Mistress of Justice (27 page)

“And it looks like he’s paying a thousand bucks a week cash for her. You told me he’s got money problems to start with. That’s
his
motive. And as for being in the firm on Saturday I know he was there and he told Junie that some project he was working on was going to mean a lot of money. I checked his time sheets and he didn’t bill any time Saturday or Sunday. So whatever he was doing at the firm then was personal.…”

Taylor added, “Now, we’ve got a third-party candidate.”

“Who?”

“Sean Lillick.”

“The paralegal? Hell, he’s been working for me on the case—he knows all the details about the note. But what’s his motive?”

“Also money. I found thousands of dollars hidden in his apartment. He didn’t get it from a paralegal’s salary. And he
sure
didn’t make it doing that performance art crap of his.”

“But he wasn’t in the firm when the note was stolen, was he?”

“I’m not sure. He did come in Saturday morning, according to his key entry card. I assumed he left, because he only billed a few hours to a client. But he might’ve stayed all night.”

Reece had a thought. “Something interesting … Lillick hangs around with Wendall Clayton a lot.”

She nodded. She’d seen them together.

“But you know what’s curious?” Reece mused. “Lillick’s assigned to the litigation department. Not corporate. Why’d he be working for Clayton?”

“I don’t know.”

A frown on the lawyer’s face. “Lillick’d be familiar with the St. Agnes files too. He might’ve fed Clayton some information that led him to that surprise witness from San Diego.”

“You think
Clayton’s
behind that?” she asked.

Reece shrugged. “St. Agnes is Donald’s client and so’s New Amsterdam Bank. All Clayton cares about is getting the merger through, and sabotaging Burdick’s clients is a pretty efficient way to do it.”

He stood, walked into the kitchen and returned with two glasses of cognac. He handed one to Taylor, the liqueur leaving thin, syrupy waves on the glass. “Tomorrow, Wendall’s having a party at his Connecticut place. Why don’t you come along. You might be able to find something.”

“Oh, I couldn’t go. I’m just a paralegal.”

“It’s a
firm
function; they just have it at his house. A party for the new associates, an annual thing. You can come with me.”

“We shouldn’t be seen together.”

“We’ll split up once we get inside. We’ll get there late and just slip in.” He tipped his glass to her. “Good job, counselor.”

They clinked glasses but she must’ve winced a bit.

“What?”

“ ‘Counselor.’ ”

“You don’t like that?”

“My father’s pet name for me. Fingernails on the blackboard.”

“Noted,” he said. “I can imagine it’s tough being Samuel Lockwood’s child.”

If you only knew, she thought, echoing the words she’d just directed to her father’s phone message earlier that day.

They sipped the cognac and talked about the firm, partners, affairs, who was gay, who was on partnership track and who was not. She supplied most of the information and was surprised he knew so little about the gossipy side of the firm and its politics.

It was more astonishing to her that he knew so little about the merger. Although the lawyers and staffers of Hubbard, White spent more hours debating the merger than billing time for clients, Reece seemed oblivious to the whole thing. She mentioned the rumor that Clayton had a German lawyer inquire about accounts Burdick might have opened in Switzerland.

“Really?” Reece asked with what seemed unsophisticated surprise.

“Aren’t you worried about it?” Taylor asked. “About what’ll happen if Wendall wins?”

He laughed. “No. Doesn’t make a bit of difference to me—as long as I can try cases, good cases, that’s all I care about. Whether it’s Donald in charge or Wendall or John Perelli, doesn’t matter.”

Together they cleared the dishes. He nodded toward the leather sofa and they walked over to it, sitting and sinking into the deep, supple piece of furniture.

There was a moment of quiet. The ticking clock. A siren far away. A distant shout.

That was when he kissed her.

And she kissed him back.

They embraced for a moment, his right hand sliding down the side of her face but coming to rest, ambiguously, at her collarbone.

His palm started downward but it stopped.

Perhaps because he sensed something coming from her—the reserve, the caution, that she in fact suddenly felt.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m impulsive and pushy. Tell me to go to hell.”

“I would if I wanted to.”

If you only knew …

He sat back and after a moment said, “There’s something I wanted to say.”

“Sure.”

“It’s nothing really. But it’s been bugging me. Remember when I said I couldn’t have lunch after the cross? Yesterday?”

“Right.” She found her heart beating hard.

“I didn’t have a meeting.”

She pictured the three-hour lunch reference on the time sheet. The flowers.

“I went up to Westchester.”

Taylor nodded, said nothing.

He continued. “There’s something I don’t talk about too much. My mother’s in a home up there.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mitchell.”

He was stoic but she believed she could see pain somewhere behind his eyes. “Schizophrenia. It’s pretty bad. I go to see her a couple times a week. Sometimes she remembers me.” He smiled. “Yesterday she was pretty good. I took her some flowers and she went on and on about them for a long time.”

“She’s on medication?”

“Oh, yeah. And the nurses at the home are real good to her. The thing is, it’s hard for me to talk about it. In fact, you’re the only one I’ve told.”

She felt a burst of pleasure at this confidence, even more than being singled out by Reece to help him find the promissory note. “I won’t say anything.… If there’s anything I can do—”

“Hey, how ’bout just a kiss to forgive me for not being honest.”

She laughed and squeezed his arm. And leaned forward. Kissed him quickly.

Then eased her arms around his neck and kept kissing him.

Hard.

Where are we going with this? she wondered.

