ALSO BY JEFFERY DEAVER

The Stone Monkey
The Blue Nowhere
Speaking in Tongues
The Empty Chair
The Devil's Teardrop
The Coffin Dancer
The Bone Collector
A Maiden's Grave
Praying for Sleep
The Lesson of Her Death
Hell's Kitchen
Hard News
Death of a Blue Movie Star
Manhattan Is My Beat
Bloody River Blues
Shallow Graves

MISTRESS OF JUSTICE

JEFFERY DEAVER

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Two of my most heartfelt beliefs about writing suspense fiction are these: First, it's a craft—a skill that can be learned and refined and improved with practice. Second, we writers of suspense fiction have a duty to entertain and to—as the other moniker for the genre suggests—thrill our readers.

In rereading the first version of this book, which I wrote thirteen years ago, I realized that, while it was a perfectly acceptable dramatic, character-driven study of life on Wall Street, it didn't make my—and presumably my readers'— palms sweat.

It didn't, in other words, thrill.

I considered just letting the book stand as a cunosity among the suspense novels I've written but I felt the nag of the second belief I mentioned above—that overarching duty to readers I know how much I enjoy the expenence of reading a roller coaster of a story and I felt that the premise of this novel and the characters I'd created would lend themselves to more of a carnival ride of a book. Hence, I dismantled the book completely and rewrote nearly all of it.

I had a chance recently to write an introduction to a new edition of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and during the course of researching her work I learned that she significantly revised the novel thirteen years after it was first published (how's that for a coincidence?) Many of the changes in the later edition of Frankenstein reflected the author's altered worldview.  Not so in the case of Mistress of Justice. The current edition stands true to its view of Wall Street in the chaotic era of the 1980s—takeover fever, uncontrolled wealth, too-chic-for-words Manhattan clubs, ruthlessness in boardrooms and bedrooms and the many hardworking lawyers who wished for nothing more than to help their clients and to make a living at their chosen profession.

My special thanks to editor Kate Miciak for giving me this chance and for helping this book realize its potential.

—J.D., Pacific Grove, CA, 2001

ONE

Conflicts of Interest

"Let the jury consider their verdict," the King said, for about the twentieth time that day.

"No, no," said the Queen. "Sentence first—verdict afterwards."

—Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

CHAPTER ONE

The drapery man had been warned that even though it was now well after midnight, Sunday morning of the Thanksgiving holiday, there would very likely be people in the firm here, attorneys and paralegals, still working.

And so he carried the weapon at his side, pointed downward.

It was a curious thing—not a knife exactly, more of an ice pick, but longer and made of a blackened, tempered metal.

He held it with the confidence of someone who was very familiar with the device. And who had used it before.

Dressed in gray coveralls bearing the stencil of a bogus drapery cleaning service and wearing a baseball cap, the big, sandy-haired man now paused and, hearing footsteps, slipped into an empty office. Then there was silence. And he continued on, through shadows, pausing for a long moment, frozen like a fox near a ground nest of skittish birds.

He consulted the diagram of the firm, turned along one corridor and continued, gripping the handle of the weapon tightly in his hand, which was as muscular as the rest of his body.

As he neared the office he sought, he reached up and pulled a paper face mask over his mouth This was not so that he wouldn't be recognized but because he was concerned that he might lose a fleck of spit that could be retrieved as evidence and used in a DNA match.

The office, which belonged to Mitchell Reece, was at the end of the corridor, not far from the front door of the firm. Like all the offices here, the lights were left on, which meant that the drapery man wasn't sure that it was unoccupied.  But he glanced in quickly, saw that the room was empty and stepped inside.

The office was very cluttered Books, files, charts, thousands of sheets of papers.  Still, the man found the filing cabinet easily—there, was only one here with two locks on it—and crouched, pulling on tight latex gloves and extracting his tool kit from his coverall pockets.

The drapery man set the weapon nearby and began to work on the locks.

*  *  *

Scarf, Mitchell Reece thought, drying his hands in the law firm's marble-and-oak rest room.  He'd forgotten his wool scarf.

Well, he was surprised he'd managed to remember his coat and bnefcase.  The lanky thirty-three-year-old associate, having had only four hours' sleep, had arrived at the firm around SAM yesterday, Saturday, and had worked straight through until about an hour ago, when he'd fallen asleep at his desk.

A few moments before, something had startled him out of that sleep.  He'd roused himself and decided to head home for a few hours of shut-eye the old-fashioned way— horizontally.  He'd grabbed his coat and briefcase and made this brief pit stop.

But he wasn't going outside without his scarf—1010 WINS had just reported the temperature was 22 degrees and falling

Reece stepped into the silent corridor.

Thinking about a law firm at night.

The place was shadowy but not dark, silent yet filled with a white noise of memory and power.  A law firm wasn't like other places banks or corporations or museums or concert halls, it seemed to remain alert even when its occupants were gone.

Here, down a wide wallpapered corridor, was a portrait of a man in stern sideburns, a man who left his partnership at the firm to become governor of the state of New York.

