Mistress of Justice Page 29

  After all is reconciled, and the darkness pitched away, I'll travel light, transported home to you

  in the buoyancy of pure and peaceful flight.

  Taylor Lockwood thought of Linda, the beautiful, quiet, gypsy poet. She read the lines again very slowly.

  Then she read them once more.

  A moment later a huge orderly appeared in the door. "Ms. Lockwood, good news: The warden called."

  He grinned; she frowned, not understanding.

  Then the man delivered the rest of what would be his stock joke. "It's a full pardon. You're free to go." And he maneuvered the wheelchair into the room.

  Taylor Lockwood had learned early who the real power centers were at Hubbard, White.

  One of the most powerful was a short, round-faced woman of sixty. Mrs. Bendix had used her miraculous skills at memory and association to save the butts of almost every attorney and paralegal in the firm on more than one occasion by finding obscure file folders buried among the millions of documents residing on the gray metal shelves.

  She was the doyen of the firm's massive file room.

  Taylor now stood over Mrs. Bendix's frothy blue hair as the woman flipped through the three-by-five cards that were her computer. Taylor silently waited for her to finish. Mrs. Bendix--even more so than a senior partner--was a person one did not interrupt. When she was through she looked up and blinked. "I was told you were in the hospital. We contributed for the flowers."

  "They were lovely, Mrs. Bendix. I recovered more quickly than expected."

  "They said you were almost dead."

  "Modern medicine."

  Mrs. Bendix was eyeing Taylor's jeans and sweatshirt critically. "This firm has a dress code. You're outfitted for sick leave, not work."

  "This is a bit irregular, Mrs. Bendix. But I have a problem and you're just about the only person who can help me."

  "Probably am. No need to stroke."

  "I need a case."

  "Which one? You've got about nine hundred current ones to chose from."

  "An old case."

  "In that event, the possibilities are limitless."

  "Let's narrow things down. Genneco Labs. Maybe a patent--"

  "Hubbard, White does not do patent work. We never have and I'm sure we never will."

  "Well, how about a contract for the development of bacterial or viral cultures or antitoxins?"

  "Nope."

  Taylor looked at the rows and rows of file cabinets. A thought fluttered past, then settled. She asked, "Insurance issues, the storage of products, toxins, food poisoning and so on?"

  "Sorry, not a bell is rung, though in 1957 we did have a cruise line as a client. I got a discount and took a trip to Bermuda. I ate pasta that disagreed with me very badly. But I digress."

  In frustration, Taylor puffed air into her cheeks.

  Mrs. Bendix said tantalizingly, "Since you said toxins, food poisoning and so on I assume you meant toxins, food poisonings and so on."

  Taylor knew that when people like Mrs. Bendix bait you, you swallow the worm and the hook in their entirety. She said, "Maybe I was premature when I qualified myself."

  "Well," the woman said, "my mind harkens back to ..." She closed her eyes, creasing her gunmetal eye shadow, then opened them dramatically. "... Biosecurity Systems, Inc. A contract negotiation with Genneco for the purchase and installation of Genneco's new security system in Teterboro, New Jersey. Two years ago. I understand the negotiations were a nightmare."

  "Security," Taylor said. "I didn't think about that."

  Mrs. Bendix said, "Apparently not."

  "Can you tell me if anyone checked out the files on that deal in the past few months?"

  This was beyond her brain. The woman pulled the logbook out and thumbed through it quickly then held it open for Taylor to look at. Taylor nodded. "I'd like to check it out too, if you don't mind."

  "Surely."

  Then a frown crossed Taylor's face. "I wonder if we could just consider one more file. This might be trickier."

  "I live for challenges," Mrs. Bendix replied.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The New York State Department of Social Services worked fast.

  After one anonymous phone call to the police the West Side Club became the front-page feature in the evening edition of every tabloid in the New York area.

