Mistress of Justice

  As for the other pretty young men and women associates on Clayton's side ... they weren't asked to leave, the theory being they'd work even harder to rid themselves of the contamination. These secessionists and collaborators were given the shaved-head treatment then kicked onto the summer outing and hiring committees.

  These three Nameless were the last order of business in the Purge.

  One of them said, "Your wife, Donald, is a charming lady."

  Burdick smiled. They had of course met Vera before this evening though she had never served them dinner, never entertained them, never told them stories of her travels and anecdotes about her famous political friends; never, in short, grilled them like an expert interrogator.

  He set the assassination-year bottle in the middle of the tea table.

  He said, "Bill knows this but for the rest of you, I have some news. I'm meeting tomorrow with John Perelli. We have a problem, of course. Perelli's position is that Wendall's discussions with him suggest an implicit agreement to go forward with the merger--even though the whole firm's never approved it."

  One of the Nameless nodded. Impressed that the man returned his gaze, Burdick continued, "His thinking is that we agreed to negotiate in good faith. The firm has now decided that we do not want to go forward simply because we do not want to go forward. That is not good faith. We have an implied contract problem. Look at Texaco and Pennzoil."

  Another Nameless: "I know the law, Don." This was a little brash, as the youngster understood immediately; he continued more contritely, "I agree they'd have an argument but I think we hedged well enough so that with Wendall gone the basic deal has changed."

  Vera asked bluntly, "Was Clayton's presence a condition precedent to going forward?"

  Two of the Nameless blinked, hearing the charming woman nail the legal situation perfectly with one simple question.

  "No."

  Her husband, smiling, shrugged. "Then, I submit, we still have our problem."

  The first Nameless said, "But what would they want as a remedy? Specific performance?"

  Burdick decided the man was an idiot and made a mental note to give him only scut work for the rest of his time at Hubbard, White. "Of course not. The courts can't make us merge."

  Bill Stanley said, "They want money. And what do we want?" When no one answered he answered himself, "Silence."

  Burdick said, "No more publicity. Under any circumstances. A senior partner kills himself? Bad enough and we're going to lose clients because of that, my friend. Then a suit from Perelli? No, I want to preempt them."

  Lamar Fredericks, round, bald and roasted from two weeks of golf on Antigua, said, "Preempt? You mean bribe. Cut the crap and tell us what it's going to cost."

  Burdick looked at Stanley, who said to the group, "We'd pay Perelli twenty million. Up to, that is. We'll start lower, of course. Full release and agreement not to say anything to the press. If they do, liquidated damages of a double refund."

  Crenshaw snorted. "What does that do to our partnership shares?"

  Burdick snapped, "It'll be a cut out of operating profits. Take a calculator and figure it out yourself."

  "Will they buy into it?"

  Burdick said, "I'll be as persuasive as I can. The reason you're all here is that it would be an expenditure out of the ordinary course. I don't want to present it to the firm. So to authorize it we need a three-quarters vote of the executive committee."

  None of them had assumed that this was solely a social dinner, of course, but it was not until this moment that they understood the total implications of the invitation. They were the swing votes and were being tested; Burdick had to know where they stood.

  "So," Burdick said cheerfully, "are we all in agreement?"

  This was the final exorcism of Wendall Clayton. In these three trim, handsome lawyers resided what was left of his ambitious spirit.

  Was his legacy, Burdick wondered, as powerful as the man?

  Gazes met. No one swallowed or shuffled. When Burdick called for the vote they each said an enthusiastic "In favor."

  Burdick smiled and, when he poured more port, gripped one of them on the shoulder--welcome to the club. He was the foolish partner, the one whose professional life would be a living hell from that day on.

  Then Burdick sat down in his glossy leather wingback chair and reflected on how much he despised them for not having the mettle to take Clayton's fallen standard and shove it up his--Burdick's--ass. He then grew somber. "Oh, just so you know: We have another problem, I'm afraid."

  "What do you mean?" Stanley's voice was a harsh whine.