Here, in a small foyer decorated with fresh flowers, was an exquisite Fragonard oil painting, no alarm protecting it.  In the hall beyond, two Keith Harings and a Chagall.

Here, in a conference room, were reams of papers containing the magic words required by the law to begin a corporate breach of contract suit for three hundred million dollars, and in a similar room down the hall sat roughly the same amount of paper, assembled in solemn blue binders, which would create a charitable trust to fund private AIDS research.

Here, in a locked safe-file room, rested the last will and testament of the world's third-richest man—whose name most people had never heard of.

Mitchell Reece put these philosophical meandenngs down to sleep deprivation, told himself to mentally shut up and turned down the corridor that would lead to his office.

*  *  *

Footsteps approaching.

In a soldier's instant the drapery man was on his feet, the ice pick in one hand, his burglar tools in the other He eased behind the door to Reece's office and quieted his breathing as best he could.

He'd been in this line of work for some years He'd been hurt in fights and had inflicted a great deal of pain He'd killed seven men and two women But this history didn't dull his emotions His heart now beat hard, his palms sweated and he fervently hoped he didn't have to hurt anyone tonight Even people like him vastly preferred to avoid killing.

Mitchell Reece, walking unsteadily from exhaustion, moved down the corridor, his feet tapping on the marble floor, the sound occasionally muffled when he strode over the Turkish rugs carefully positioned throughout the firm (and carefully mounted on antiskid pads, law firms are extremely cognizant of slip-and-fall lawsuits.)

In his mind was a daunting list of tasks to complete before the trial that was scheduled in two days Reece had graduated from Harvard Law fourth in his class, largely thanks to lists—memorizing for his exams volumes of cases and rules of law and statutes He was now the firm's most successful senior litigation associate for much the same reason.  Every single aspect of the case—the civil trial of New Amsterdam Bank & Trust, Ltd v Hanover & Stiver, Inc —was contained in a complicated series of lists, which Reece was constantly reviewing and editing in his mind

He supposed he'd been reviewing his lists when he'd neglected to pick up his scarf.

He now approached the doorway and stepped inside.

Ah, yes, there it was, the tan cashmere given to him by a former girlfriend. It sat just where he'd left it, next to the refrigerator in the coffee room across from his office. When he d arrived that morning—well, make that yesterday morning at this point—he'd stopped first in this canteen room to make a pot of coffee and had dropped the scarf on the table while getting the machine going.

He now wrapped it around his neck and stepped out into the corridor.  He continued to the front door of the firm.  He hit the electric lock button and—hearing the satisfying click that he'd come to know so well, thanks to his thousands of late hours at the firm—Mitchell Reece stepped into the lobby, where he summoned the elevator.

As he waited it seemed to him that he heard a noise somewhere in the firm—nearby.  A faint whine of a door hinge maybe. Followed by the snick-snick of two metal objects faintly colliding.

But then the elevator arrived Reece stepped in and began once again reciting his scrolls of lists silently to himself.

*  *  *

"I think we may have a misunderstanding," Taylor Lockwood said.

"Not really," returned the voice, also female though much older, from the phone.

Taylor dropped into her squeaky chair and rolled against the wall of her cubicle Not really? What did that mean? She continued, "I'm the lead paralegal on the SCB closing.  That's at four today."

It was 8 30 A M, the Tuesday after the Thanksgiving holiday, and she d just arrived back here after a few hours' sleep at home, having spent most of the night at the firm, editing, assembling and stapling hundreds of documents for the closing this afternoon.

Ms. Strickland, on the other end of the line, said, "You've been reassigned Something urgent."

This'd never happened that Taylor knew about.  It was general knowledge—as solid as Newton's laws—that a law firm partner was incapable of handling a business closing without the presence of the paralegal who'd worked on the deal.  Law is manifest in the details, and a firm's paralegals are the gurus of minutiae.

The only reason for a last-minute reassignment was if a major screwup had occurred.

But Taylor Lockwood did not screw up and a cursory review of her ball-busting work on the case over the past weeks revealed no glitches the remedy for which would involve her summarily getting kicked off the deal.

"What're my options?" she asked the paralegal supervisor.

"Actually," the word stretching into far more syllables than it had, "there are no options."

Taylor spun her chair one way, then the other.  A paper cut inflicted by a UCC secunty agreement last night had started to bleed again and she wrapped her finger in a napkin with a happy turkey printed on it, a remnant from a firm cocktail party the week before. "Why—?"

"Mitchell Reece needs your help."

Reece? Taylor reflected So I'll be playing with the big boys.  Good news, but still odd "Why me?   I've never worked for him."

"Apparently your reputation has preceded you." Ms. Strickland sounded wary, as if she hadn't known that Taylor had a reputation. "He said you and only you "

"Is this long-term? I'm taking a vacation next week I'm scheduled to go skiing "

"You can negotiate with Mr. Reece I mentioned your schedule to him."

"What was his reaction?"

