Jeffery Deaver - Mistress of Justice

Taylor now looked at the girl's Coach attaché case. "You've got what I asked for?"

"I feel like a, you know, spy," the girl joked, though uneasily. She opened the briefcase and pulled out stacks of computer papers.

"I wouldn't have asked if it weren't important. Are these the door key logs?"

"Yeah."

Taylor sat forward and examined the papers. On top was a copy of the computer key entry ledger for the firm's front and back doors. Like many Wall Street firms Hubbard, White had installed computer security locks that were activated with ID cards. To enter the firm you had to slide the card through a reader, which sent the information to the central computer. To leave, or to open the door for someone outside, you had only to hit a button inside the firm.

Taylor read through the information, noting who'd used their keys to get into the firm on Saturday and Sunday morning. There were fifteen people who'd entered on Saturday, two on Sunday.

"Where're the time sheet reports?"

More documents appeared on the table. It was on these time sheets that lawyers recorded in exasperating detail exactly how they spent each minute at the firm which clients they worked for and what tasks they'd performed, when they took personal time during office hours, when they worked on business for the firm that was unrelated to clients.

Taylor looked through papers and, cross-checking the owner of the key code with the hours billed, learned that fourteen of the fifteen who'd checked in on Saturday morning had billed no more than six hours, which meant they would have left by four or five in the afternoon – a typical pattern for those working weekends. Get the work done early then play on Saturday night.

The one lawyer who'd remained was Mitchell Reece.

Flipping to the Sunday key entries, she saw that Reece had returned, as he'd told her, later that morning, at 9:23. But there was an entry before that, well before it, in fact. Someone had entered the firm at 1:30 A.M. But the only lawyer for whom there were time sheet entries was Reece.

Why on earth would somebody come into the firm that late and not do any work?

Maybe to open the door for a thief who would steal a gazillion-dollar note.

She flipped through the key assignment file and found that the person who'd entered at 1:30 had been Thomas Sebastian.

"Sebastian." Taylor tried to picture him but couldn't form an image, so many of the young associates looked alike. "What do you know about him?"

Carrie rolled her eyes. "Gag me. He's a total party animal. Goes out every night, dates a different girl every week, sometimes two – if you want to call it a date. We went out once and he couldn't keep his hands to himself."

"Is he at the firm now, tonight?"

"When I left, maybe a half hour ago, he was still working. But he'll probably be going out later. Around ten or eleven. I think he goes to clubs every night."

"You know where he hangs out?"

"There's a club called The Space."

Taylor said, "Sure, I've been there." She then asked, "Did you bring copies of the time sheet summaries from the New Amsterdam v. Hanover & Stiver case?"

Carrie slid a thick wad of Xerox copies to Taylor, who thumbed through them. These would show how much time each person spent on the case. Those more familiar with the case, Taylor was figuring, would be more likely to have been the ones approached by Hanover to steal the note.

Of the list of thirty people who'd been involved, though, only a few had spent significant time on it Burdick and Reece primarily.

"Man," Taylor whispered, "look at the hours Mitchell worked. Fifteen hours in one day, sixteen hours, fourteen – on a Sunday. He even billed ten hours on Thanksgiving."

"That's why I love being a corporate paralegal," Carrie said, sounding as if she devoutly meant it. "You do trial work, you can kiss personal time so long."

"Look at this." Taylor frowned, tapping the "Paralegals" column on the case roster. "Linda Davidoff."

Carrie stared silently at her frothy drink. Then she said, "I didn't go to her funeral. Were you there?"

"Yes, I was."

Many people at the firm had attended. The suicide of the pretty, shy paralegal last fall had stunned everyone in the firm – though such deaths weren't unheard of. The subject wasn't talked about much in Wall Street law circles but paralegals who worked for big firms were under a lot of pressure – not only at their jobs but at home as well. Many of them were urged by their parents or peers to get into good law schools when they in fact had no particular interest in or aptitude for the law. There were many breakdowns and more than a few suicide attempts.

"I didn't know her too good," Carrie said. "She was kind of a mystery." A faint laugh. "Like you in a way. I didn't know you were a musician. Linda was a poet. You know that?"

"I think I remember something from the eulogy," Taylor said absently, eyes scanning the time sheets. "Look, in September Linda stopped working on the case and Sean Lillick took over for her as paralegal."

"Sean? He's a strange boy. I think he's a musician too. Or a stand-up comic, I don't know. He's skinny and wears weird clothes. Has his hair all spiked up. I like him, though. I flirted with him some but he never asked me out. You ask me, Mitchell's cuter." Carrie played with the pearls around her neck and her voice flattened to a gossipy hush. "I heard you were with him all day."

Taylor didn't glance up. "With who?" she asked casually but felt her heart gallop.

"Mitchell Reece."

She laughed. "How'd you hear that?"

"Just the rumor around the paralegal pen. Some of the girls were jealous. They're dying to work for him."

Who the hell had noticed them she wondered. She hadn't seen a soul outside his office when she entered or left. "I just met with him for a few minutes is all."

"Mitchell's hot," the girl said.

"Is he?" Taylor replied. "I didn't take his temperature." Nodding at the papers. "Can I keep them?"

"Sure, they're copies."

"Can I get any of this information myself?"

"Not if it's in the computer. You need to be approved to go on-line and have a pass code and everything. But the raw time sheets – before they're entered – anybody can look at. They're in the file room, organized by the attorney assigned as lead on the case or deal. The other stuff just tell one of the girls what you want and they'll get it for you. Uhm, Taylor, can you, like, tell me what's going on?"

She lowered her voice and looked gravely into the eyes of the young woman. "There was a mega mix-up on the New Amsterdam bill I don't know what happened but the client's totally pissed. It was kind of embarrassing – with all the merger talks going on and everything Mitchell wanted me to get to the bottom of it. On the Q. T."

"I won't say a word."

Taylor put the rest of the papers into her attaché case.

"Ms. Satin Touch?" Dimitri called from behind the bar in a singsongy voice.

"Brother." Taylor grimaced. "Gotta go pay the rent," she said and climbed back under Dimitri's homemade spotlights.

A trickle of fear ran through her as she began to play. Who else had seen Mitchell and her together? Taylor suddenly gave a brief laugh as she realized the title of the tune she found herself playing, selected by some subconscious hiccup.

The song was. "Someone to Watch Over Me."

"Hey," the young man shouted over the music cascading from the club's million-decibel sound system, "I'm sorry I'm late. Are you still speaking to me?"

The blond woman glanced at the chubby man. "What?" she called.

"I can't believe I kept you waiting."

She looked over his smooth baby-fatted skin, the newscaster's perfect hair, the gray suit, wing tips, Cartier watch. He examined her right back red angular dress, paisley black stockings, black hat and veil. Small tits, he noticed, but a lot of skin was exposed.