Mistress of Justice (43 page)

It was excellent tortellini salad—filled with all sorts of good things only about half of which she recognized. The bread was lopsided but Reece had propped it up in a cute way. Whatever its shape, it tasted wonderful. He opened a cold Pouilly-Fuissé.

They ate for ten minutes, Taylor nodding as he told her about the impending settlement conference in Boston during
which Hanover & Stiver would transfer the bulk of the principal of the loan back to New Amsterdam. He told anecdotes about some of Lloyd Hanover’s shady business dealings. Normally, she liked it when he talked about his job because, although she didn’t always understand the nuances, the animation and enthusiasm that lit up his face were infectious.

Tonight, though, she was distracted.

He finally caught on that something was wrong and his voice faded. He looked concerned. But before he could question her, Taylor set her fork down with a tap. “Mitchell.”

He refilled their glasses and cocked an eyebrow at her.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Yes?” he asked cautiously, perhaps suspecting some personal confession.

“I’ve been looking into a few things. About Wendall Clayton.”

Reece sipped his wine. Nodded.

“He didn’t kill himself.” Taylor picked a lopsided bit of bread crust off the table and dropped it on her plate. “He was murdered.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Mitchell Reece smiled, as if waiting for a punch line.

Then: “Why do you think that?”

“I went to see his widow,” Taylor said. Then she added quickly, “Oh, I wasn’t going to tell her what happened—about the note and everything. But …” She paused. “Well, you know, I’m not sure why I went. It was something I just had to do.”

He said, “I hear she’s a bitch.”

Taylor shrugged. “She was civil enough to me. But you know what she told me? That if Wendall couldn’t get the merger through he was going to start his own firm.”

“What?” Reece frowned.

Nodding, she said, “He had it all planned out. I went through his desk at the firm. I found business plans, bank loan applications. He even had the firm name selected. Clayton, Stone & Samuels. He had a sample letterhead printed up and he’d been talking to a broker about space in the Equitable Building.”

Reece too had put down his utensils. “But if he was ready to start his own firm it makes no sense for him to risk his career to push the merger through.”

“Exactly. Stealing the note? He’d be disbarred if he got caught. And he’d probably be prosecuted.” Taylor held up a finger. “Another thing. Think about the gun.”

“The gun he used?”

“Right. I called my detective, my private eye, and he talked to some buddies of his at the police department. The gun he used was a .38 Smith & Wesson knockoff, made in Italy. No serial number. It’s one of the most popular street guns there is. ‘It’s like your McDonald’s of firearms’ is what John said. But if you’re going to kill yourself why buy an untraceable gun? You go to a sporting goods store, show a driver’s license and buy a twelve-gauge shotgun.”

“Or,” Reece said, sitting forward, “why even shoot yourself? It’s messy, unpleasant for your loved ones. I’d think you’d park your car in the garage with the engine running.”

She nodded her agreement. “What I think is that somebody else stole the note and planted it in Clayton’s office. Then when we found it he murdered Clayton to make it look like suicide.”

“Who’s the ‘he’?” Reece asked.

“At first, I wondered if his widow might’ve done it. I mean here she was hosting a bridge party right after he died. She knew about the affairs he’d had. So she certainly had a motive.”

“And she must have inherited some bucks from him.”

“True. But then I got to thinking and it seems that the killer’d need to know about the firm and have access to it. Clayton’s widow isn’t like Vera Burdick, who’s there all the time. Besides, Mrs. Clayton didn’t seem that upset with all his affairs.”

“Well,” Reece suggested, “what about one of them? A lover? Somebody Clayton dumped?”

“Sure. That’s a possibility. Or the husband or wife of
somebody he’d had an affair with. But,” Taylor added, smiling, “what about some of the people we thought were suspects: Ralph Dudley. Clayton had found out about Junie and was blackmailing him.”

“And Thom Sebastian. Clayton was the main reason he didn’t make partner.”

“He occurred to me, too.… And one other possibility.”

Reece frowned, shaking his head.

Taylor pointed upward. “Go to the top.”

“Donald Burdick?” Reece laughed. “Look, I know the motive’s there. But Donald? I can’t believe it. Whoever stole the note risked not only my career but risked losing a client as well—if we lost the case. There’s no way Donald would’ve put New Amsterdam at risk.”

Taylor countered, “But there
was
no risk. At the very worst, if we hadn’t found the note, Donald would’ve sent his thief to get the note back from Clayton’s office and it would’ve shown up on the file room floor or someplace in time for you to introduce it at trial.”

