Mistress of Justice (39 page)

The associate fired back, “Of course that was one reason. But it was also because if word got out it would be bad for the firm. In my assessment we had to act covertly.”

“ ‘Covertly.’ You sound like a damn spy.” Burdick took the papers and the tape recorder from Stanley. “He wanted the merger so badly, he’d do this?” Burdick’s anger was giving way to astonishment.

Stanley considered something. “You introduced the note into evidence, right?”

Reece nodded. “Hanover’s agreed to settle. We’re going to close in Boston next week.”

“Well, then Clayton will’ve heard you found it. He’ll know he’s in trouble.”

Burdick nodded. “That’s why he’s not at the meeting.” The old partner rubbed his eyes. “What a mess.”

“Fucking scandal,” Stanley growled. “Last thing we need.”

“Give me some thoughts on the damage assessment,” Burdick said to the rotund partner.

“Probably not terrible.” He nodded at Reece and Taylor. “They didn’t tell anyone.” A piercing glance at Taylor. “Right? You didn’t mention it to anybody?”

“No, of course not. When I found those things in Clayton’s office I took them right to Mitchell at the courthouse. I didn’t even call—because I thought the phones might be bugged. Nobody else knows what I was doing.”

Stanley nodded and continued, “The problem’s going to be talking him into leaving. He knows we’re afraid of publicity so we’re not going to go to the police or going to sue him. Fucking clever when you think about it. He arranges to misplace a note, nearly loses our client and when we catch him red-handed he’s practically got immunity from the liability.”

Burdick was shaking his head. “We’ll find a way to oust him. That man has to …” His voice faded as there was an urgent knock on the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened fast and one of Burdick’s secretaries stood there. Her face was white and her eyes were red from crying.

“What is it, Carol?”

Oh, no, Taylor thought: Just what they were afraid of had happened—word had gotten out that Clayton had stolen the note.

But the tragedy was of a somewhat different order.

The woman gasped, “Oh, Mr. Burdick … it’s terrible. They just found Wendall Clayton in the garage downstairs. In his car … He’s …”

“What, Carol?”

“He shot himself. He’s dead.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Only a few hours had elapsed since Clayton’s suicide. But it seemed to Taylor Lockwood that days had passed—given all the conjuring that Donald Burdick had done in the wake of the tragedy.

First, he’d appeared at the merger vote meeting and delivered the news to the partners. Then, leaving the stunned men and women to make what they would of the man’s death, he’d returned immediately to his office, where Reece and Taylor had been ordered to remain.

The senior partner had handled an endless stream of phone calls and meetings with his cronies. So far he’d talked to the mayor’s and the governor’s offices, the medical examiner’s office, the police, the Justice Department, the press.

Taylor was startled to see Burdick’s wife make an appearance, walking into her husband’s office unannounced, without the least acknowledgment of Reece or Taylor. The woman apparently knew all about the suicide and she and her husband retired to the small conference room off his office and closed the door. Five minutes later Burdick returned alone.

He sat down, leaned back in the chair and then asked Reece and Taylor, “Do you have anything else that has to do with Wendall or the theft? Anything at all?”

Reece shook his head and looked at Taylor, who said numbly, “I didn’t think this would happen.”

Burdick looked at her blankly for a moment then repeated, “Anything else?”

“No,” she said.

He nodded and took an envelope out of his pocket. “There was that suicide note in the car, the one the police found. Talking about pressures at work, being despondent.” Burdick looked at both Reece and Taylor. He added, “But he wrote another one. It was on his desk, addressed to me.”

He handed a sheet of paper to Reece, who read it and then passed it on to Taylor.

Burdick took the letter back and locked it in his desk. “I’m going to try to keep this note quiet.” He nodded at the drawer. “I’ll talk to the police commissioner and I don’t think he’ll have a problem with it. This is Hubbard, White’s dirty laundry and no one else’s. Publicity would be bad for everyone. Bad for the firm. Bad for Clayton’s widow too.”

“Widow?” Taylor asked suddenly.

Burdick replied, “Yes, Wendall was married. Didn’t you know?”

“No,” she said. “She wasn’t in Connecticut the other day.
I’ve never seen her at any of the firm functions. He never wore a ring.”

“Well, I guess he wouldn’t now, would he? Given his extracurricular activities.”

His widow …

The words stung. Before his death Clayton the man had been hidden beneath Clayton the ruthless aristocrat. That he had a wife—and maybe children or living parents, siblings—was a shock.

