Rough Justice (13 page)

“Forget Darning. Go home.”

Judy plucked Steere’s tax returns from the table. “You didn’t get to see these. They show a connection with the bank—”

Marta grabbed the packet and tossed it back on the table. “Forget the bank. Forget Steere. Go home, Carrier. Both of you, go home.”

Judy stood stock-still. “Marta, are you on some kind of medication?”

“Do you need us to get you a … professional?” Mary asked.

Marta looked from one to the other and burst into laughter. They were like puppies, these two: dogged in their determination and loyal without reason. They reminded Marta of herself when she was young, protecting two drunks who didn’t deserve it from bill collectors and school principals. Instead of making her feel closer to them, the insight distanced her further. “I said, go home.”

“You can tell us,” Judy said softly. “There’s a lot of stress, and it’s okay if you are. The pressure. The media. It would get to anybody.”

“I’m not having a breakdown,” Marta said firmly. “Go home. You’ve done very good work, and I … appreciate it. Thank you.”

Thank you? From Erect? With that, Judy realized that Marta wanted them out of the picture for some reason. She was clearly upset about something, maybe even sick. She seemed to be protecting them, but that would be totally out of character. What was going on? Who was that “driver,” anyway? The guy looked like The Hulk. Judy glanced at Mary, who she knew was thinking the same thing.

But Mary wasn’t. Mary was thinking there’d been a miracle. That there really was a God and he’d spoken to Marta Richter. Taken her aside, thrown one white-robed arm around her padded shoulders, and had a Dutch-uncle talk with her in the sky. Warned her that if she didn’t stop torturing associates, she’d end up a wealthy but crispy critter. That she’d be cast down to that level of lawyer hell where she’d have to listen to Alan Dershowitz whine for eternity. But even though the boss had apparently converted to a human being, Mary still wanted to stay with the Steere case. She hadn’t come this far to get a killer off scot-free. Not with her history. “Maybe we should go home,” Mary said lightly. She picked her jacket off the back of the chair. “I’m exhausted. Aren’t you?”

“What?” Judy said, wheeling around to stare at her friend. “Aren’t you interested in following up?”

“Nope.” Mary slipped into her blazer. “Why would I be?”

Judy finally came up to speed. “Maybe you’re right. We can deal with the D.A. when they file, right?”

Marta relaxed inwardly. “Walk her out, Carrier. That’s an order.” She liked the idea of the associates leaving together and she’d make sure Bogosian wouldn’t bother them. She opened the conference room door. “Go!”

“Yes, sir,” Judy said, and saluted.

“It’s about time you learned to do that,” Marta said, smiling. Across the hall, Bogosian looked up from his magazine and returned to it when Marta nodded. “You know, you both have to learn to take orders better.”

Judy grinned, gap-toothed. “Don’t bet on it.” Erect. “Can we borrow the car to get home?”

Marta paused. The car was still at Steere’s town house. She glanced anxiously across the hall at Bogosian, who sat near the doorway. “I left the rental at the hotel. The driver brought me over.”

“We can walk home,” Mary said as she strolled out the conference room door. “It’s a good thing we live right in town.”

Judy followed Mary into the hall. “See you, Marta. Call us if you hear from the jury.”

“Don’t worry,” Marta said. She stood in the door and watched them walk down the hall to their offices, feeling a tug in her chest which stopped mercifully short of full-blown maternal feelings. It persisted until she noticed Carrier’s ski boots making wet footprints on the new carpet.

The associates waited for the elevator when Judy spotted Erect watching them through the glass wall of the conference room. Judy waved at her, and Erect waved back. “Say good-bye to Erect, Mare,” Judy said to Mary. “We have to show her we’re leaving.”

Mary waved. “Good-bye, schizo.”

“She’s not a schizo. Something’s up.” Judy faced the elevator and shook her head. “Something happened to Marta.”

“A visitation. Angels and saints. Harps and trumpets.”

Judy was trying to put the pieces together. “She looked scared.”

“Fear of God. He took long enough. I hate it when he’s late.”

They both heard the rattle of the elevator as it zoomed up the shaft. Judy zipped up her parka and gathered her poles and cross-country skis. “Well, here we go. We have work to do.”

“Agreed.”

“And great snow to do it in.”

“I know what you’re thinking—”

“White. Fresh. Virgin.”

