Cutty Sark or Pinch somewhere around in the dusty old cupboards. And that was exactly what she needed, right then and there.

  She found it under the sink, next to the rusty can of Drano. The ice cubes in the freezer were dry and shrunken, the rusty water unappealing, so she poured herself a goodly portion, neat, and stepped out onto the screened-in back porch.

  Most of the screens were ripped and shredded, but thankfully the mosquito season was well past. The house sat smack on the beach, and while its stretch of white sand leading down to the churning gray water was ostensibly private property, no one had abided by that edict. Jane noticed the charred remnants of a campfire, several cans and bottles, but nothing that couldn’t be cleaned up in a few minutes.

  She sank down gingerly on an aging lounge chair, propped her feet up, and took a deep sip of the warm Scotch. Despite the unseasonable warmth of the day a fresh breeze had picked up, and the strong salt scent of high tide teased her senses. The sun was setting, the purples and reds of a brilliant sunset reflecting over the ocean. It never failed to work out that she was on the wrong coast at the wrong time. The only time she’d spent on the Pacific she’d been involved in a seminar that included rising at dawn and being locked away in meetings during sunset. Here she was on the East Coast, finally able to watch nature, and the sun was setting out of sight. And she had no intention whatsoever of being up early enough to see the sun rise.

  She had more than enough time to drink her whiskey, watch the tide ebb, and think about
the future. She’d have to find Richard’s lab on her own, without any help from her so-called partner in crime. Though she was beginning to lose interest in the chase. Richard made his life a monument to high principles, but that didn’t mean she had to waste months and months trying to follow in his footsteps. She’d always felt like such a cop-out compared to Richard’s high-flown standards, but maybe she’d been too harsh on herself. Maybe it wasn’t such a crime to be able to see the other person’s point of view, no matter how distasteful it might appear.

  She toyed with the notion, as she toyed with the glass of rapidly disappearing whiskey, considering various occasions when she might have been too understanding. While she was an old-fashioned liberal, she understood the fears that drove conservatives. While she enjoyed an occasional whiskey or a glass of wine, she realized the dangers certain people ran in indulging even marginally in such social drugs.

  And what about Frank? He’d made a mistake, divorcing his first wife and then marrying Jane on the rebound. He hadn’t excused it, or tried to blame anyone else, he’d been terribly sorry about it. Had she been wrong to forgive him? To understand?

  Jane drained her whiskey, setting it down on the smeared glass-topped table with a snap. Yes, she’d been wrong. Because she hadn’t really forgiven him. She’d kept her hurt and anger and sheer outrage locked inside, tamped down beneath her well-nurtured civility, and it had done nothing but eat away at her.

  Damn Frank, damn Richard and damn Alexander Caldicott. Damn all men everywhere. Revenge, sweet revenge was the answer. When she got back to Baraboo she’d see if she could find one of those companies that delivered a cream pie in the face of specified victims. It was the least she could do for the happy couple.

  But more important was Sandy Caldicott. She needed him to make as big a fool out of himself as she had of herself. She still hadn’t quite figured out how to do it, but she wouldn’t sleep until she had. And once she’d gotten rid of him, she could concentrate on finishing her business in Princeton.

  Richard didn’t deserve her vengeance, but Stephen Tremaine did. Enough of this messing around—tomorrow morning she’d head back to Princeton, alone, buy whatever seemed ultimately inflammable, and torch Technocracies Ltd. If she couldn’t stop Tremaine from selling the formula she could certainly make a mess out of his business.

  She should get moving and go find some clean sheets, make up a bed. While she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay here alone in this big, empty house, she definitely didn’t want Sandy around for longer than it took to wreak a considerable amount of havoc.

  Embarrassment would do it, she thought, wanting to head for another glass of whiskey but not daring to. She hadn’t eaten anything all day and that first glass had hit her like a mallet. She needed to keep her wits about her if she was going to outfox her accomplice.

  She was too tired to think of how she was going to do it. She’d simply have to play it by ear. Draw him out into a long, incriminating conversation, and then let him have it. Maybe simply bash him on the head and have done with it. She hadn’t been thinking ahead—she’d end up being stranded here without a car. Still, it would be worth it, just to see the look on his face when she calmly, evenly, told him to go to hell.

  In the meantime, she’d better get to work. There was a decent amount of old paper trash in the kitchen—she could go back there, dump it on the floor, and begin sifting through it for any sign of where Richard hid the formula. And she could help herself to just a tiny bit more of the whiskey.

  It took Sandy too long to find the only open grocery store, and he had to give up on the Scotch. He’d forgotten it was Sunday, and there were still certain things you couldn’t buy on a Sunday. He was getting to the point where he’d kill for a glass of Scotch.

  The sun had almost set by the time he pulled the Audi back into the cracked driveway, but as far as he could see no lights had been turned on in the house. He tried to quell the sense of uneasiness that had been plaguing him all day. He’d never had any psychic ability, but all day long he’d been dogged by the feeling that something was very wrong.

  He forced himself to move slowly, fetching the groceries from the back seat and walking deliberately toward the kitchen door. He saw her the moment he walked in. She was seated in the middle of the floor, surrounded by garbage. There was a smudge on her cheek, he hated to think of what, her wire-rimmed glasses had slid down her nose, and she was clutching a McDonald’s bag in her hand. He could still smell the memory of the onions.