  "One of the paralegals is in the hospital," Vera Burdick explained. "It's quite serious. I have a feeling she won't survive."

  "Who?" a Nameless dared to ask.

  "Taylor Lockwood."

  "Taylor? Oh, no, not her. She's one of the best assistants I ever had on a closing. What happened?"

  "Food poisoning. Nobody knows exactly how she got it."

  "Should we--" one of the Nameless began to ask.

  But Vera Burdick interrupted. "I'm on top of it. Don't worry."

  Bill Stanley shook his head. "God, I only hope it wasn't anything we catered. Could you pass that port, Donald?"

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Mitchell Reece closed his litigation bag and slid it under the seat of the shuttle from Boston as they approached La Guardia early the next morning.

  Still no call from Taylor Lockwood and he hadn't been able to reach her at the firm. He'd gotten only her voice mail.

  He wondered what was going on.

  But as he stared at the brown and gray expanse of the Bronx beneath him his thoughts returned to Wendall Clayton's funeral, held in an Episcopalian church on Park Avenue. The minister's words came clearly to mind.

  I recall one time when I happened to meet Wendall; it was a Saturday evening, late. We happened to be strolling up Madison Avenue together, he returning from the firm, I from some function at my congregation....

  The minister had foresaken the pulpit and, like a talk show host, walked down into his audience.

  ... and we passed a few moments in idle conversation. Though we were in very different places in our lives I saw that there were striking similarities between his profession and mine. He voiced some concern for a young man or woman, a lawyer at his firm, who was suffering from doubts. Wendall wanted to inspire this protege to be the best lawyer they might be ...

  Hundreds of people. Most of the partners from Hubbard, White & Willis, many associates, many friends had attended.

  ... just as I in my own way deal with spiritual doubt in our young people....

  Quite a church, Reece recalled. Huge, pointy, Gothic, solid. All the joists and beams met in perfect unison--high in the air. It was a fitting place for an aristocratic man to be eulogized.

  Then he thought back to another death at the firm--Linda Davidoff's. Her funeral, Reece decided, had been much better. The church was tamer, the minister more upset. It seemed to Reece preferable to get more tears and fewer words from men of the cloth at times of mourning.

  Clayton's Upper East Side minister had been correct about one thing, though: He and Clayton had indeed been cut from the same bolt--noblemen and medieval clergy. In tarot cards pentacles would be their suit. Choose this sign for dark men of power and money.

  Aggressive men.

  The minister was seizing an opportunity to preach, just as Clayton had seized a chance of his own--and had died as a consequence of his reach.

  The sudden grind and windy slam of the plane's wheels coming down interrupted Reece's thoughts. And as he glanced out the window, Reece decided it was ironic that he saw below him the huge cluster of dense graveyards in Queens--a whole city of a graveyard. He watched until it vanished under the wing and they landed.

  As he walked down the ramp toward the terminal Reece saw his last name on a card being held up by a limo driver.

  "Is that for Mitchell Reece?" he asked.

  "Yes, si
r. You have luggage?"

  "Just this."

  The man took his bags.

  Reece gave him the address of the firm.

  "We're supposed to stop someplace else, sir."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm afraid there's some kind of problem."

  Reece climbed into the back of the Lincoln. "What kind of problem?"

  "An emergency of some kind."

  Forty minutes later the driver pulled up in front of yellow-painted doors at an annex to Manhattan General Hospital. It was deserted, except for some big blue biohazard containers and a bloody gurney sitting by itself. It seemed as if a body had just been pulled from it and hauled off to a pauper's grave.

  Inside, Reece stopped at a reception desk and was directed down a long, dim corridor.

  He found the basement room he sought and pushed open the door.

  Gray-faced and red-eyed, Taylor Lockwood blinked in surprise at his entrance and shut off the soap opera she was watching.

  She smiled. "Mitchell, it's you! Kiss me--it's not contagious--then see if you can scarf up some food. I'm starving to death."

  Suck on ice," Reece said when he returned a few minutes later.