“—and you can just forget it.” Mary was swaddled in a heavy coat and Totes boots. She yanked her knit cap on. “No way, Fay Wray.”

“Yes, way. Oh, yes.” Judy lined up her skis and snapped a bungee cord around them. “You will be mine.”

“It’s not happening, girlfriend.”

“No time like the present.”

Mary shook her head. “No. I’m smarter than I look.”

“No you’re not. And it
is
happening. Here and now. Coming to a snowdrift near you.”

“I’m not doing the ski thing.”

“Yes, you are.”

Mary pursed her lips. “I don’t have skis.”

“I have an extra pair at home. There’s no other way.”

“We can walk.”

“That’ll take three hours.”

“You want me to
ski
to the Twenty-fifth Street Bridge?” Mary said, raising her voice.

Judy shot her a warning glance and her blue eyes slid meaningfully toward The Hulk sitting in the conference room. He was a distance away but he was sitting right near the open door, flipping through a magazine. Judy couldn’t tell if he was within earshot and she didn’t want to take a chance. She was even beginning to feel funny about leaving Marta alone with him. She resolved to call the office and check on her when they got home. “You follow?”

Mary glanced over her shoulder at the man, critically now. He didn’t look like a cabdriver and he had no uniform like a limo driver. Who was he, anyway? Mary felt dumb for not wondering about him before. “Maybe I’m not smarter than I look.”

“Told you,” Judy said as the elevator went
ding
!

Down the hall, Bogosian lifted his thumb off the caption under a bearded collie. Right again! He watched the lawyers get into the elevator and the doors close slowly behind them. So they were going to the Twenty-fifth Street Bridge, huh? Bitches. He’d have to follow up on that, too.

A
fter the associates left, Marta returned to her seat at the conference table and pretended to work, scribbling nonsense on a legal pad. She considered leaving a note of some kind, but that wouldn’t help her right now. She felt Bogosian’s gaze on her. What if he decided he wanted to sit in the room while she worked? She had to hurry.

Marta reached for Steere’s tax returns. She was intrigued by the Mellon Bank connection and flipped through to the back of the tax return packet, prepared by an expensive accounting firm. Marta felt a twinge as she opened the slick plastic cover. Predators like Elliot Steere couldn’t exist without professionals to keep him rich and free. Professionals like her. She hadn’t realized it until she became the prey.

On the third page of the packet was a listing of Steere’s mortgage deductions. He owned a couple of investment properties in his name and apparently had three residences under mortgage; homes in Society Hill, Vail, and Long Beach Island, New Jersey. It was the New Jersey house that caught Marta’s eye. An address in a town called Barnegat Light.

The beach house. Marta remembered what Steere had said in the interview room at the courthouse: that he was going to St. Bart’s on a jet leaving from Atlantic City, if the Philly airport closed. She looked out the windows of the conference room. Snow flurries swirled around the building, blown in all directions by confused currents. No small plane would fly in this storm. Steere had lied again. Marta clenched her teeth.

Then she thought a minute, pushing her emotions aside. Why did Steere say that? Why say anything at all? He’d been thinking about the beach. Maybe he’d been thinking about his beach house. He used to say he missed going there, when he was in jail over the summer, and Marta had the impression he considered it more a home than his city town house. Maybe it was his hideaway with his girlfriend. Maybe there’d be a clue there. Something, anything. Marta felt desperate. Her life was on the line.

The telephone rang on the sleek credenza behind her, and Marta jumped. Who was calling? The court? Had the jury come back already? No! She leapt from the chair and grabbed for the phone. Across the hall, Bogosian did the same thing, picking up the phone in his conference room. The lighted button would have told him which line to use. “Yes?” Marta answered, anxious.

“Ms. Richter?” said a young man’s voice. “This is Judge Rudolph’s law clerk.”

“Are they back?”

“No. Judge Rudolph asked me to inform the parties that he’s granting the jury a conjugal visit. It was requested by one of the jurors. A transcript regarding the request will be available tomorrow to the parties.”

“A conjugal visit, tonight?” Marta asked, relieved. She’d gain some time before the verdict. “It wasn’t scheduled.”

“It is now.”

“Have they stopped deliberating for the night?”

“Yes, they’ll resume at eight in the morning. Because of the snow, Judge Rudolph has ordered the deliberations be moved to the sequestration hotel.”