"He didn't seem overly concerned."

"Why would he be?  He's not the one going skiing." Blood seeping through the napkin had stained the turkey's smiling face.
She pitched it out.

"Be in his office in an hour. "

"What sort of project?"

A pause, while Ms. Strickland perhaps selected from among her quiver of delicate words "He wasn't specific."

"Should I call Mr. Bradshaw?"

"It's all taken care of."

"I'm sorry?" Taylor asked "What's been taken care of?"

"Everything.  You've been transferred and another paralegal—two actually—are working with Mr. Bradshaw."

"Already?"

"All right "

"Oh, one more thing "

"What's that?"

"Mr. Reece said you're not supposed to mention this to anyone.  He said that was very important.  Not to anyone "

"Then I won't."

They hung up.

Taylor walked through the carpeted cubicles of the paralegal pen to the one window in this part of the firm. Outside, the Financial District was bathed in early-morning, overcast light.  She didn't care much for the scenery today.  Too much old grimy stone, like weathered, eene mountains.  In one window of a building across the way, a maintenance man was struggling to erect a Chnstmas tree.  It seemed out of place in the huge marble lobby.

She focused on the window in front of her and realized she was looking at her own reflection.

Taylor Lockwood was not heavy but neither was she fashionably bony or angular Earthy.  That was how she thought of herself. When asked her height she would answer five-five (she was five-four and a quarter) but she had a dense black tangle of hair that added another two inches.  A boyfnend once said that with her hair hanging frizzy and loose she looked like she belonged in a pre-Raphaehte painting.

On days when she was in a good mood she believed she resembled a young Mary Pickford.  On not-so-good days she felt like a thirty-year-old little girl, standing pigeon-toed, impatiently waiting for the arrival of maturity, decisiveness, authority.  She thought she looked her best in imperfect reflections, like storefronts painted black.

Or Wall Street law firm windows.

She turned away and walked back to her cubicle It was now close to nine and the firm was coming awake, growing busier — catching up with her, this was usually the case; Taylor Lockwood was often one of the first employees to arrive. Other paralegals were making their way to their desks. Shouts of greetings—and warnings of impending _cri_ses—were crisscrossing the paralegal pen, war stones of subway snarls and traffic jams were exchanged. She sat down in her chair and thought about how abruptly the course of life can change, and at someone else's whim.

Mr. Reece said you're not supposed to mention this to anyone. He said that was very important. Not to anyone.

Then I won't.

Taylor glanced at her finger and went to find a Band-Aid for the paper cut.

On a warm morning in April of 1887, a balding, thirty-two-year-old sideburned lawyer named Frederick Phyle Hubbard walked into a small office on lower Broadway, slipped his silk hat and Prince Albert coat onto a hook and said wryly to his partner, "Good morning, Mr. White. Have you secured any clients yet?"

The life of a law firm began.

Both Hubbard and George C. T. White had graduated from Columbia Law School and had promptly come under the acutely probing eye of Walter Carter, Esquire, the senior partner at Carter, Hughes & Cravath. Carter hired them without pay for a year then turned them into professionals at the end of their probation by paying them the going salary of twenty dollars a month.

Six years later, the two men—as ambitious as Carter had pegged them to be—borrowed three thousand dollars from White's father, hired one law clerk and a male secretary and opened their own firm.

Though they dreamed of offices in the state-of-the-art Equitable Building at 120 Broadway they settled for less.

Rent in the old building they chose near Trinity Church was sixty-four dollars a month, which bought the partners two dark rooms.  Still, their quarters had central heat (though they kept the office's two fireplaces going throughout most of January and February) and an elevator that one operated by pulling a thick rope running through the middle of the car with pieces of tapestry carpeting Hubbard's wife had cut and stitched, the felt pads provided by the building management were. Hubbard felt, inelegant, and he feared they might "impress clients adversely".

Over lunch at Delmomco's on Fifth Avenue, where Hubbard and White sunk much of their first profits feeding existing and would-be clients, they would brag about the firm's new letterpress, which used a damp cloth to make copies of firm correspondence.  The firm had a typewriter but the lawyers wrote most of their correspondence in ink with steel pens Hubbard and White both insisted that their secretary fill the firm's ink-blotting shakers with Lake Champlam black sand.  The men had looked at, though rejected, a telephone—it would have cost ten dollars a month (besides, there was no one to call but court clerks and a few government officials).

In school both men had dreamed of becoming great trial lawyers and during their clerking days at Carter, Hughes they'd spent many hours in courtrooms watching famous litigators cajole, charm and terrorize juries and witnesses alike.  But in their own practice economics could not be ignored and the lucrative field of corporate law became the mainstay of their young practice. They billed at fifty-two cents an hour though they added arbitrary and generous bonuses for certain assignments.