  Though gentlemen did not read such newspapers Ralph Dudley made an exception this once, since the Times wouldn't have the story until tomorrow morning. He now sat at his desk, lit only by a single battered brass lamp and the paltry December dusk light bleeding into his office, and stared at the same article he'd already read four times. A half-dozen people were under arrest and two underage prostitutes were being placed in foster homes in upstate New York.

  Good-bye Junie, Dudley thought.

  He'd made one last trip to see her--just before he'd made the call to 911, which closed up the West Side Art and Photography Club forever.

  "Here," he'd said, handing her a blue-backed legal document.

  She'd stared at it, uncomprehending. "Like, what is it?"

  "It's a court order. The marshal seized your mother's and stepfather's bank accounts and house and they've put the money into a special trust fund for you."

  "I ... Like, I don't get it."

  "The money your father left you? The court took it away from your mother and they're giving it back to you. I won my petition."

  "Whoa, like radical! How much is it?"

  "A hundred and ninety-two thousand."

  "Awesome! Can I--?"

  "You can't touch it for three years, until you're eighteen."

  "Or whatever," she'd added.

  "And you only get it if you go to school."

  "What? That's fucking bogus."

  It was also untrue. There were no strings on the money once she turned eighteen, as the trust officer would undoubtedly tell her. But she'd have a few years to think about it and might just try a class or two. Junie might just succeed at school; she was, he'd concluded, more savvy than half the lawyers at Hubbard, White & Willis.

  She'd hugged him and then looked at him in that coy way that, before this, would've melted him. But he'd said he had to be going. He had an important meeting--with a pay phone. He'd looked at her for a long moment then kissed her on the cheek and left.

  He wondered if Junie would say anything about him. She was, of course, in a position not only to destroy the delicate balance of his career, such as it was, but also to send him to prison for the rest of his life.

  These possibilities he considered with remarkable serenity, sipping coffee from a porcelain cup. He weighed the odds and decided that she would say nothing. Although she'd been badly used by life and had the dangerous edge of those who learn survival skills before maturity, Junie was nonetheless motivated by a kind of justice. She saw essential good and essential evil, assigned her loyalty accordingly and stuck by her choice.

  There were few adults with that perception. Or that courage.

  Also, Dudley chose to believe that the girl loved him, at least by her wary definition of that word.

  Good-bye, Junie....

  He now set the paper down and rocked back in his chair.

  Reflecting that for once in his forty years as a lawyer he'd given up charming people and trying to win clients. Rather, he'd mastered a tiny bit of the law. In this small area of expertise he was now the best in the city: restitution of parentally converted intestate distributions (though he himself preferred to think of the subniche as "saving teenage hookers' bacon"). And he was proud of what he'd learned and done.

  Still, there was one more potential problem: Taylor Lockwood knew his secret.

  He picked up the phone and dialed a number he'd been calling so often over the past two days that he had it memorized.

  The main operator at Manhattan General Hospital answered. He asked to speak to the floor nurse about the paralegal's condition.

  They'd been reluctant to talk about detail
s but it was clear from the tone--as well as from the gossip around the firm--that the girl was near death.

  Maybe she'd died. That would take care of all the problems.

  But then an orderly came on the phone. The man listened to Dudley's question and replied in a cheerful voice, "Don't you worry, sir. Your niece, Ms. Lockwood, was discharged today. She's doing fine."

  An electric charge shot through him at this news. He hung up.

  With Clayton dead, she was the one person who could destroy his fragile life here at the firm. She was the one risk to his budding life as a real lawyer. So much of the law deals with risk, Dudley reflected, some acceptable, some not. On which side did Taylor Lockwood fall?

  He rocked back, looking out the window at the tiny sliver of New York Harbor that was visible between the two brick walls outside his office.

  As she left the firm by the infamous back door--no longer taped open, she noticed--Taylor Lockwood was aware of someone's presence near her.

  She stepped onto the sidewalk of Church Street, which at one time had been the shoreline of lower Manhattan. Now a half mile of landfill had extended the island well into the Hudson and the harbor.

  Pausing, she looked behind her.