“Thanks,” Marta said, and hung up. Thinking.

Across the hall, Bogosian hung up, too. Watching.

Marta swiveled around and immediately got back to fake work. She kept her head down and wrote. She had to get rid of Bogosian, fast. By the time she’d filled a page with legal buzzwords, she had a plan. There was only one way to do it. Her heart beat faster. She checked her watch. 8:40. There was no time to lose. She’d have to execute it right under Bogosian’s nose. Marta steeled herself. It was her only chance.

Now.

She got up, walked casually to one of the Steere files, and pulled out a manila folder at random. It flopped open, and as Marta paced with it she pretended to read. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Bogosian reading and occasionally looking up, apparently satisfied she was hard at work. Each time Marta paced, she walked closer and closer to the telephone on the credenza, watching Bogosian and waiting for the right moment. She wouldn’t get a second chance. He could shoot her through the glass if he wanted. In the next instant, Bogosian lowered his head and squinted at the magazine. It was Marta’s moment and she seized it.

She plucked the telephone receiver off the hook and set it on the credenza beside the phone, then turned on her heel without breaking stride. If Marta could dial three digits — 514 — she’d have building security on the line. She couldn’t risk calling 911 because the cops would want to take her in. There’d be questions asked and time wasted. Just three digits.

Bogosian was reading in his conference room. His back was to the phone so he couldn’t see the button lit on the open line. Marta paced away from the phone and back again. She kept her face down to the file. She paced to the phone, quickly punched a 5 on the keypad, spun on her heel, and walked away from the phone.

Across the hall, Bogosian had set down his magazine. He stood up and shook his jeans down over his cowboy boots.

Marta paced back to the phone and hit 1.

Bogosian stretched his muscles and yawned. His leather duster popped open to reveal the Magnum.

Marta paced away and struggled to stay calm. Only one more digit to go.

Bogosian left his conference room and was crossing the hall.

Marta’s heart leapt into her throat. She walked toward the phone and hit the 4. The call should connect to the security office. Come
on. Pick up
.

Marta heard a jiggling at the glass door. Bogosian was trying the knob, but it was locked. Marta pretended she didn’t hear him and was engrossed in her reading. Fear returned and her heart fluttered. Her head throbbed. The words melted before her eyes.
Connect, goddamnit
!

“Hey!” Bogosian shouted. He pounded on the door. In a split second he’d draw the gun, but a split second was all Marta needed. She heard the faint click of the phone call connecting and a guard answering, “Security.”

Bingo! In one deft movement, Marta blocked Bogosian’s view of the phone with her body and hung up the receiver. “Coming!” she said, appearing to notice him for the first time. She hurried to the door and opened it with a sweaty palm.

“What the fuck are you doin’?” Bogosian shouted, bursting through the door. He shoved Marta out of the way, and she staggered back against the table, clutching a swivel chair to break her fall. Pain knifed through her ribs.

“I’m working on the motion,” Marta said. She willed herself to stay calm. The call had connected. Security would come up and check it out. There was at least one guard on duty, he’d been there when she signed them in. How long would he take to get here?

Bogosian pushed past her and scanned the room in suspicion. His bulk seemed to fill the space. His movements were swift and powerful. He smelled of cold leather and adrenaline. “You done that motion?”

“Not yet. Half an hour, that’s all.”

“You got five minutes, then we go back.”

Marta had to stall him. “It’ll take longer than that.”

“Too fuckin’ bad.” Bogosian had taken enough of her shit and he had nothin’ to do. He’d guessed all the dog breeds and he couldn’t test himself again. Besides, he wanted this bitch back on the reservation. He had the feeling she was jerking him off. Her, and the other two. What the fuck were they doing, goin’ to the bridge? Bogosian motioned to the folder. “What are you doin’ with that?”

“Reading it. For the brief.”

“Yeah, right.” He yanked the folder out of the bitch’s hand and looked at the top page. It was typed and there were case names underlined. Bogosian remembered the legal papers from his own case. Bullshit. More lawyer bullshit. All they did was make paper. He threw the folder on the table and it skidded into the papers, messing them up. He wanted to mess them all up. Turn the whole table upside down. But then he couldn’t find out what she’d been up to. “You haven’t been following my directions here.”