Those were the days before income tax, before the Antitrust Division of the Justice Department, before the SEC, corporations rode like Assyrians over the landscape of American free enterprise and Messrs. Hubbard and White were their warlords.  As their clients became exceedingly wealthy so did they.  A third senior partner, Colonel Benjamin Willis, joined the firm in 1920 He died several years later of pneumonia related to a World War One mustard gassing but he left as a legacy to the firm one railroad, two banks and several major utilities as clients. Hubbard and White also inherited the matter of what to do with his name—appending it to theirs had been the price for both the colonel and his fat clients.  Nothing of the bargain was in writing but after his death the remaining partners kept their word, the firm would forever be known as a triumvirate.

By the time the mantles passed, in the late 1920s, Hubbard, White & Willis had grown to thirty-eight attorneys and had moved into its cherished Equitable Building Banking, corporate law, secunties and litigation made up the bulk of the work, which was still performed as it had been in the nineteenth century—by gentlemen, and a certain type of gentleman only.  Attorneys seeking work who were in fact or by appearance Jewish, Italian or Irish were interviewed with interest and cordiality and were never offered positions.

Women were always welcome—good stenographers being hard to find.

The firm continued to grow, occasionally spinning off satellite firms or political careers (invariably Republican).  Several attorneys general issued from Hubbard, White & Willis, as did an SEC commissioner, a senator, two governors and a vice president of the United States.  Yet the firm, unlike many of its size and prestige on Wall Street, wasn't a major political breeding ground.  It was common knowledge that politics was power without money and the partners at Hubbard, White saw no reason to forsake one reward of Wall Street practice when they could have both.

The present-day Hubbard, White & Willis had over two hundred fifty attorneys and four hundred support employees, placing it in the medium-sized category of Manhattan firms.  Of the eighty-four partners, eleven were women, seven were Jewish (including four of the women), two were Asian-American and three were black (one of whom was, to the great delight of the EEOC-conscious executive committee, Latino as well).

Hubbard, White & Willis was now big business Overhead ran $3 million a month and the partners had upped the billing rates considerably higher than the small change charged by Frederick Hubbard.  An hour of a partners time could hit $650 and in big transactions a premium (referred to by associates as a no-fuck-up bonus) of perhaps $500,000 would be added to the client's final tab.

Twenty-five-year-old associates fresh out of law school made around $100,000 a year.

The firm had moved from sooty limestone into glass and metal and now occupied four floors in a skyscraper near the World Trade Center.  An interior designer had been paid a million dollars to awe clients with dramatic understatement.  The theme was lavender and burgundy and sea blue, rich stone, smoky glass, brushed metal and dark oak Spiral marble staircases connected the floors, and the library was a three-story atnum with fifty-foot windows offenng a stunning view of New York Harbor. The firm's art collection was appraised at close to fifty million dollars.

Within this combination MOMA and Interior Design centerfold, Conference Room 16-2 was the only one large enough to hold all of the partners of the firm.  This Tuesday morning, though, only two men were sitting here, at the end of a U-shaped conference table surfaced with dark red marble and edged in rosewood.

Amid an aroma of baseboard heat and brewing coffee they together read a single sheet of paper, gazing at it like next of kin identifying a body.

"Lord, I can't believe this." Donald Burdick, the man pinning the sheet to the table, had been the head of the firm's executive committee for the past eight years.  At sixty-seven he was lean and had sleek gray hair trimmed short by a barber who visited Burdick's office fortnightly, the old Italian brought to the firm in the partner's Rolls Royce— "fetched," as Burdick said.

People often described the partner as dapper but this was offered only by those who didn't know him well "Dapper"
suggested weakness and a lack of grit and Donald Burdick was a powerful man, more powerful than his remarkable resemblance to Laurence Olivier and his suede-glove manners suggested.

His was a power that could not be wholly quantified—it was an amalgam of old money and old friends in strategic places and old favors owed.  One aspect of his power, however, did lend itself to calculation the enigmatic formula of partnership interest in Hubbard, White & Willis.  Which was not in fact so mysterious at all if you remembered that the votes you got to cast and the income you took home vaned according to the number of clients you brought to the firm and how much they paid in fees.

Donald Burdick's salary was close to five million dollars a year. (And augmented—often doubled—by a complicated network of other "investments," to use his preferred euphemism. )

"My Lord," he muttered again, pushing the sheet toward William Winston Stanley.  Sixty-five years old, Stanley was stout, ruddy, grim.  You could easily picture him m Pilgrim garb, cheeks puffing out steam on a fngid New England morning as he read an indictment to a witch.

Burdick was Dartmouth and Harvard Law, Stanley had gone to Fordham Law School at night while working in the Hubbard, White mailroom By a crafty mix of charm, blunt-ness and natural brilliance for business he'd fought his way up through a firm of men with addresses (Locust Valley and Westport) as foreign to him as his (Canarsie in Brooklyn) was to them His saving grace among the society-minded partners was membership in an Episcopalian church

Burdick asked, "How can this be accurate?"

Stanley gazed at the list He shrugged.

"How on earth did Clayton do it?"  Burdick muttered.  "How did he get this many in his camp without our hearing?"

Stanley laughed in a thick rasp. "We just have heard."