As she kissed and was kissed, as she touched and was touched, her mind counted her marriage proposals (two), the live-in boyfriends (three), the men she’d slept with (thirteen).

She thought of the ones she felt mere fondness for who’d claimed they were madly in love with her. And the flip side: the ones she’d lusted or pined for who hadn’t cared she existed.

But maybe
this
time would be different, she thought. Maybe getting older, maybe simply getting by,
surviving
in this world had changed her, made her more discerning, given her better judgment.

Maybe she’d broken into a different place—that Wonderland where her father and Mitchell Reece resided. Where she was their equal.

But be careful, she thought. Remember Thom Sebastian’s myth of the beautiful woman? Well, beware the myth of the absolute moment, a moment like this—when we sit, or lie, close together, muscles ticking, limbs at their most relaxed, bathed in the certainty of love. The absolute moment, when conversation soars, confidences are shared, coincidences between you and your lover pop up like crocuses in April.

The absolute moment—when we forget that most loves aren’t forever, that most words are mere vibrations of
insubstantial air, that most unions are a nest of comic and aching differences that no other animal in the world would tolerate, let alone desperately pursue.

She eased back slightly, wiped the war paint of lipstick off his cheek. He glanced down at her empty glass. He stood up and filled both of theirs again and returned, sat down, slouching back into the leather, playing with the top button of his shirt. His hair was mussed. He tried to brush it back but the thick comma stayed put.

“Know what?” he asked.

“What’s that?”

“I’m glad.”

“About what?” Taylor felt it then, that unwinding feeling within her. Despite the keen warning to herself a moment ago, the spring had been set loose.

Was it going to be good or bad? The time was coming soon, quick as a wet-leaf skid. Okay? Decide, good or bad? Decide fast, Alice; you’ve got about three minutes.

“I’m glad we haven’t caught our thief yet. I like working with you.” His voice was husky.

Reece held his glass up.

Come on, this is the moment. Now. You going, or staying? You’ve still got the power. It hasn’t tipped yet. You can do it easy, diffuse the whole thing. Thank him for dinner. Stand up. That’s all it would take.

One way or another, decide: In the end, is this good or bad?

She lifted her glass too and tapped but as he sipped, some of the cognac spilled onto the front of his shirt.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered.

Come on, good or bad? Make it your decision. Choose.…

“Here, let me clean it up,” she said.

Good or bad?

She thought that question to herself a dozen times in the space of five seconds or maybe two seconds or maybe just one but it never got answered; his mouth closed on hers and his hands—surprisingly large and strong for a bookish
man—were covering her breasts and she felt the heat in his fingers as they then slid inside her dress, probing for fasteners.

Taylor in turn sought the smooth cloth of his shirt, gripped it hard and pulled him down on top of her.

Good or bad, good or bad …

This Saturday night, late, Donald Burdick and Bill Stanley sat beside each other in tall-backed leather chairs and looked into the valet room of their private club on Broad Street.

It was in that room that every morning one of the club employees would iron the
New York Times, International Herald Tribune
and
Wall Street Journal
for the members. This had been a perk ever since the club had been founded in the mid-1800s. At that time, of course, when New York City boasted more than a dozen papers, the valet was busy all day long. Now, however, with no evening papers of worth, the room was used at night only for its junction box, to which telephones on long wires were connected. When a call came in these phones were carried to members; cellular phones were, of course, forbidden in the club.

Burdick and Stanley watched the poised black man, in a dinner jacket, now carrying one of these phones to Burdick, who took it with a nod of thanks.

The conversation lasted only four minutes.

Burdick absorbed the information, closed his eyes and, thinking that in Roman days the messenger would have been killed had he delivered news like this, nonetheless politely thanked the caller.

He dropped the receiver into the cradle. The valet appeared instantly and removed the phone.

“What the hell was that?” Stanley asked.

“The lease,” Burdick said, shaking his head.

“Oh, no,” Stanley grumbled.

Burdick nodded. “He did it. Somehow Clayton deep-sixed the lease.”

The caller had been an underling of Rothstein’s, the head of the real estate syndicate that owned the building where Hubbard, White & Willis was located. The syndicate had suddenly withdrawn from the negotiations for the expensive long-term lease and was going to let the current lease lapse.

This meant that it would now make much more financial sense to merge the firm with Perelli and move into the Midtown firm’s space.

Damn … Burdick clenched his fist.

“Clayton’s
telling
Jews
what to do with their Manhattan real estate?” Stanley barked. There was no need to lower his voice. The only non-Protestant sect represented in the club was Papist and none of the three Catholic members was here tonight. “How the hell did he do it?”

Burdick didn’t know and didn’t care but, as his wife had admitted not long ago, he couldn’t help but admire Clayton. He hadn’t thought that the partner even
knew
about the negotiations, let alone that he could put together some bribery—or extortion—plan to sabotage the lease this quickly.

Now, with the lease gone, all Burdick had left to use as leverage was urging McMillan Holdings to take a stand against the merger.

“I’m going down to Florida tomorrow,” he said.

“McMillan?” Stanley asked.

Burdick nodded. “Their board meeting. I’ll do whatever I have to to make sure they let Perelli know where they stand.”

“That’ll help some, I guess.” Then Stanley muttered something that Burdick couldn’t hear.

“What was that?” the partner asked him.

“I said, ‘Remember the days when all we had to do was get clients and practice law?’ ”

“No,” Burdick replied sourly. “That must’ve been before my time.”

CHAPTER TWENTY