“The newspapers’ll get a watered-down story,” Burdick continued. “I’ve called the public relations company. Bill Stanley’s with them now. They’re preparing a statement. If anybody asks we’ll refer questions to them.” He lowered his head and looked into Reece’s eyes, then Taylor’s. She had the same sense as when she met Reece’s gaze, or Clayton’s. Or her father’s. They drew you in, made you forget who you were, forget your own thoughts. In Burdick’s eyes she saw will and confidence, strong as bronze. Her mind went blank. He asked, “Will you back me on this? If I thought there was anything to be gained by a full disclosure I wouldn’t hesitate to reveal everything. But I can’t see any upside to it.”

Men of most renowned virtue
.

Reece said, “I won’t perjure myself, Donald. But I won’t volunteer anything.”

“Fair enough.” The partner looked at Taylor.

She nodded. “Sure. I agree.”

The hairs on the back of her neck stirred.

Widow …

Taylor looked into the conference room, inside which Vera Burdick, her gray hair piled on her head in a stately bun, was on the telephone. She glanced back and caught Taylor’s gaze. The woman half-rose and swung the door closed.

Burdick’s phone rang and he took the call. He mouthed something about its being from someone at City Hall but Taylor was preoccupied. She was seeing in her
mind’s eye the real suicide note, tucked away in Burdick’s desk. She vaguely heard Burdick speaking to the caller in a low, reassuring tone. She watched his long, jowly face, carefully shaved, his sparse gray hair brushed into precise alignment.

And Taylor Lockwood thought: What the hell had she been doing all along? What did she
think
would happen when she fingered the thief? Had she ever considered the consequences?

Never once.

Renowned virtue
.

Burdick hung up the receiver and nodded with satisfaction. “I think we’ll get away with it.”

Taylor tried to figure out what he meant.

“The Medical Examiner’s office is going to rule the death suicide. The AG agrees. And we can keep our other suicide note private.”

Reece blurted an astonished laugh. “The ME ruled
already?”

Burdick nodded then looked at Taylor and Reece with a vaguely ominous gaze, which she interpreted as: Don’t be too curious about this.

The partner looked at his watch. He held out his hand to Reece, then to Taylor, who first wanted to wipe her palm. It was damp as a washcloth; Burdick’s was completely dry.

“You two get some rest. You’ve been through a hellish week. If you want any personal time I’ll arrange it. Won’t come out of your vacation or sick leave. Are you busy now?”

Reece walked toward the door. “I’ve got the Hanover settlement closing in Boston next week. That’s the only thing on the front burner.”

“You, Ms. Lockwood?”

“No, nothing,” she replied, still numb.

“Then take some time off. In fact, I’d urge you to. Might be best.”

Taylor nodded and began to speak but hesitated. She
was waiting for some significant thought to arrive, some phrase that neatly summarized what had just happened.

Nothing occurred; her mind had jammed.

Get away with it?

“Oh, Mitchell,” Burdick said, smiling, as if the suicide no longer occupied even a portion of his thoughts.

Reece turned.

“Congratulations on the Hanover settlement,” the partner said. “I myself would have settled for seventy cents on the dollar. That’s why you’re a litigator and I’m not.”

He rose and walked to the small conference room, where his wife awaited him. Burdick didn’t open the door right away, though. He waited, Taylor noticed, until she and Reece had left the office.

They walked in silence to the paralegal pen.

Everyone in the corridors seemed to be staring at her. As if they knew the part she’d played in the partner’s death.

Near her cubicle, in a place where the hall was empty, Reece took her by the arm. He bent down and whispered, “I know how you feel, Taylor. I know how
I
feel. But this wasn’t our fault. There’s no way we could’ve anticipated this.”

She said nothing.

He continued, “Even if the police’d been involved the same thing would’ve happened.”

“I know,” she said in a soft voice. But it sounded lame, terribly lame. Because, of course, she didn’t know anything of the kind.

Reece asked, “Come over for dinner tonight.”

She nodded. “Okay, sure.”

“How’s eight?” Then he frowned. “Wait, it’s Tuesday … you’re playing piano at your club, right?”

Was it Tuesday? The thought of the leches in the audience and Dimitri’s reference to her satin touch suddenly repulsed her. “Think I’ll cancel for tonight.”

Reece gave a wan smile. “I’ll see you later.” He seemed to be looking for something to add but said nothing more. He looked up and down the hallway to make sure it was empty then hugged her hard and walked away.

Taylor called Ms. Strickland and told her she was taking the rest of the day off. She couldn’t get the supervisor off the line, though; all the woman wanted to do was talk about Clayton’s suicide. Finally she managed to hang up. Taylor avoided Carrie Mason and Sean Lillick and a half dozen of the other paralegals and snuck out the back door of the firm.

At home she loaded dirty clothes into the basket but got only as far as the front door. She stopped and set the laundry down. She turned on her Yamaha keyboard and played music for a few hours then took a nap.