Reece nodded, considering this. “And look how well Burdick covered everything up. The medical examiner, the prosecutor, the press … Nobody knows about the promissory note theft. And everything else—the evidence we found in Clayton’s office, the real suicide note—I’m sure Burdick’s shredded it by now.” But then Reece shook his head. “Let’s think about this. If it
is
Burdick remember that he’s real tight with City Hall and Albany. We can’t trust the police. We’ll go to the U.S. attorney’s office; I’ve still got friends there. I’ll call them—”

“But didn’t Donald call somebody in the Justice Department?” she asked. “After they found the body?”

Reece paused. “I don’t remember. Yeah, I think he did.”

Taylor said, “You’re going to Boston tomorrow for the settlement closing. Do you know anybody in Justice up there?”

“Yeah, I do. I haven’t talked to him for a while. Let’s see if he’s still there.” He walked to his desk and found his address
book and picked up the phone. But he looked at it warily.

“Bugs?” Taylor asked.

“Let’s not take any chances—we’ll go downstairs.”

On the street they found a pay phone and Reece made a credit card call.

“Sam Latham, please.… Hey, Sam, Mitchell Reece.”

The men apparently knew each other well and Taylor deduced from the conversation that they’d both been prosecutors in New York some years ago. After a few whatever-happened-to’s, Reece told him their suspicions about Clayton’s death. They made plans to meet at the U.S. attorney’s office in Boston the next day, after the Hanover settlement closing. He hung up.

“He’s getting his boss and an FBI agent to meet with me.”

Taylor felt a huge weight lifted from her. At last the authorities were involved. This was the way the system was supposed to work.

They returned upstairs. Reece closed the front door and latched it then walked up behind her, enfolded her in his arms. She leaned her head back and slowly turned so that they were face-to-face.

He glanced at the table, where the meal sat unfinished: the exceptionally good tortellini salad, the cold wine, the sagging bread. She smiled and, with her fingertips, turned his head back to face her.

She kissed him hard.

Without a word they walked to Reece’s bed.

So far, not so good …

Thom Sebastian sat back in his office chair, pushing aside the documents he’d been working on all morning, a revolving credit agreement for New Amsterdam Bank.

He should have been comfortable, should have been content. But he was troubled.

Wendall Clayton, the man who’d destroyed his chances for partnership at Hubbard, White, was gone—as dead as a shot pheasant in one of the hunting prints hanging in the partner’s office.

Good.

But his life didn’t really
feel
good. He had a brooding sense that his entire world was about to be torn apart. And this terrified him.

Three times he reached for the phone, hesitated, put his hands flat on his thick thighs and remained where he was.

He peeked under his blotter and saw the notes he’d gathered on Taylor Lockwood over the past ten days or so.

Taylor Lockwood … the sole reason that things weren’t so good.

Come on, Mr. Fucking Negotiator, make a decision.

But ultimately, he knew, there was no decision at all. Because there was only one thing to do.

The problem was finding the courage to do it.

The next morning Reece called Taylor from Boston.

She was at her apartment; she’d decided it was safest to stay away from the firm. He called to report that the settlement had gone well. The money from the Hanover settlement had been safely wired into a New Amsterdam account and he’d endured Lloyd Hanover’s relentless glare and potshots at lawyers throughout the closing.

Reece was on his way to meet with his friend in the U.S. attorney’s office.

“I miss you,” he said.

“Hurry home,” she told him. “Let’s get this behind us and go back and ski for real.”

“Or,” he joked, “go back and shop and eat dinner at the inns.”

“I’ll get you on black diamond slopes sooner or later.”

“What the hell? I’ve still got one thumb and eight fingers left.”

After some Christmas shopping Taylor stopped at a coffee shop on Sixth Avenue, around the corner from her apartment, for some lunch.

Sitting at the counter, she wondered what to get Reece for Christmas. He had all the clothes he needed. Wine was too impersonal.

Then she recalled his collection of lead soldiers.

She’d find one that was perfect for him—just one. A special one, antique, expensive. But where? Well, this was New York, the city that boasted neighborhoods devoted to special interests: the garment district, the flower district, even the sewing machine district. There was probably a cluster of stores somewhere in Midtown selling antique toys.

A man sat down next to her, a large workman in gray coveralls, wearing a baseball cap. There was something vaguely familiar about him and she wondered if he worked in her apartment building; the structure was old and there were always people renovating and repairing.