Mistress of Justice (10 page)

“Dudley? The old partner?”

“Yeah, Grandpa. Yesterday he dropped my key off in my office. He said I left it in the library and he’d picked it up by mistake on Friday. He must’ve used it on Sunday.”

She couldn’t tell whether to believe him or not.

Agitated at this news, Sebastian fished in his pocket and found the little vial. He held it up. “You sure?” She shook her head and he looked toward the men’s room. “Excusez-moi.”

After he disappeared, Taylor motioned the bartender over to her and said, “You working last Saturday night?”

He normally didn’t get questions like this. He polished glasses. But finally he said, “Yeah.”

“Was Thom in here from one to three or so on Sunday morning?”

“I don’t remember.”

She slid two twenties toward him furtively. He blinked. This only happened in movies and the man seemed to be considering how his favorite actor would handle it. The bills disappeared into tight black jeans. “No. He left around one—without a girl. That
never
happens. If he’s by himself usually he closes the place. He’s even slept here a couple times.”

When Sebastian returned he took Taylor’s purse and slipped it around her—over one shoulder and under the other arm, the way paranoid tourists do. “Come on. I’m wound, I’m flying like a bird. I gotta dance.…”

“But—”

He pulled her onto the small floor. After fifteen minutes, her hair was down, streaming in thick, sweaty tangles. Her toes were on fire, her calves ached. Sebastian kept jerking away in time to the reggae beat, eyes closed, lost in the catharsis of the motion and music and the coke. Taylor collapsed on his shoulder. “Enough.”

“I thought you were a skier.”

“Exhausted.” She was gasping.

His brow arched and the surprise in his eyes was genuine. “But we haven’t eaten yet.”

Taylor said, “It’s one
A.M
. I’ve been up for nearly twenty-four hours.”

“Time for penne!”

“But—”

“Come on. One plate of darling little squigglies of pasta in alfredo sauce with cilantro and basil, one teeny endive salad, one bottle of Mersault.”

Taylor was weakening.

“Belgium
endive! …” Then he lowered his head. “Okay.”
Sebastian the negotiator was now speaking. “How’s this for a deal? We have dinner and you can tell me about the Pine Breath Inn in Vermont or wherever the hell it is you ski and we’ll call it a night. Or I can take you home now and you’ll have to fight off my frontal assault at your door. Few women have been able to resist.”

“Thom—”

“I take no prisoners.”

She lowered her head on his shoulder then straightened up, smiling. “Does this place have spaghetti and meat balls with thick red sauce, à la Ragú?”

“I’ll never be able to show my face there again. But if you want it I’ll force the chef to make it.”

She sighed, took his arm and together they made their way toward the door.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The alarm clock wailed like a smoke detector.

Taylor Lockwood opened one eye. Was this the worst headache of her life? she wondered.

She lay still for five minutes while the votes rolled in. Yes, no?

Sitting up decided the contest—a clear victory for the pain. She slammed her palm down on the alarm then scooted gingerly to the edge of the bed. She still wore her panty hose and bra; the elastic bands had cut deep purple lines into her skin and she was momentarily concerned that she’d have permanent discolorations.

Oh, man, I feel lousy.…

Taylor’s one-bedroom apartment was small and dark. It was located in the Fifth Avenue Hotel, a dark, Gothic building distinguished only by the prestige of the street it was located on and its reputation for being the place that New York’s Judge Crater was supposedly on his way to when he disappeared seventy years before—still an open case on the NYPD books.

Her parents had offered to send her whatever furniture
she wanted from their eight-bedroom house in Chevy Chase or from one of their summer homes but Taylor had wanted this apartment to be exclusively hers. It was furnished post-collegiate—Conran’s, Crate & Barrel, Pottery Barn. A lot of fake stone, Formica, black and white plastic. A huge pillow sofa. Canvas chairs that, looked at straight on, seemed to be grinning. A number of interesting pieces from the Twenty-sixth Street flea market on Sixth Avenue.

The bedroom was the homiest room in the place, decorated with lace tulle, art deco lamps and old furniture—battered but loaded with personality—a hundred books, souvenirs from the trips young Taylor took to Europe with her parents.

On the wall was a large poster—one of Arthur Rackham’s sepia illustrations of Lewis Carroll’s
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
.

The picture wasn’t like the Disney cartoon or the original Sir John Tenniel drawings but was a masterful work by the brilliant artist. It showed an alarmed Alice lifting her hands to protect herself as the Red Queen’s playing card soldiers flew into the air.

The caption read:

The framed poster had been a graduation present from her roommates at Dartmouth. Taylor loved the Carroll books, and Alice memorabilia were sure bets as birthday and Christmas presents. There were many other
Wonderland
and
Through the Looking-Glass
artifacts throughout her apartment.

