Mistress of Justice (34 page)

And now he thought about the problem of Taylor Lockwood.

But he tried as hard as he could to push her away, put her out of his mind, and replaced her with the image of the juggler once more.

He glanced at his watch.

Okay, let’s do it. He stood up from the bar, told the bartender he’d be back in five.

So far …

Without really thinking about it, the man in the Dodge reached over to the passenger seat and felt the breakdown—a Remington automatic 12-gauge shotgun.

Six shells in the extended magazine. Six more wedged into the seat, business end down.

He wasn’t concentrating on the hardware, though; his eyes were on the woman walking down the street toward the fat boy, Thom Sebastian, who waved at her, smiling a weird smile. Looking all shit-his-pants.

All right, so this bitch was the one.

The man in the Dodge watched her, wondering what kind of body she had underneath the overcoat. He would’ve liked it if she’d been wearing high heels. He liked high heels, not those stupid black flat shoes this broad wore.

The man in the Dodge checked for blue-and-whites and pedestrians who might block the shot.

Clear street, clear shooting zone.

He eased the car forward then braked slowly to a halt twenty feet from the woman. She glanced at him with casual curiosity. Her eyes met his and, as he lifted the gun, she realized what was going down. She screamed, holding up her hands.

Nowhere for her to run …

He aimed over the bead sight and pulled the trigger. The huge recoil stunned his shoulder. He had a fast image of the woman as she took one load of buckshot in the side, a glancing hit. He fired two more toward her back but the way she fell, it seemed that only one cluster struck her and even that wasn’t a square hit.

Well, if she wasn’t dead yet she probably would be soon. And at the very worst she’d be out of commission for months.

People screamed and horns wailed as cars screeched to a halt, avoiding the pedestrians who dived into the street for safety.

The man in the Dodge accelerated fast to the next intersection, skidded through the red then slowed and, once out of sight of the hit, drove carefully uptown, well within the speed limit, diligently stopping at every red light he came to.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Thom Sebastian, hands cuffed, was led into the precinct house by two uniformed cops.

Everybody stared at him—the cops, the drunk drivers, the hookers, a lawyer or two.

“Man,” somebody whispered.

It was the blood, which covered Sebastian’s jacket and white shirt. Nobody could figure out how somebody could be covered with this much blood and not have a dozen stab wounds.

The chubby lawyer slumped on a bench, waiting for the booking officer to get around to him, staring at his brown wing tips. A girl sat next to him, a tall black hooker with a tank top and hot pants under her fake fur coat. She looked at the blood then shook her head quickly, a shiver.

“Jesus,” she whispered.

Sebastian felt a shadow over him, someone walking close. He looked up and blinked.

Taylor Lockwood said, “Are you all right? The blood …”

Sebastian nodded then closed his eyes and lowered his head again slowly. “Nosebleed,” he muttered.

The desk sergeant said gruffly to her, “Who’re you?”

Taylor said, “What happened?”

He looked over her black nylons, short black skirt and leather jacket. “Get outta here, lady. He’s missin’ his date for the night.”

A bit of her father’s temper popped within her. “And I’m making the trip down here to meet with my client. So I guess I’m missing mine too. Anything else you’d like to put on the record?”

The man’s face reddened. “Hey, I didn’t know you was a lawyer.”

She had no idea what had happened. She’d shown up at the restaurant and found a crime scene investigation under way. Somebody’d been shot and Sebastian had been arrested.

She barked, “What’s he been booked on?”

“Nothing yet. The arresting’s on the phone to the medical examiner.” He turned back to a mass of papers.

Man, that was a lot of blood.

A uniformed officer came up, a thin man, slicked-back hair, gray at the temples. He looked over Taylor and was not pleased. His would be a joint prejudice: against defense lawyers in general (who spent hours tormenting cops on the witness stand and reducing them to little piles of incompetence) and women defense lawyers in particular (who had to prove they could torment more brutally than their male counterparts).

Taylor Lockwood cocked her head and tried to look like a ballbuster. “I’m Mr. Sebastian’s lawyer. What’s going on?”

Suddenly a roar of a voice filled the station house. “Hey, Taylor!”

She froze. Oh, brother—why now? It was one of those moments when the gods get bored and decide to skewer you just for the fun of it. Taylor gave an inaudible sigh and turned toward the voice, now booming again, “Taylor Lockwood, right?”

A huge cop, a faceful of burst vessels, tan from a vacation in Vegas or the Bahamas, stalked across the room. He
was off-duty, wearing designer jeans and a windbreaker. Early forties, thirty pounds overweight. Trim, razor-cut blond hair. A boyish face.

There was nothing to do, she decided, but go all the way. Her father’s advice: If you’re going to bluff, bluff like there’s no tomorrow.

“Hey,” she said, smiling.

“It’s Tommy Blond. Don’tcha remember? Tommy Bianca, from the Pogiolli case.”

“Sure, Tommy. How you doing?” She took his massive, callused hand.

The man was looking down at Sebastian. “He okay?”

“Nosebleed is all,” the arresting said. “We thought he’d taken one, too. EMS looked him over, said he’ll be okay, he keeps an eye on his nostrils.”

