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?"
"I heard that Dudley's son abandoned her or something. Anyway, she's in boarding school in town and he takes care of her." He laughed. "Kids. I can't imagine them."
Taylor asked, "You don't have any?"
He grew wistful for a few seconds. "No. I thought I would once." The stoic lawyer's facade returned immediately. "But my wife wasn't so inclined. And, after all, it does take two, you know."
"When I hit thirty-eight I'm going to find a genetically acceptable man, get pregnant and send him on his way."
"You could always try marriage, of course."
"Oh, yeah, I've heard about that."
He looked at her eyes for a moment then started laughing.
She asked, "What?"
"I was thinking, we should start a group."
"What?"
"The Visine Club," he said.
"I can get by with seven hours' sleep. Less than that, no way."
Reece said, "Five's pretty much standard for me." He finished the bacon and held a forkful of eggs toward her. She smiled, fought down the nausea and shook her head. She noticed, behind the bar, a stack of wine bottles and felt her stomach twist. Reece ate some of his breakfast and asked, "Where you from?"
"Burbs of D.C. Chevy Chase in Maryland. Well, I was born on Long Island but my parents moved to Maryland when I was in middle school. My father got a job in the District."
"Oh, I read that article in the Post about him last month. His argument before the Supreme Court."
"Tell me about it," she grumbled. "I've heard the blow-by-blow a half-dozen times. He overnighted me a copy of his argument. For my leisure-time reading, I guess."
"So how'd you end up on Wall Street?" Reece asked.
"Very long story," she said with a tone that told him that this was not the time or place to share it.
"School?
"Dartmouth ... music and poly sci."
"Music?"
"I play piano. Jazz mostly."
This seemed to intrigue him. He asked, "Who do you listen to?"
"Billy Taylor's my fave, I guess. But there's something about the fifties and sixties. Cal Tjader, Desmond, Brubeck."
Reece shook his head. "I'm mostly into horn. Dexter Gordon, Javon Jackson."
"No kidding," she said, surprised. Usually only jazzophiles knew these players. "I love Jabbo Smith."
He nodded at this. "Sure, sure. I'm also a big Burrell fan."
She nodded. "Guitar? I still like Wes Montgomery, I've got to admit. For a while I was into a Howard Roberts phase."
Reece said, "Too avant-garde for me."
"Oh, yeah, I hear you," she said. "A melody ... that's what music's got to have--a tune people can hum. A movie's got to have a story, a piece of music's got to have a tune. That's my philosophy of life."
"You perform?"
"Sometimes. Right now my big push is to get a record contract. I just dropped a bundle making a demo of some of my own tunes. I rented a studio, hired union backup. The works. Sent them to about a hundred companies."
"Yeah?" He seemed excited. "Give me a copy if you think about it. You have any extra?"
She laughed. "Dozens. Even after I give them away as Christmas presents this year."
"How's the response been?"
"Next question?" she asked, sighing. "I've sent out ninety-six tapes--agents, record companies, producers. So far, I've gotten eighty-four rejections. But I did get one 'maybe.' From a big label. They're going to present it to their A&R committee."
"I'll keep my finge
rs crossed."
"Thanks."
"So," he asked, "how's the music jibe with the law school track?"
"Oh, I can handle them both," she said without really thinking about her response. She wondered if the comment came off as pompous.
He glanced at his watch, and Taylor felt the gesture abruptly push aside the personal turn their conversation had taken. She asked, "There is one thing I wanted to ask you about. Linda Davidoff worked on the Hanover & Stiver case, right?"
"Linda? The paralegal? Yeah, for a few months when the case got started."
"It struck me as a little curious that she quit working on the case pretty suddenly then she killed herself."
He nodded. "That's odd, yeah. I never thought about it. I didn't know her very well. She was a good paralegal. But real quiet. It doesn't seem likely she'd be involved," Reece said, "but if you asked me it if was likely somebody'd steal a note from a law firm, I'd say no way."
The waitress asked if they wanted anything else. They shook their heads. "You women, always dieting," Reece said, nodding at her uneaten toast.