Taylor sent her tongue around her parched mouth; she didn’t enjoy the trip. She staggered into the bathroom, where she downed two glasses of water and brushed her teeth twice. She squinted at the clock. Let’s see, Sebastian had dropped her off at about four. Do the math.… Okay, we’re talking about three and a half hours’ sleep.

And, more troubling, it turned out that she’d largely wasted her time. Thom Sebastian had denied being in the firm on Saturday or Sunday and had remained tight-lipped about his dealings with Bosk though he’d continued to talk bitterly about the firm’s decision to pass him over. He’d had no response when she’d casually mentioned Hanover & Stiver, Inc.

She kneaded her belly, which swelled slightly over the top of her panties, recalling that there were a hundred fifty calories in each cocktail.… She squeezed her temples. Her vision swam.

A blinking red light across the room coincided with the throbbing in her head. It was her answering machine, indicating a message from last night. She hit the play button, thinking it might be a call from Mitchell Reece, remembering his asking her if it was okay to call her at home.

Beep
.

“Hello, counselor.”

Ah, her father, she realized with a thud in her turbulent stomach.

“Just wanted to tell you: You owe me lunch. Earl Warren
was
chief justice when the case was decided. Call when you can. Love you.”

Click
.

Shit, she thought. I shouldn’t’ve bet with him.

Taylor didn’t mind losing to him, of course; half the lawyers in Washington, D.C., had lost a case or motion or argument to Samuel Lockwood at one time or another in their careers. The
Washington Post
had called him “The Unbeatable Legal Eagle” (the article was framed and displayed prominently in their living room at home). No, it was that even though she could see clearly that he was testing her, she’d weakened and agreed to the pointless bet.

It was very, very difficult to say no to Samuel Lockwood.

He called her two or three times a week but unless he had something specific to ask her he usually picked “safe” times: During the day he’d call her home, at night he’d call
the firm, leaving messages—fulfilling his parental duty and making his royal presence felt in her territory but making sure he didn’t waste time actually talking to her. (She noted cynically that she might reasonably have been expected to be home last night when he’d phoned—because the purpose of that call had been to gloat.)

Well, she could hardly point fingers; Taylor did the same—generally calling home when she knew he was working so she could chat with her mother untroubled by the brooding presence of her father hovering near the receiver, a presence she could sense from even three hundred miles away.

She winced as the headache pounded on her again, just for the pure fun of it, it seemed. A glance at the clock.

Okay, Alice, you got twenty minutes to get yourself up and running. Go for it.

Sitting before Mitchell Reece in the glaringly lit Vista Hotel dining room was a plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon and a bagel. Taylor was nursing a grapefruit juice and seltzer.

She’d already been stared down by her dry toast.

Reece said, “You feeling okay?”

“I was out dancing last night till four.”

“All work and no play …”

Taylor grunted. “The good news is I’ve got us a suspect.” The juice was reviving traces of rum lurking in her bloodstream. This resuscitation was not pleasant. “Thom Sebastian.”

She explained to him about cross-referencing the computer key entries and the time sheets.

“Brilliant,” he told her, lifting an eyebrow.

She nodded noncommittally and downed two more Advils.

“Sebastian?” Reece pondered. “In the corporate group, right? He’s done work for New Amsterdam in the past. He
might even’ve done some of the work on the original loan to Hanover. But what’s his motive? Money?”

“Revenge. He was passed over for partner.”

“Ouch.” Sympathy crept into Reece’s face, which revealed the fatigue-dulled skin and damp red eyes that Taylor knew matched hers. Still, his suit of textured charcoal wool was perfectly pressed and his shirt was as smooth and white as the starched napkin that lay across his lap. His dark hair was combed back, slick and smooth from either a recent shower or some lotion. He sat comfortably upright at the table and ate hungrily.

Taylor braved the toast again and managed to eat a small piece. “And he acted real odd about something. He’s got a quote project going on with somebody nicknamed Bosk. Another lawyer here in town, young kid. But he wouldn’t talk about it. He also claims he was in a club on Saturday but the bartender there said he wasn’t. He left about one. I asked Sebastian about it and he claims Ralph Dudley took his computer door key.”

“Old Man Dudley? Working on Sunday at one-thirty? No way. Past his bedtime.” Reece then reconsidered. “Funny, though, I heard Dudley had money problems. He’s borrowed big against his partnership equity.”

Taylor said, “How’d you find that out?” The individual partners’ financial situations were closely guarded secrets.

As if citing an immutable rule of physics Reece said,
“Always
know the successful partners from the losers.”

“I’ll check out Dudley today.”

“I can’t imagine he was in the firm on legitimate business. Dudley hasn’t worked a weekend in his life. But I also can’t see him as our thief. He’s such a bumbler. And he’s got that granddaughter of his he’s looking after. I don’t see how he’d risk going to jail and leaving her alone. She doesn’t have any other family.”

“That cute little girl he brought to the outing last year? She’s about sixteen?”