The names contained on the list had been compiled by one of Burdick's spies—a young partner who was not particularly talented at practicing law but was a whiz kid at getting supposedly secret information out of people at the firm. The list showed how many partners were planning on voting in favor of a proposed merger between Hubbard, White & Willis and a Midtown law firm, a merger that would end the life of Hubbard, White as it then existed, as well as Burdick's control of the firm—and very likely his practice of law on Wall Street altogether.

Until now Burdick and Stanley were convinced that the pro-merger faction, led by a partner named Wendall Clayton, would not have enough votes to ram the deal through. But, if this tally was accurate, it was clear that the rebels probably would succeed.

And the memo contained other information that was just as troubling. At the partnership meeting scheduled for later this morning the pro-merger side was going to try to accelerate the final merger vote to a week from today. Originally it had been planned for next January. Burdick and Stanley had been counting on the month of December to win, or bully, straying partners back into their camp. Moving the vote forward would be disastrous.

Burdick actually felt a sudden urge to break something. His narrow, dry hand snatched up the paper. For a moment it seemed he would crumple it into a tight ball but instead he folded the paper slowly and slipped it into the inside pocket of his trim-fitting suit.

"Well, he's not going to do it," Burdick announced.

"What do we do to stop him?" Stanley barked.

Burdick began to speak then shook his head, rose and, stately as ever, buttoned his suit jacket. He nodded toward the complicated telephone sitting near them on the conference table, which unlike the phones in his office was not regularly swept for microphones. "Lets not talk here. Maybe a stroll in Battery Park. I don't think it's that cold out."

CHAPTER THREE

His eyes were the first thing about him she noticed.

They were alarmingly red, testifying to a lack of sleep, but they were also troubled.

"Come on into the lion's den." Mitchell Reece nodded Taylor Lockwood into his office then swung the door shut. He sat slowly in his black leather chair, the mechanism giving a soft ring.

Lion's den...

"I should tell you right up front," Taylor began, "I've never worked in litigation. I—"

He held up a hand to stop her. "Your experience doesn't really matter. Not for what I have in mind. Your discretion's what's important."

"I've worked on a lot of sensitive deals. I appreciate client confidentiality."

"Good. But this situation requires more than confidentiality. If we were the government I guess we'd call it top secret."

When Taylor was a little girl her favorite books were about exploration and adventure.  The two at the top of her list were the Alice stories — Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass She liked them because the adventures didn't take the heroine to foreign lands or back through history, they were metaphoric journeys through the bizarre side of life around us.

Taylor was now intrigued Lion's den Top secret.

She said, "Go ahead "

"Coffee?"

"Sure.  Just milk, no sugar "

Reece stood up stiffly, as if he'd been sitting in one position for hours.  His office was a mess.  A hundred files — bulging mamla folders and Redwelds stuffed with documents — filled the floor, the credenza, his desk.  Stacks of legal magazines, waiting to be read, filled the spaces between the files.  She smelled food and saw the remains of a take-out Chinese dinner sitting in a greasy bag beside the door.

He stepped into the canteen across the hall and she glanced out, watched him pour two cups.

Taylor studied him the expensive but wrinkled slacks and shirt (there was a pile of new Brooks Brothers' shirts on the credenza behind him, maybe he wore one of these to court if he didn't have time to pick up his laundry).  The tousled dark hair.  The lean physique.  She knew that the trial lawyer, with dark straight hair a touch long to go unnoticed by the more conservative partners, was in his mid-thirties.  He specialized in litigation and had a reputation of his own.  The firm's clients loved him because he won cases, the firm loved him because he ran up huge tabs doing so. (Taylor had heard that he'd once billed twenty-six hours in a single day, working on a flight to L A , he'd taken advantage of the time zones.)

Young associates idolized Reece though they burned out working for him.  Partners were uncomfortable supervising him, the briefs and motion papers he wrote under their names were often way beyond the older lawyers' skills at legal drafting.

Reece also was the driving force behind the firm's probono program, volunteering much of his time to represent indigent clients in criminal cases.

On the personal side, Reece was the trophy of the firm, according to many women paralegals.  He was single and probably straight (the proof wasn't conclusive—a divorce— but the ladies were willing to accept that circumstantial evidence as entirely credible).  He'd had affairs with at least two women at the firm, or so the rumor went.  On the other hand, they lamented, he was your standard Type A workaholic and thus a land mine in the relationship department.  Which, nonetheless, didn't stop most of them from dreaming, if not flirting.

Reece returned to his office and closed the door with his foot, handed her the coffee He sat down.

"Okay, here it is—our client's been robbed," he said.

She asked, "As in what they do to you on the subway or what they do at the IRS?"

"Burglary."

"Really?" Taylor again swallowed the yawn that had been trying to escape and rubbed her own stinging eyes.

"What do you know about banking law?" he asked

"The fee for bounced checks is fifteen dollars."

"That's all?"

"I'm afraid so.  But I'm a fast learner."