  This was a quiet street, with a few bad restaurants, a girlie bar (ironically next to the rear entrance to Trinity Church) and the dingy service entrances to a number of office buildings. The street was now largely deserted.

  She noticed a few businesspeople hurrying to or from one of the gyms near here and some construction workers. A number of vans were parked on the narrow street, half on the sidewalk. She had to walk around a drapery cleaning van to step into the street and hail a taxi.

  Of course, there were none.

  Then, in the bulbous disk of a wide-angle rearview mirror on one of the vans, she noticed a man looking her way.

  She gasped.

  There was nothing ambiguous about the recognition this time.

  It was the man in the baseball cap, the one who'd sat next to her in the coffee shop.

  The killer, the thief.

  Okay. He doesn't know you saw him. You can get out of this.

  Shaking her head casually, as if discouraged that there were no cabs, Taylor turned slowly back to the sidewalk.

  Then instantly reversed herself and, sprinting as fast as her still-weak legs could carry her, made straight for population.

  She glanced back once and saw that the man had given up any pretense--he was running after her. He reached into his coveralls and pulled out a long dark object. At first she thought it was a gun but then she realized that it was a knife or ice pick.

  Still dehydrated and in severe pain from the poisoning, her muscles began to slow. Judging distances, Taylor realized that she wasn't going to make it to Broadway or one of the other heavily traveled streets before the killer reached her.

  She stopped suddenly in the middle of the street and jogged down the concrete stairs to the Rector Street subway stop. This was better than the street anyway--not only would there be people on the platform but the token seller in the booth would have a hot line to the transit police. The killer wouldn't follow her here. He--

  But he was following, grim determination--to kill her--on his face. A glance back showed that he'd picked up the speed, as if he could sense her fatigue and was moving in for the coup de grace.

  "Help me!" she screamed to the startled young woman in the token booth. Three or four people scattered or ducked as Taylor vaulted the turnstile and fell hard onto the platform. One man started to help her but she raged, "Get away. No, get away!"

  There were more screams behind her as the killer reached the bottom of the stairs and looked for her.

  A businessman hovering nearby saw the ice pick in the hand of the killer and backed up.

  Rising to her feet, she ran as fast as she could along the platform to the far exit of the subway. She heard the staticky voice of the token seller call out, "Pay your fare," as the killer jumped onto the platform and started after her.

  Sprinting as best she could, she came to the end of the platform and turned to run up the stairs at the exit door.

  But it was chained.

  "Oh, Jesus," she cried. "No ..."

  Taylor returned to the platform and saw the killer, his face emotionless, walking slowly now, studying her carefully from thirty feet away. Anticipating her escape routes.

  She jumped off the platform and dropped four feet into the muck between the rails. Turning away from the killer, she began to run through the tunnel, stumbling over the slippery ties.

  He was right behind her, saying nothing, not threatening her or urging her to stop. Not negotiating--there was only one thing he needed to do--kill her.

  Taylor got only about twenty feet when, exhausted, she slipped on a slick piece of tie and nearly fell. By the time she regained her balance the killer had made a leaping grab and seized her by the ankle. She went down hard against the solid piece of wood.

  Catching her breath, she lashed out with her other foot and caught him in the mouth or cheek with her sole--a solid blow--and he grunted and lost his grip. "Fuck you," he muttered, spitting blood.

  "No, fuck you!" she screamed. And kicked again.

  He dodged away from her and swung with the pick.

  Taylor rolled away and he missed. But she couldn't climb to her feet; he was coming forward too fast, swinging the steel, keeping her off balance.

  Finally she managed to stand but just as she was about to start running he grabbed her overcoat and pulled her legs out from under her. She tumbled again to the ground, her head bouncing hard on a tie. She rose, exhausted, to her hands and knees.

  "No," she said. "Please."

  The killer was up, ready to pounce. But Taylor remained motionless, on her hands and knees, stunned. "What do you want?" she gasped, breathless, spent.

  Still, no answer. But why should he respond? It was clear what he wanted. She was the tiny bird that her father had hunted, she was the victim of the Queen of Hearts--off with her head, off with her head.

