Mistress of Justice Page 5

  Taylor had spent the day looking through documents on the New Amsterdam Bank v. Hanover & Stiver case, collecting the names of everyone who'd worked on it: partners, associates and all the paralegals, typists, messengers and other support staff. But the case had been in the works for months and the cast of characters at Hubbard, White who'd been involved totaled nearly thirty people. She needed to narrow down the suspects and to get the key entry logs and the time sheets, as Reece had suggested. But to do this, she'd found, you needed to be a registered user and to have a pass code. Carrie Mason, a friend of hers at the firm, was the paralegal who oversaw the billing and time recording system and so Taylor had asked the girl to meet her here after work.

  Taylor now looked at the girl's Coach attache 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 attache 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.

  "What?" she shouted again. Though she'd heard his words; he knew she had.

  "I got held up," he explained, hands clasped together in prayer. "I can't really go into it. It's an unpleasant story."

  These were lines he used a lot in clubs like this. Cute lines, silly lines. As soon as the women realized that they'd never seen him before and that he was hitting on them in a major way, they usually rolled their eyes and said, "Fuck off."

  But sometimes, just sometimes, they didn't. This one said nothing yet. She was taking her time. She watched him sending out Morse code with something in his hand, tapping it against the bar absently, while he smiled his flirts toward her.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  "I thought for sure you would've left. Would've served me right. Keeping a beautiful woman waiting," said this young man with a slight swell of double chin and a belly testing his Tripler's 42-inch alligator belt.

  The process of scoring in a place like this was, of course, like negotiating. You had to play a role, act, be somebody else.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  The club was an old warehouse, sitting on a commercial street in downtown Manhattan, deserted except for the cluster of supplicants crowding around the ponytailed, baggy-jacketed doorman, who selected Those Who Might Enter with a grudging flick of a finger.

  Thom Sebastian was never denied entrance.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  True, mostly the women roll their eyes and tell him to fuck off. But sometimes they did what she was doing now: looking down at the telegraph key--a large vial of coke--and saying, "Hi, I'm Veronica."

  He reacted to the gift of her name like a shark tasting blood in the water. He moved in fast, sitting next to her, shaking her hand for a lengthy moment.

  "Thom," he said.

  The sound system's speakers, as tall as the six-foot-six, blue-gowned transvestite dancing in front of them, sent fluttering bass waves into their faces and chests. The smell was a pungent mix of cigarette smoke and a gassy, ozonelike scent--from the fake fog.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  He offered his boyish grin while she rambled on about careers--she sold something in some store somewhere but wanted to get into something else. Sebastian nodded and murmured single-word encouragements and mentally tumbled forward, caught in the soft avalanche of anticipation. He saw the evening unfold before him: They'd hit the john, duck into a stall and do a fast line or two of coke. No nookie yet, nor would he expect any. After that they'd leave and go over to Meg's, where he was a regular. Then out for pasta. After that, when it was pushing 3 A.M., he'd ask her with mock trepidation if she ever went north of Fourteenth Street.

  A car-service Lincoln up to his apartment.

  Your condom or mine ...

  And later, after a Val or 'lude to come down, they'd sleep. Up at eight-thirty the next morning, share the shower, take turns with the hair dryer, give her a kiss. She'd cab it home. He'd down some speed and head to Hubbard, White & Willis for another day of lawyering.

  Tap, tap, tap ...

  "Hey," Thom said, interrupting her as she was saying something, "how about--"

  But there was a disturbance. Another incarnation of Veronica appeared: a young woman walking toward them. Different clothes but the same high cheeks, pale flesh, laces, silks, a flea market's worth of costume jewelry. Floral perfume. They were interchangeable, these two women. Clones. They bussed cheeks. Behind Veronica II stood a pair of quiet, preoccupied young Japanese men dressed in black, hair greased and spiked high like porcupine quills. One wore a medal studded with rhinestones.

  Sebastian suddenly detested them--not because of the impending kidnapping of his new love but for no reason he could figure out. He wanted to lean forward and ask the young man if he'd won the medal at Iwo Jima. Veronica nodded to her other half, lifted her eyebrows at Sebastian with regret and a smile that belied it and disappeared into the mist.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  "Quo vadis, Veronica?" Sebastian whispered, pronouncing the v's like w's the way his Latin professor had instructed. He turned back to the bar and noticed that somebody had taken Veronica's space. Someone who was the exact opposite of her: homey, pretty, dressed conservatively but stylishly in black. She was vaguely familiar; he must've seen her here before. The woman ordered a rum and Coke, gave a laugh to herself.

  She was hardly his type but Sebastian couldn't help raise an eyebrow at the laugh. She noticed and said in response, "That woman over there? She's decided I'm her soul mate. I don't know what she wants but I don't think it's healthy."