Reece said seriously, "I hope so.  Here's your first lesson.  One of the firm's clients is New Amsterdam Bank & Trust.  You ever work for them?"

"No."  She knew about the place, though, it was the firm's largest banking client and had been with Hubbard, White for nearly
a hundred years.  Taylor took a steno pad out of her purse and uncapped a pen.

"Don't write."

"I like to get the facts straight," she said.

"No, don't write," he said bluntly.

"Well, okay" The pad vanished.

Reece continued "Last year the bank loaned two hundred fifty million dollars to a company in Midtown Hanover & Stiver, Inc "

"What do they do?"

"They make things.  I don't know Widgets, baubles, bangles, bright, shiny beads."  Reece shrugged then continued, "Now the first installments of the loan were due six months ago and the company missed the payments.  They go back and forth, the bank and Hanover, but it's pretty clear that the company's never going to pay the money back.  So, under the loan agreement, the whole amount comes due—a quarter-billion dollars."

"What'd they do with the money?"

"Good question.  My feeling is it's still sitting somewhere—hell, they didn't have time to spend that much.  But anyway, what happens at New Amsterdam—our revered client—is this. The economy melts down and the bank's reserves are shrinking.  Now, the government says to all banks, Thou shall have X amount of dollars on hand at all times.  But New Amsterdam doesn't have X amount anymore.  They need more in their reserves or the feds're going to step in.  And the only way to get a big infusion of cash is to get back Hanover's loan.  If they don't, the bank could go under.  And that results in a couple of problems.  First, Amsterdam is Donald Burdick's plum client.  If the bank goes under he will not be a happy person, nor will the firm, because they pay us close to six million a year in fees.  The other problem is that New Amsterdam happens to be a bank with a soul.  They have the largest minority-business lending program in the country.  Now, I'm not a flaming liberal, but you may have heard that one of my pet projects here—"

"The criminal pro bono program."

"Right.  And I've seen firsthand that the one thing that helps improve shitty neighborhoods is to keep businesses in them. So I have a philosophical stake in the outcome of this situation."

"And what exactly is the situation, Mitchell?"

"Earlier in the fall we filed suit against Hanover for the two hundred fifty million plus interest. Now if we can get a judgment fast we can levy against the assets of the company before the other creditors know what hit them.  But if there's a delay in enforcing that judgment the company'll go into bankruptcy, the assets'll disappear and New Amsterdam might just go into receivership."

Taylor tapped the pen on her knee She didn't mean to be projecting the impatience she felt though she knew maybe she was "And the burglary part?"

He replied, "I'm getting to that.  To loan the money the bank made Hanover sign a promissory note—you know, a negotiable instrument that says Hanover promises to pay the money back.  It's like your savings bond."

Not like one of mine, Taylor reflected, considering what theirs was worth.

"Now the trial was set for yesterday I had the case all prepared. There was no way we'd lose."  Reece sighed. "Except when you're going to sue to recover money on a note you have to produce the note in court.  On Saturday the bank couriered the note to me. I put it in the safe there."  He nodded at a big filing cabinet bolted to the floor.  There were two heavy key locks
on the front.

Shocked, Taylor said, "That's what was stolen? The note?"

Reece said in a low voice, "Somebody took it right out of my fucking safe.  Just walked right in and walked out with it."

"You need the original? Can't you use a copy?"

"We could still win the case but not having the note'll delay the trial for months.  I managed to finagle a postponement till next week but the judge won't grant any more extensions."

She nodded at the file cabinet "But when how was it stolen?"

I was here until about three on Sunday morning.  I went home to get some sleep and was back here by nine-thirty that morning.  I almost thought of camping out."  He gestured toward a sleeping bag in the corner "I should have."

"What'd the police say?"

He laughed "No, no No police Burdick'd find out that the note's missing, the client too. The newspapers."  He held her eyes "So I guess you know why I asked you here."

"You want me to find out who took it?"

"Actually, I'd like you to find the note itself.  I don't really care who did it."

She laughed The whole idea was ridiculous "But why me?"

"I can't do it by myself."  Reece leaned back in his chair, the singing metal rang again.  He looked at ease, as if she had already accepted his offer—a bit of haughtiness that irritated her some.  "Whoever took it'll know I can't go to the cops and he'll be anticipating me I need somebody else to help me.  I need you "

"I just—"

"I know about your ski trip. I'm sorry. You'd have to postpone it."

Well, so much for the negotiations, Ms. Strickland.

"Mitchell, I don't know.  I'm flattered you called me but I don't have a clue how to go about it"

"Well, let me just say one thing.  We work with a lot of, you know, private eyes—"

"Sam Spade, sure."

"Actually, no, not Sam Spade at all.  This's what I'm saying. The best detectives're women.  They listen better than men. They're more empathic.  They observe more carefully.  You're smart, popular at the firm and—if we can mix our gender metaphor for a minute—the grapevine here says you've got balls."

"Does it now?"  Taylor asked, frowning and feeling immensely pleased.