  She looked up at him, and for the first time that day her expression wasn’t wary, defensive, on edge. In the dim light of the kitchen he could see her cheeks wet with tears, and her mouth trembled with a vain effort at control.

  “Stephen really killed him,” she said in a broken voice, and without hesitation he crossed the room and sank down beside her, ready to draw her into his arms.

  Chapter Fourteen

  His arms felt so good around her, his body warm and strong, and for one weak, desperate moment Jane absorbed the comfort, the sheer loving presence that radiated from him. And then she remembered.

  She shoved with all her might, sending him backward among the McDonald’s wrappers and then scrambled to her feet. Normally she wouldn’t have been strong enough to do it, but she took him off his guard. He lay sprawled there, staring up at her, a bemused expression on his too-handsome face.

  “I take it you finally figured it out,” he said.

  If he hadn’t said the word “finally” she might have kept her temper under control. That word was like a red flag to a bull, reminding her just what a deluded fool she’d been. All the frustrations of the past few years washed over her in a haze, and she reached for the first thing she could find. It was a tin pitcher that had once held iced tea, and she hurled it at his head.

  He dodged, rolling over in the garbage, but she’d already followed it with the bag of groceries and the bottle of Scotch. He struggled to his feet, half laughing, half terrified, as he held his arms up to ward off the barrage.

  “Calm down, Jane,” he said, backing out of the kitchen. “If you’d just think about it you’d realize it was funny.”

  “Hilarious,” she snarled, flinging a ceramic lamp at his head. “Just a complete riot.” Her glasses were slipping down her nose, her hair had come loose, and she felt like an avenging angel.

  “Come on, Jane, it wasn’t my fault,” he said, ducking the lamp and dodging behind a chair. “You were the one who decided I was a criminal.”

  “You are a criminal. You’re a cold-hearted, lying, manipulative bastard.” She hurled an antique copper fire extinguisher, a copy of Shakespeare’s Complete Plays, three glass ashtrays and a box of matches. One of the ashtrays connected quite smartly with his forehead, eliciting a yelp of pain, and the matches bounced off his nose.

  “Jane, I have been helping, even if I didn’t admit who I am,” he said. “If you’d just...put that down...listen, you’d realize...ow!” She’d gotten him with a brass hurricane lamp, and he went down into a heap, hidden behind the chair.

  She was reaching for the fire poker when the silence penetrated her rage. The house was still. From outside the open windows she could hear the muffled thunder of the surf, the sound of intermittent traffic. But inside, behind the chair, all was silent.

  Her sense of horror and remorse was as sudden as it was overwhelming. “Sandy?” she said, her voice weak as she dropped the poker on the ancient, sand-embedded carpet. “Say something,” she pleaded. “Curse, moan, anything.”

  There was no sound, not even the rustle of clothing as he lay out of sight. Her last ounce of mistrust vanished, and she shoved the chair out of her way and sank down beside his prostrate body. His forehead was bleeding, his face was pale, and his taunting, teasing gray eyes were closed. Perhaps forever.

  “Damn you,” she said desperately, picking up one lifeless hand. “Don’t you dare be dead.” He didn’t move, his eyelids didn’t flicker, and as she reached up to touch his face h
e made no response. His skin felt icy beneath her hot, shaking hands, and she thought back to all the things she’d ever read about head injuries. She should pull back his eyelids and check to see if his pupils were unevenly dilated, she should take his pulse, listen to his heartbeat.

  The last seemed the easiest thing to do. She pressed her head against his chest, her hair fanning out around her, and was rewarded with a slightly accelerated thumping. Not too fast to worry about, and it proved he was still alive. She sat back up, missing the hand that was just reaching to touch her, and pulled his inert body into her arms, cradling his bleeding head in her lap.

  “Damn it, Sandy, wake up,” she moaned. “I didn’t mean to kill you. I just wanted to hurt you a little. Please, Sandy, don’t die. You can’t die! I can’t live without you.” As stupid as the words sounded, she realized with sudden shock that they were true. She didn’t want to live without Alexander the Stoolie Caldicott.

  Her dying lover’s eyes shot open, his eyes clear and curious. “Why not?” he inquired calmly.

  She considered dropping his head back on the hardwood floor, but she had vented her violent rage enough for one night. “I take it you’re not dying,” she managed with admirable nonchalance.

  “Just mortally wounded. Why can’t you live without me?”

  “Don’t you think you’re pushing your luck? The iron poker is still in reach.” She tried to pull away, but he’d somehow managed to get an arm around her while lying in her lap, and short of actually dumping him back on the floor she had to stay put.

  “You’re not going to beat me to a bloody pulp, Jane,” he said softly. “You can’t live without me, remember?”

  She stared down at him for a long moment. The room was sinking deeper and deeper into shadows, with only the light from the kitchen illuminating the darkness. A wind had picked up, sweeping through the open windows, bringing the dampness and scent of the ocean around them. “I’ve already drawn blood,” she said, her voice husky as she reached out and touched his forehead with gentle fingertips, bringing them back wet and sticky.