  Instinctively he glanced where the woman was nodding and studied the gold lame dress, the stiletto heels. He said, "Well, the good news is it's not a woman."

  "What?"

  "Truly. But the bad news is that I'm betting what he has in mind is still pretty perverse."

  "Maybe I better head for the hills," she said.

  "Naw, hang out here. I'll protect you. You can cheer me up. My true love just left me."

  "The true love you just met four minutes ago?" the woman asked. "That true love?"

  "Ah, you witnessed that, did you?"

  She added, "Mine just stood me up. I won't go so far as to say true love. He was a blind date."

  His mind raced. Yes, she was familiar.... She now squinted at him as if she recognized him too. Where did he know her from? Here? The Harvard Club? Piping Rock?

  He wondered if he'd slept with her, and, if he had, whether he'd enjoyed it. Shit, had he called her the next day?

  She was saying, "I couldn't believe it. The bouncer wasn't going to let me in. It took all my political pull."

  "Political?"

  "A portrait of Alexander Hamilton." She slung out the words and Sebastian thought he heard something akin to mockery in her voice, as if he wasn't quick enough to catch the punch line.

  "Gotcha," Sebastian said, feeling defensive.

  "This drink sucks. The Coke tastes moldy."

  Now he felt offended too, taking this as a criticism of the club, which was one of his homes away from home. He sipped his own drink and felt uncharacteristically out of control. Veronica was easier to handle. He wondered how to get back in the driver's seat.

  "Look, I know I know you. You're?"

  "Taylor Lockwood." They shook hands.

  "Thom Sebastian."

  "Right," she said, understanding dawning in his eyes.

  With this, his mind made the connection. "Hubbard, White?"

  "Corporate paralegal. Hey, you ever fraternize with us folks?"

  "Only if we blow this joint. Let's go--there's nothing happening here."

  The tall gold-clad transvestite had begun a striptease in front of them, while ten feet away Tina Turner and Calvin Klein paused to watch.

  "There isn't?" Taylor asked.

  Sebastian smiled, took her hand and led her through the crowd.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The drapery man was having a busy night.

  He pushed a canvas cart ahead of him, filled with his props--draperies that needed to be cleaned but never would be. They were piled atop one another and the one on top was folded carefully; it hid his ice-pick weapon, resting near to hand.

  This man had been in many different offices at all hours of the day and night. Insurance companies with rows of ghastly gray desks bathed in green fluorescence. CEOs' offices that were like the finest comp suites in Vegas casinos. Hotels and art galleries. Even some government office buildings. But Hubbard, Wh
ite & Willis was unique.

  At first he'd been impressed with the elegant place. But now, pushing the cart through quiet corridors, he felt belittled. He sensed contempt for people like him, sensed it from the walls themselves. Here, he was nothing. His neck prickled as he walked past a dark portrait of some old man from the 1800s. He wanted to pull out his pick and slash the canvas.

  The drapery man's face was a map of vessels burst in s fistfights on the streets and in the various prisons he'd been incarcerated in and his muscles were dense as a bull's. He was a professional, of course, but part of him was hoping one of these scrawny prick lawyers, hunched over stacks of books in the offices he passed (no glances, no nods, no smiles--well, fuck you and your mother) ... hoping one of them would walk up to him and demand to see a pass or permit so he could shank them through the lung.

  But they all remained oblivious to him. An underling.

  Not even worth noticing.

  Glancing around to make sure no one was approaching, he stepped into the coffee room on the main floor and took a dusty container of Coffee-mate from the back of a storage shelf. In thirty seconds he'd slid out the tape recorder, removed the cassette, put in a new one and replaced the unit in the canister. He knew it was safe in this particular container because he'd observed that the prissy lawyers here insisted on real milk--half-and-half or 2 percent--and wouldn't think of drinking, or serving their clients, anything artificial. The Coffee-mate tube had been here, untouched, for months.

  Making sure the corridor was empty again, the drapery man walked across the hall to Mitchell Reece's office and, listening carefully for footsteps, checked the receiver of Reece's phone.

  On Saturday night, when he'd been here to steal the promissory note, he'd placed in the handset of the phone unit an Ashika Electronics omnidirectional ambient-filtering microphone and transmitter. The device was roughly the size of a Susan B. Anthony silver dollar. It was, however, considerably more popular and was used by every security, private eye or industrial espionage outfit that could afford the eight-thousand-dollar price tag. This bug broadcast a razor-clear transmission of all of Reece's conversations on the phone or with anyone else in the office to the radio receiver and tape recorder in the Coffee-mate container across the hall. One feature of the transmitter was that it contained a frequency-canceling feature, which made it virtually invisible to most commercial bug-detecting sweepers. He checked the battery and found it was still good.