Jeffery Deaver - Mistress of Justice

"I hate you."

"No you don't, Sean. But even if you did your hatred is irrelevant. What is relevant is that you need me. Now, the merger vote's tomorrow and I don't have time for this. Learn a lesson, son. If somebody fucks your girlfriend the question isn't who did it and how can I get even – it's why did she want to? Think about that."

The boy fell silent.

Clayton could still see the anger and bitterness in his face. In a calmer tone he said, "It happened once. She was drunk, I was drunk. I have no intention of ever seeing her again." This was as close to a sincere apology as Wendall Clayton would ever come.

Lillick seemed to realize this. He wasn't pleased but Clayton saw that he'd pulled the rug out from underneath his rage.

"I'll tell her," Clayton joked, "what a wonderful human being you are."

Clayton held up an finger. He said, "Tomorrow, early – in my office? We've got a big day tomorrow. We've got a thousand documents to get ready. The phalanxes will be marching through Rome."

North of Fourteenth Street, where Taylor Lockwood had risen from the hot, pungent subway on her way to Mitchell Reece's, the broad sidewalks were sparse.

After she'd put Thom Sebastian into a cab Taylor had returned to her apartment, changed and was now on her way to report to Reece that one suspect had been eliminated – but that she still had no clue where the note might be, the note that he'd need in court tomorrow morning, a little over twelve hours from now.

She zigged around patches of ice, remembering how her music teacher taught her to think of footsteps as musical beats. As she walked she'd break the spaces between the tap of the steps into half notes, quarter notes, eighths, triplets, dotted quarters and eighths, whispering the rhythms.

One two and uh three four…

A noise behind her, footsteps on the gritty concrete.

She turned quickly but saw no one.

A block farther. Now the streets were completely deserted. This area, Chelsea, near Sixth Avenue, contained some residential lofts and cavernous restaurants But this particular street was the home of professional photographers, printers, warehouses and Korean importers. At night it was empty, a gloomy, dark, functional place, and she felt another chill of uneasiness.

One and two and three and -

Suddenly the scenery vanished as the arm went around her chest and a hand clamped over her mouth.

She screamed.

The man started to drag her into the alley.

Goddamn, no.

She struggled to free herself but managed only to force her attacker to fall, still clutching her fiercely around the neck. They landed on some boxes and tumbled to the slick cobblestones. The man ended up on top of her and knocked the breath from her body. Choking, gasping, she threw her hands over her face, unable to call for help.

The man rose to his knees. Taylor took this chance to twist away, smelling rotting bean sprouts and chicken bones and garlic from restaurant trash. She saw a fist rise up, about to come plunging down toward her face.

But anger detonated within her and, still breathless, she pushed hard with her legs, slamming into the man's hip and knocking him against a wall. Taylor grabbed the first thing she could find as a weapon – a piece of jagged concrete – and staggered to her feet, about to swing the sharp stone.

Her hand paused as she heard the man's sobbing. The raspy voice wheezed between the sobs. "Why, why, why?

'You'" she whispered.

Ralph Dudley wiped his face and stared at her at her in raw hatred. He didn't pay any attention to the rock in her hand. He stiffly rose, walked to an overturned trash drum and sat on it, gasping for breath. "Why did you do it?"

"Are you out of your mind?" She pitched the rock away and began brushing her coat off, rubbing at the oil and grease stains. "Look at this! Are you crazy?"

The old partner stared blankly at the ground. "I followed you from your apartment. I don't know what I wanted to do. I actually thought about killing you."

"What are you talking about?"

"You followed me. You bribed my… You bribed Junie to find out about me. Then I asked an associate if he'd seen you in my office and he said you had."

Taylor shrugged. "You lied to me, Ralph. You lied about being in the firm a week ago Saturday."

"So?" He smoothed his mussed hair, examined his damaged coat.

"What were you doing in the firm?"

"It's not any of your business."

"Maybe not. But maybe it is. What were you doing?"

"I love that girl."

Taylor said nothing.

"She makes me feel so alive. I hate it that she's in that business. She does too, I know she does. But she doesn't have any choice."

In her mind she saw the cheap red plastic napkin ring.

Poppie

Taylor's fear had changed into pity. The desires to flee, to slap him, to put her hand on his shoulder and comfort him were balanced.

He lifted his head, the cold light, shining down from above, hit his narrow face and made him look deranged and cadaverous. He started to speak then lowered his face into his hands. A dozen cars crashed over a pothole in the street next to them before he spoke. "Why did you do it?"

"Do what, Ralph?"

"Tell Wendall Clayton about us."

"I didn't tell Clayton anything."

"Somebody." He wiped his face again. "Somebody told him."

"Oh, please." Taylor laughed. "That law firm is like Machiavelli's villa. Everybody's got spies."

"But why did you go to the West Side Club? Why did you follow me?"

"There are problems at the firm. I needed to know where some people were at a certain time. I got the feeling you were lying to me so I followed you after dinner. Now, tell me what you were doing at the firm."

He shook his head.

Just as she had with the cop who'd arrested Sebastian, Taylor now lowered her head and said, "Ralph, I can put you in jail for a long time – because of that girl. And I'll do it if you don't cooperate. No bullshit. Tell me what you were doing in the firm."

The look of hatred in his face chilled her but he finally said, "Junie's father died two years ago and left her some money. But her mother and stepfather're keeping it all tied up. They're trying to get it for themselves. I've been spending every weekend and half my nights at the firm, learning trusts and estates and fiduciary law. I'm going to get the money back for her." He wiped tears. "I couldn't tell anybody at the firm because they'd find out she's not my granddaughter and then they might find out the real situation. Besides, I've borrowed against my partnership draw so much the firm'd fire me if they knew I was spending my time on a project that wasn't making Hubbard, White any money."

He looked up, wretched and lost. "I'm really not a very good lawyer. I can charm people, I can entertain clients but this is the only real law I've done in years."

"Prove it to me."

He said stiffly, "I don't think I owe you anything more."

Once again the same dark power she'd felt before filled Taylor Lockwood's heart and she whispered harshly, "Prove it to me or I go to the cops."

A wounded animal, Dudley hesitated. Then he glanced down, opened his briefcase. Shoved it toward her.

She knew little about trusts and estates law but it was clear that these documents – petitions to the Surrogate's Court, copies of cases and correspondence – bore out what he'd told her.

"You were in the firm early Sunday morning after Thanksgiving."

"Yes," he answered as if he were a witness under cross-examination.

"You used Thom Sebastians key?"

"Yes. I didn't want anybody to know I was in that night. I got there about one-thirty. After I'd been to the West Side Club."

She asked, "Where were you in the firm?"