  Taylor frowned.

  "I asked them what you could have to eat. They said you should suck on ice."

  She nodded at the IV. "Glucose. It's pure carbohydrates. I'm dying for a hamburger."

  Reece gave her a Life Saver. "You look, well, awful."

  " 'Awful' is a compliment, considering how I did look. The nurse tells me I've recovered incredibly well."

  "What happened?"

  Taylor nodded. "I was stupid. I'm sure my phone was bugged too, either at my apartment or cubicle. I should've thought about that. Anyway, we got busted--somebody overhead us. And then at lunch yesterday this guy sits down next to me. He drops a book--I mean, pretends to drop a book--and when I bent down to pick it up for him I think he squirted botulism culture into my soup."

  "Jesus, botulism? The most dangerous food poisoning there is."

  She nodded. "I think he got it from Genneco Labs."

  "Our client?"

  "Yep."

  "I was talking to a pathologist here. He told me Genneco does a lot of research into antitoxins--you know, like antidotes."

  "So whoever killed Clayton stole some culture--or told the killer about Genneco and he stole it?"

  She nodded.

  "I was feeling a lot better last night but I called Donald and told him I was almost dead, in a coma."

  "You what?"

  "I wanted word to get around the firm that I was almost dead. I was afraid the killer would try again. I called and pretended I was my doctor." She gave a faint laugh. "I called my parents and told them that whatever they heard I was fine--although I have to say I was inclined to let my father stew a bit more. Carrie Mason's the only one who knows I'm okay."

  Reece stroked her cheek. "Botulism ... that could've killed you."

  "The doctor told me that, 'luckily,' I ingested too much of the culture. I got sick immediately and, well, the word they used was, quote, evacuated most of the bacteria. Man, it was unpleasant. I'm talking Mount Saint Helens."

  He hugged her hard. "We're not going to have to worry about anything like this happening again. I talked to Sam, my friend at the U.S. attorney's office, yesterday afternoon. He's coming down tomorrow with a special prosecutor from Washington. We're going to meet with him at the federal building at three--if you feel up to it."

  "I'll feel up to it. Whoever's behind this ... we're going to stop them...." Her voiced faded. "What's wrong, Mitchell?"

  "Wrong?" His eyes were hollow and troubled. "You almost got killed.... I'm so sorry. If I'd known--"

  She leaned forward and kissed him. "Hey, I lost those five pounds I gained at Thanksgiving and then some. Call it an early Christmas present. Now, go on, get out of here. Next time you see me I promise I won't look like Marley's ghost."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The girl walked sheepishly into the hospital room, hiding behind a bouquet of exotic flowers that she'd probably hand-selected from an Upper East Side florist.

  "Whoa," Taylor told Carrie Mason, laughing at the massive arrangement. "Anything left in the rain forest?"

  The chubby girl set the vase on the bedside table and sat in the functional gray chair near Taylor's bed, studying her carefully.

  "You're looking a thousand times better, Taylor," Carrie said. "Everybody's like, ohmagod, she's dying. I wanted to tell them but I didn't. Not a soul--like you said."

  Taylor gave her a rundown on her condition and thanked the girl for staying with her just after she'd been admitted.

  "It's, like, no problem, Taylor. You looked ... You were pretty sick."

  Attempted murder does that to you.

  "Well, I'll be getting out soon. May not eat for a week or so but it'll be good to get vertical again."

  The girl avoided Taylor's eyes. She stood and arranged the flowers and it was this compulsive activity that told Taylor that she was troubled by something.

  "What is it, Carrie?"

  The girl paused, her back to Taylor, then sat down again. Tears were running down her cheeks. She wiped her face with the back of her fleshy hand. "I ..."

  "Go ahead. Tell me. What's the matter?"

  "I think I know why Mr. Clayton killed himself. I think it was my fault."

  "Your fault?" Taylor said. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, okay ... You know Sean."

  One of the firm's busier spies. Taylor nodded.