  The weapon drawing back, its needle-sharp point aiming at her face. She lifted her head and gazed at him, piteous. "Don't, please."

  But he leaned forward and lunged with the pick, aiming toward her neck.

  Which is when she dropped to her belly and scrabbled backward.

  She'd been feigning, remaining on all fours like an exhausted soldier, when in fact she had--somewhere--a tiny bit of strength left.

  "Ah, ah, ah, ah ..."

  Taylor squinted at him, still in the position of attack, right arm extended, clutching that terrible weapon.

  "Ah, ah, ah, ah ..." The terrible moan from his throat.

  In his haste to stab Taylor he'd ignored what was just beyond her body--what she'd been trying to sucker him into hitting: the electrified third rail of the subway, which held more amperage than an electric chair.

  "Ah, ah, ah, ah."

  There were no sparks, no crackles but every muscle in his body was vibrating.

  Then blood appeared in his eyes and his sandy hair caught fire.

  "Ah, ah, ah--"

  Finally the muscles spasmed once and he collapsed onto the tracks, flames dancing from his collar and cuffs and head.

  Taylor heard voices and the electronic sound of walkie-talkies from the Rector Street platform. She supposed it would be the transit cops or the regular NYPD.

  It didn't matter. She didn't want to see them or talk to them.

  She knew now that there was only one thing to do that might save her. Taylor Lockwood turned and vanished into the darkness of the tunnel.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  "Do you mind my saying? ... I mean, will you take it personally if I say you don't look very good?" John Silbert Hemming asked.

  Taylor Lockwood said to the huge private eye, "I lost eight pounds in two days."

  "Quite a diet. You should maybe write a book. I'm told you can make a lot of money doing that."

 
"We couldn't market it--the secret ingredient ain't so appetizing. I'm feeling better now."

  They were at Miracles Pub. She was probing at a bowl of Greek chicken soup flavored with lemon. It wasn't on the menu. Dimitri's wife had made it herself. She had some trouble with the spoon--she had to keep her fingers curled; her rings tended to fall off if she didn't.

  "Maybe," he joked cautiously, "you should've taken my offer to have dinner. Probably would've been better than where you ended up eating."

  "You know, John, I wish I had." Then she said, "I need a favor."

  Hemming, who was eating a hamburger, said, "If it's not illegal and not dangerous and if you agree to go to the opera with me a week from Saturday at eight o'clock sharp, I'd be happy to oblige."

  She considered. She said, "One out of three?"

  "Which one?"

  "I'd like to go to the opera."

  "Oh, dear. Still, it makes me very pleased. Though nervous--considering you're balking on the other two. Now, what's the favor?" He nodded toward his plate. "This is a very good hamburger. Can I offer you some?"

  She shook her head.

  "Ah." He resumed eating. "Favor?" he repeated.

  After a moment, she asked, "Why do people murder?"

  "Temper, insanity, love and occasionally for money."

  The spoon in her hand hovered over the surface of the soup, then made a soft landing on the table. She pushed the bowl away. "The favor is, I want you to get me something."

  "What?"

  "A gun. That kind I was telling you about--the kind without any serial numbers."

  It would be near quitting time at the firm.

  The end of another day at Hubbard, White & Willis.

  Files being stacked away, dress shoes being replaced with Adidas and Reeboks, places in law books being marked for the night, edits being dropped in the In Box for the night word processing staff.

  Four miles away Taylor Lockwood was hiding out in Mitchell Reece's loft. She was concerned that the person behind Clayton's death might figure out that she'd been responsible for the death of one hired gun and had called in a second one who was staking out her apartment right now.

  She picked up the scarred gray .38 revolver that John Silbert Hemming had gotten her. She smelled it, sweet oil and wood and metal warmed by her hand. She hefted the small pistol, much heavier than she'd thought it would be.

  Then she put the gun in her purse and walked unsteadily to Mitchell Reece's kitchen, where she found a pen and one of his pads of yellow foolscap.