"And if you want another reason.  I trust you. "

Trust me? she wondered.  He doesn't even know me.  He— But then she understood.  She smiled.  "And you know I didn't steal it.  I've got an alibi."

Reece nodded unabashedly. "Yep, you were out of town."

She'd gone to Maryland to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with her parents.

Taylor said, "I could've hired somebody."

"I think whoever was behind the theft did hire somebody."  A nod toward the cabinet.  "It's a professional break-in—the burglar picked the lock and, whatever you see in the movies, that ain't easy.  But the point is that you don't have a motive,
and motive is the number one reason somebody becomes a suspect in a crime.  Why would you steal it?  You have a good relationship with everybody at the firm.  You don't need money.  You've applied to law school—three of the best in the
country.  Besides, I just can't imagine Samuel Lockwood's daughter stealing a note."

She felt a troubled jolt that he'd peered so far into her life "Well, I suspect Ted Bundy had upright parents too.  It's just that
this is out of my depth, Mitchell. You need a pro— one of those private eyes you've hired before."

"That wouldn't work," he said bluntly, as if it were obvious "I need somebody with a reason to be here, who won't raise eyebrows. You'll have to poke into a lot of different places at the firm."

Like Alice on the other side of the looking glass.

Still seeing the hesitancy in her face, he added, "It could work out well for you too."  He toyed with his coffee cup.  She lifted an enquiring eyebrow and he continued, "I'm a trial lawyer and I lost my delicacy the first time I ever stood up in court. The fact is if that note doesn't turn up and I lose the case then I'm not going to make partner this year and that just isn't acceptable.  I might even get fired.  But if we can find it and nobody learns about the theft then it's pretty likely I'll make partner here or, if I don't want to stay at Hubbard, White, at some other firm."

"And?" she asked, still not certain where his comments were headed.

"I'll be in a position to make sure you get into whatever law school you want and get you a job when you graduate. I've got contacts everywhere—corporate firms, the government, public welfare law, environmental law firms."

As a paralegal Taylor Lockwood had learned that the engine of law ran on many fuels and that it would seize and burn without the delicate web of contacts and networks and unspoken obligations that Reece was not so subtly referring to.

But she also knew that you could always take a higher path and, with luck, sweat and smarts make your own way in this world. She said stiffly, "I appreciate that, Mitchell, but my undergrad professors're writing me all the letters of recommendation I need"

He blinked and held up a hand "Look, I'm sorry.  That was out of line.  I'm used to dealing with clients who're either crooks or greedy bastards."  A sour laugh . 'And I'm not sure which are my pro bono criminal clients and which are the white-shoe folks we wine and dine at the Downtown Athletic Club."

She nodded, accepting his apology but glad certain ground rules were clear.

Reece looked her over for a moment, as if he suddenly saw her differently.  A faint smile bloomed on his face "I'm kind of like you."

"How do you mean?" she asked.  "I get the sense that you never ask for help." She shrugged.

"I don't either.  Never.  But now I need help and it's hard for me to ask I don't even know how to.  So, let me try again." A boyish laugh. "Will you help me?" he asked in a voice filled with what seemed to be uncharacteristic emotion.

Taylor looked out the window.  The pale sun went behind thick clouds and the sky became as dark as its reflection in the choppy harbor "I love views,' she said "In my apartment, you can see the Empire State Building.  Provided you lean out the bathroom window."

Silence Reece brushed his hair aside then rubbed his eyes with his knuckles The brass clock on his desk ticked softly.

Taylor mentally asked the opinion of Alice, the young girl in the English countryside who decided out of summer boredom to follow a talking white rabbit down its hole to a world very different from her own.  Finally Taylor said to the lawyer, "All right
I frankly don't have a clue what to do but I'll help you."

Reece smiled and leaned forward suddenly then stopped fast.  There's a code of chastity within law firms. Whatever liaisons occurred in hotel rooms or attorneys' beds at home, when you were within the labyrinth of the office, cheeks were not kissed and lip never met lip.  Even embracing was suspect.  Recce's concession to gratitude was taking Taylor's hand in both of his. She smelled a mix of expensive aftershave and sweat in his wake as he sat back.

"So, first of all," she said, "what does it look like?  The note."

"Nothing fancy.  One piece of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper."  He showed her a binder containing a copy of it.

She looked over the undistinguished document then asked, "Tell me what happened and when. "

"The bank messengered the note to me at five in the afternoon on Saturday—they were closed on Sunday and since the trial started at nine on Monday I needed it early to make copies for pleadings.  Well, I locked it in my file cabinet as soon as it came in.  I made the copies about ten or eleven that night, put it back in the cabinet, locked it.  I left at three on Sunday morning I got some sleep, came back around nine-thirty.  I noticed some scratch marks on the lock and opened it up. The note was gone.  I spent the rest of Sunday looking for it.  I appeared in court yesterday, got the continuance for a week from today and then came back here to find somebody to help me."

"Did you see anybody at the firm that night?"