Taylor smiled. Thinking: We women, always trying not to throw up in front of our bosses.
"What's up next?" he asked.
"Time to be a spy," she said.
Taylor sat in her cubicle at the firm and dialed a number.
She let the telephone ring. When the system shifted the call over to voice mail she hung up, left her desk and wandered down the halls. Up a flight of stairs. She turned down a corridor that led past the lunchroom then past the forms room, where copies of prototype contracts and pleadings were filed. At the end of this corridor--in the law firm's Siberia--was a single office. On the door was a nameplate: R. Dudley. Most of these plates in the firm were plastic; this one, though it designated the smallest partner's office in Hubbard, White, was made of polished brass.
Inside the office were crammed an Italian Renaissance desk, a tall bookcase, two shabby leather chairs, dozens of prints of nineteenth-century sailing ships and eighteenth-century foxhunting scenes. Through a small window you could see a brick wall and a tiny sliver of New York Harbor. On the desk rested a large brass ashtray, a picture of an unsmiling, pretty teenage girl, a dozen Metropolitan Opera Playbills, a date book and one law book--a Supreme Court Reporter.
Taylor Lockwood opened the Reporter and bent over it. Her eyes, though, camouflaged by her fallen hair, were not reading the twin columns of type but rather Ralph Dudley's scuffed leather date book, opened to the present week.
She noticed the letters W.S. penned into the box for late Saturday evening or early Sunday morning, just before the time Dudley--if Sebastian was right--had used the associate's key to get into the firm.
The initials W.S. were also, she observed, written in the 10 P.M. slot for tomorrow. Who was this person? A contact at Hanover? The professional thief? Taylor then opened the calendar to the phone number/address section. There was no one listed with those initials. She should--
"Can I help you?" a man's voice snapped.
Taylor forced herself not to jump. She kept her finger on the Reporter to mark her spot and looked up slowly.
A young man she didn't recognize stood in the doorway. Blond, scrubbed, chubby. And peeved.
"Ralph had this Reporter checked out from the library," she said, nodding at the book. "I needed to look up a case." Taking the offensive, she asked bluntly, "Who're you?"
"Me? I'm Todd Stanton. I work for Mr. Dudley." He squinted. "Who are you?"
"Taylor Lockwood. A paralegal." She forced indignation into her voice.
"A paralegal." His tone said, Oh, well, that doesn't really count. "Does Mr. Dudley know you're here?"
"No."
"If you need anything, you can ask me for it. Mr. Dudley doesn't like"--he sought the least disparaging term--"anyone in his office when he's not here."
"Ah," Taylor said and then turned back to the book and slowly finished reading a long paragraph.
Stanton shifted then said with irritation, "Excuse me but--"
Taylor closed the book softly. "Hey," she said, offering a concerned glance. "Don't sweat it. You're excused." And walked past him back into the deserted corridor.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Dactyloscopy," the man said. "Repeat after me: dactyloscopy."
Taylor did.
More or less.
"Good," the man said. "Now you know the first thing about fingerprinting. It's called dactyloscopy. The second is that it is a royal pain in the butt."
She sat in the office of John Silbert Hemming. His card explained that he was a vice president in the corporate security department at Manhattan Allied Security, Inc.
The man, in his mid-thirties, had been recommended by a friend from the music world who did word processing for Allied Security to support his addiction to the saxophone.
Taylor had spent most of the day at Hubbard, White, poring over records of the New Amsterdam Bank v. Hanover & Stiver case, trying to find a reference to anyone who might have shown unusual interest in the promissory note or who'd requested files on the deal when there didn't seem to be a reason for them to do so.
But after nearly eight hours of mind-numbing legal babble Taylor found not a shred of evidence to suggest that Ralph Dudley or Thom Sebastian--or anyone else--was the thief.
She'd decided to give up on the subtle approach and try a more traditional tack, a la Kojak or Rockford Files.
Hence, the tall shamus she was now sitting across from.
When Hemming had come to meet her in the reception area she'd blinked and looked up. He was six feet ten. His height had led, he had explained on their way back to his office, to his becoming a backroom security man--the company technical and forensic expert.