Tommy Blond looked at the arresting and the desk sergeant. “Hey, treat this lady right. She’s okay. She was working with the lawyer got off Joey, youse remember—Joey Pogiolli from the Sixth? Got him off last year some asshole sued him, said Joey worked him over on a bust.… Hey, Taylor, you was a paralegal then. What, you go to law school?”

“Nights,” Taylor said, grinning and wondering if the nervous sweat that had gathered on her forehead would start running down to her chin and carrying her makeup with it.

“That’s great. My kid’s applying to Brooklyn. Wants to be FBI. I told him agents don’t got to have law degrees anymore but he wants to do it right. Maybe sometime he could talk to you about school? Got a card?”

“None with me. Sorry.”

She glanced at Sebastian, staring at the floor.

Tommy Blond said, “Whatsa story, Frank?”

The arresting said, “We got a vic got took out outside the Blue Devil, name of Magaly Sanchez. Upscale coke dealer moving into the wrong territory. We think whoever did her wasn’t sure what she looked like and was using him”—he nodded toward Sebastian—“to ID the hit. Or
maybe they wanted to whack her in front of a customer. Send a message, you know. She had about ten grams on her, all packaged and ready for delivery. And Mr. Sebastian had a quarter gram.… That’s why we brought him in.”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “A quarter gram? Come on, you guys.”

“Taylor, I know what you’re asking.…” Tommy Blond said, then: “That’s a lot of blood. You’re sure it’s just a nosebleed?”

She remembered a buzzword. “What was your probable cause for search?”

“Probable cause?” The arresting blinked in surprise. “He was waving at a known drug dealer who got whacked right in front of him? That’s not probable cause—that’s for-damn-fucking-sure cause.”

“Let’s talk.” She walked over to the bulletin board. Tommy Blond and the arresting looked at each other and then followed her. She stood with her head down and whispered harshly to the arresting, “Come on, he’s never been arrested before. Sure, the guy’s an asshole, but a quarter gram? You and I both know a collar like that’s optional.”

Taylor was making this up.

The arresting: “I don’t know.… Everybody’s pissed off about these assholes from Wall Street think they can buy and sell blow and we’re not going to do anything about it.”

“Let’s cut a deal,” Taylor continued. “Tell you what. Give him back to me and he’ll give you a statement about the late Miss Sanchez and her friends—as long as it’s anonymous and he never has to testify in court against anybody. And I’ll make him promise to get off the stuff.”

“Whatta you say?” Tommy Blond said to the uniformed officer.

“Look,” Taylor pushed, “he works for the same firm got your buddy Joey off. That oughta count for something.”

Joey, Taylor remembered, was the patrolman who maybe
did
get a little carried away with his nightstick on that black kid who maybe lifted a wallet but maybe didn’t. And who maybe reached for that tire iron, even though,
funny thing, it was found twenty feet away from the scuffle. Took the ER fifty-eight stitches to repair Officer Joey’s handiwork on the kid’s face.

The arresting gave Taylor a look that’s shorthand in law enforcement. It translates to: I don’t need this shit.

“Okay, get him out of here. But tell him to clean up his act. I mean, like really. Next time they won’t leave
nobody
around. Have him down to Narcotics at the Plaza next week and give ’em a statement.” He wrote a name on a card. “Ask for this detective here.”

Taylor said, “Thanks, gentlemen.”

Tommy Blond shook her hand again. “Proud of you, little lady. A lawyer. That’s all right.” He walked off toward the locker room.

Taylor walked back to Sebastian, who’d been slumped in his seat, out of earshot of the bargaining. He didn’t yet know he was free.

She knelt down next to him, looked at the blood on his face and shirt. It was quite brilliant. She said, “Thom, I may be able to help you out. But I’ve got to ask you something. I need an honest answer.… Look at me.”

Boy’s eyes. Indignant, hurt, scared boy’s eyes.

“You went through Mitchell Reece’s file cabinet sometime recently. Why?”

A furrow ran through his bloody forehead as he frowned. He sniffed. “What are you talking about?”

Taylor said brutally, “Fuck it, Thom, I can get you out of here or I can make sure they book you. That’ll be the end of your life in New York. Now, it’s your call.”

He wiped tears from his cheeks. “Mitchell does trial work for New Amsterdam. I handle a lot of their corporate work. I probably needed some files he had.”

“You’ve been in his safe file?”

Sebastian frowned again. “That thing he’s got in his office with the locks on it? Yeah, a few months ago I got some files out of it, some settlement agreements from a secured-loan suit a couple of years ago. I needed them. It wasn’t
locked and Reece was out of town on business. What’s this all about?”

“You know New Amsterdam pretty well?”

“What’s this—”

“Answer me,” she snapped.

“Know them?” He wiped his face with a tissue and looked at the blood. He laughed bitterly. “I’ve worked for them for years! I baby-sit them! I hold their hands and walk them through the deals. While Burdick’s collecting their fucking check
I’m
the grunt doing all the work for them. While Fred LaDue takes ’em out to dinner and plays tennis with them
I’m
the one who’s up till three
A.M
. doing the documents.
I’m
their lawyer.” He sighed. “Yeah, I know them pretty well.”