  "Well, what it was ... see, last week Sean asked me out. I went over to his place. And I thought he wanted to go out with me and I was really, really excited about it. 'Cause I've had this crush on him for, like, a while. But it turned out ... I mean, the thing was he just wanted to go through my purse."

  "Why?"

  "To get my log-on pass code for the firm computers. One of the operators told me he went on the system with my user name."

  Taylor remembered the gum-snapping computer operator and the blank screen that should have had information about taxis and computer time and phone records. This was interesting. She nodded for the girl to continue and listened carefully.

  "When I found out what he did I got totally mad. I asked him how could he do that? I mean, he way used me. Anyway he got all freaked out and apologized. But I was so mad.... Well, I wanted to get even with him and ..." She again attended to the stalks of weird flowers. "And when I was in Connecticut with Mr. Clayton and you ... Well, afterward, he came on to me, Mr. Clayton, you know and ... well, we sort of slept together."

  Taylor nodded, recalling that she'd overheard the tryst from Clayton's den. The poor girl, suckered in by the vortex of the partner's eyes and charm.

  "So, Sean found out and he had this big fight with Clayton. It was really vicious. I think Sean threatened to go to the executive committee about what happened and Clayton was afraid he'd get fired and he killed himself."

  Taylor was frowning. So he and Lillick had had a fight. It had never occurred to her that Lillick might have killed Clayton.

  Then she focused on the distraught Carrie once more. She couldn't, of course, say anything about Clayton's death but she could reassure the girl. "No, Carrie, that had nothing to do with it." A woman-to-woman smile. "Wendall Clayton slept with half the firm and he couldn't care less if anybody knew about it. Besides, I talked to Donald. I know why Clayton killed himself. I can't tell you but it had nothing to do with you or Sean."

  "Really?"

  "Promise."

  "Despite what happened, I really kind of like him--Sean, I mean. He's weird, but underneath he's not as weird as he seems to be. We kind of patched things up. I think he likes me."

  "I'm glad to hear that."

  Taylor decided it was time to get out of the hospital. She feigned a yawn. "Listen, Carrie. I'm going to get some sleep now."

  "Oh, sure. Feel better." Carrie hugged her. Then she asked, "Oh, one thing--do y
ou know where the United Charities of New York general correspondence file is?"

  "No idea. I never worked for them."

  The girl frowned. "You didn't?"

  "No. Why?"

  "I was down in the pen this morning and I saw Donald Burdick's wife in your cubicle."

  "Vera?"

  "Yeah. She was looking through your desk. And I asked what she needed and she said she was doing a fund-raiser for the UCNY and needed the file. She thought you had it. But we couldn't find it."

  "I've never checked out any of their files. Must be a mistake."

  Carrie glanced at the TV and her face lit up. "Hey, look, it's The Bold and the Beautiful.... That's my favorite! I used to love summer vacations so I could watch all the soaps. Can't do that anymore. Things sure change when you start working."

  Well, that's the truth....

  Taylor's eyes strayed absently to the screen, watching the actors lost in their own intrigues and desires. When she turned to the doorway to say good-bye to Carrie, the paralegal had already left.

  Taylor felt uneasy. Lillick, Dudley, Sebastian, Burdick ... or somebody else had tried to poison her. They might find out that she was no longer in a coma and try again. She summoned the floor nurse, who in turn managed to track down a resident. The young doctor, seeing the urgency in her eyes, reluctantly agreed to discharge her as soon as the paperwork was finished.

  After he'd left, she lay back in bed and looked through her purse for her insurance card.

  She found a folded sheet of paper stuck in the back of the address book.

  It was the poem that Danny Stuart had given her. Linda Davidoff's poem, her suicide note. She realized that she'd never read it, which she now did.

  When I Leave

  By Linda Davidoff

  When I leave, I'll travel light

  and rise above

  the panorama of my solitude.

  I'll sail to you, fast and high,

  weightless as the touch of night.

  When I leave, I'll become a light

  that shows our love in a clear, essential way

  (After all, what is a soul but love?).