"You've got to be unobstrusive in private detective work. A lot of what we do is surveillance, you know."
She said, "Tailing."
"Pardon?"
"Don't you say 'tailing'? You know, like you tail somebody?"
"Hmmm, no, we say say 'surveillance.' "
"Oh."
"If you stand out like me that's not so good. When we recruit we have a space on our evaluation form--'Is subject unobtrusive?' We mean 'boring.' "
His hair was tawny and unruly and Taylor's impression of Hemming was that he was a huge little boy. He had eyes that seemed perpetually amused and that belied a face that was dramatically long (what else could it be, given that it sat atop a body like his?). Despite this quirky appearance there was something rather appealing about him.
Now, John Silbert Hemming was aiming a startlingly long finger at her and saying, "I hope you mean that, about wanting to know everything. Because there's a lot, and here it comes. Let's start with: What are fingerprints?"
"Uh--"
"I know. You paid the money, I've got the answers. But I like people to participate. I like interaction. Time's up. No idea? I'd suggest you avoid Jeopardy! Now: Fingerprints are the impressions left by the papillary ridges of the fingers and thumb, primarily in perspiration. Also called friction ridges. There are no sebaceous glands in the fingertips themselves but people sometimes leave fingerprints in human oils picked up elsewhere on the body. Yes, in answer to the first most-often-asked question, they are all different. Even more different than snowflakes, I can say safely, because for hundreds of years people have been collecting fingerprints from all over the world and comparing them, and nobody--none of my close friends, I'll tell you--have been doing that with snowflakes. Go ahead, ask the next-most-popular question."
"Uh, do animals have fingerprints?"
"Primates do, but who cares? We don't give apes government clearances or put them on the ten-most-wanted list. That's not the question. The question is twins."
"Twins?"
"And the answer is that twins, quadruplets, duodeceplets--they all have different fingerprints. Now, who first discovered fingerprints?"
"I have a feeling you're going to tell me?"
"Guess."
"Sc
otland Yard?" Taylor offered.
"Prehistoric tribes in France were aware of fingerprints and used them as cave decorations. In the sixteen and seventeen hundreds they were used as graphic designs and trademarks. The first attempt to study them seriously was in 1823--Dr. J. E. Purkinje, an anatomy professor, came up with a crude classification system. Fingerprints became sexy in the late 1800s. Sir Francis Galton, who was a preeminent scholar in the field of ..." He cocked his eyebrows at Taylor. "Daily Double?"
"Dactyloscopy?"
"Nice try but no. In the field of heredity. He established that all fingerprints are different and they never change throughout one's life. The British government appointed Edward Richard Henry to a commission to consider using fingerprints to identify criminals. By around the turn of the century Henry had created the basic classification system they use in most countries. His system is called, coincidentally, the Henry system. New York was the first state to start fingerprinting all prisoners. Around 1902."
While she found this fascinating the urgency of the Hanover case kept prodding her. When he came up for air she asked, "If one were going to look for fingerprints, how would one do it?"
"One'?" he asked coyly. "You?"
"No, just ... one."
"Well, it depends on the surface. You--excuse me, one--should wear cloth gloves--not latex. If the surface is light-colored one would use a carbon-based dark powder. On dark, one would use an aluminum-and-chalk mixture; it's light gray. One would dust on the powder with a very soft, long-bristle brush. Then one removes the excess--"
"How?"
"Flip a coin," the detective said.
"One blows it off."
"A lot of rookies think that. But you tend to spit and ruin the whole print. No, use a brush. Now, powders only work on smooth surfaces. If you've got to take a print from paper there are different techniques. If the print's oily maybe it'll show up in iodine vapor. The problem is that you have to expose it in an enclosed cabinet and take a picture of the print very quickly because the vapors evaporate right away. Sometimes latents come out with a nitrate solution or ninhydrin or superglue. But that's the big league, probably over your--one's--skill level.
"Now, once one has the print, he or"--a nod toward her--"she has to capture it. You lift it off the surface with special tape or else take a picture of it. Remember: Fingerprints are evidence. They have to get into the courtroom and in front of an expert witness."