"Not after five or six.  Not a soul.  But I was at my desk practically the whole time."

"Well." She sat back, reflecting. "You mentioned motive. Who has a motive to steal it? You said it was negotiable. Could somebody cash it in?"

"No, nobody in the world'd take paper like that.  Too big and too easily traced. I'm sure it was just to delay the case— to
give Lloyd Hanover a chance to hide his assets."

"Who knew you had it?"

"The messenger didn't know what was in the bag but it was an armed courier service so they'd know it was valuable. At the bank, as far as I know, the only one who knew I took delivery was the vice president who worked on the deal." 

"Could he have been bribed by Hanover?"

Reece said, "Anything's possible, but he's a career officer. Been with the bank for twenty years. I know him personally. He
and his wife live in Locust Valley and they've got plenty of money on their own. Anyway, he's the point man on the deal. If
the bank doesn't collect on this note, he'll be fired."

"Who here knew you were working on the case?" 

Reece laughed. He slid a memo across to her.

From: M. A. Reece

To: Attorneys of Hubbard, White & Willis

Re: Conflicts of Interest

1 am representing our client New Amsterdam Bank & Trust in a lawsuit against Hanover & Stiver, Inc. Please advise if you have ever represented Hanover & Stiver or have any other conflicts of interest involving these companies of which the firm should be aware.

"This is the standard conflicts of interest memo. To let everybody know who we're suing. If any lawyers here have ever represented Hanover we have to drop the case or do a Chinese wall to make sure there was no appearance that we were compromising either client.... So, in answer to your question, everybody here knew what I was doing. And by checking
copies of my correspondence in the file room they could figure out when I'd be receiving the note."

Taylor prodded the conflicts memo with the fork of her fingers.

"What do you know about the executives at Hanover?"

"I've had murderers in the pro bono program who're more upright than the CEO—Lloyd Hanover. He's unadulterated scum. He thinks he's some kind of smooth operator. You know the kind—late fifties, crew-cut, tanned. Has three mistresses.
Wears so much gold jewelry he'd never get through a metal detector."

"That's not a crime," Taylor said.

"No, but his three SEC violations and two RICO and one IRS convictions were."

"Ah."

Taylor glanced out the window: across the street was a wall of office windows, a hundred of them. And beyond that building were others with more office windows, and still more beyond that. Taylor Lockwood was, momentarily, overwhelmed by the challenges they faced. Needles and haystacks... She asked, "Are you sure we're looking for something that still exists?"

"How do you mean?"

"If nobody's going to cash the note why wouldn't they just burn it?"

"Good question. I've thought about that. When I was an assistant U.S. prosecutor—and when I do my criminal defense work now—I always put myself in the mind of the perp. In this case, if the note disappears forever that implies a crime. If it's just misplaced until Hanover's hidden his assets and then it resurfaces, well, that suggests, just legal malpractice on Hubbard, White's part; nobody looks any farther for a bad guy than us. That's why I think the note's still in the firm. Maybe in the file room, maybe stuck in a magazine in a partner's office, maybe behind a copier—wherever the thief hid it.

Thief.... Lockwood felt her first uneasy twinge—not only at the impossibility of the task but that there was potential danger too.

In Wonderland the Queen of Hearts' favonte slogan was "Off with their heads."

She sat back. "I don't know, Mitchell. It seems hopeless. There're a million places the note could be."

"We don't have the facts yet. There's a huge amount of information at the firm about where people have been at various times and what they've been doing. Billing department, payroll, things like that. I guess the first thing I'd do is check the door key entry logs and time sheets to find out who was in the firm on Saturday."

She nodded at the lock. "But we think it was a pro, don't we? Not a lawyer or employee?"

"Still, somebody had to let him in. Either that or they lent him their key card—or one they'd stolen." Reece then took out his wallet and handed her a thousand dollars in hundreds.

She looked at the cash with a funny smile, embarrassed, curious.

"For expenses."

"Expenses." Did he mean bribes? She wasn't going to ask. Taylor held the bills awkwardly for a rnoment then slipped them
into her purse. She noticed a sheet of paper on Recce's desk. It was legal-sized and pale green—the color of corridors in
old hospitals and government buildings. She recognized it as the court calendar the managing attorney of Hubbard, White
circulated throughout the firm daily. It contained a grid of thirty dayS beginning with today. Filling these squares were the
 times and locations of all court appearances scheduled for the firm's litigators. She leaned forward. In the square indicating
one week from today were the words:

New Amsterdam Bank & Trust v. Hanover v. Stiver Jury trial.
Ten a.m. No continuance.

He looked at his watch. "Let's talk again tomorrow. But we should keep our distance when we're at the firm. If anybody
asks tell them you're helping me with some year-end billing problems."

"But who'd ask? Who'd even know?"

He laughed and seemed to consider this a naive comment. "How's the Vista Hotel at nine-thirty?"

"Sure."

"If I call you at home I can leave a message, can't I?"

"I've got an answering machine."

"No, I mean, there won't be anybody else there to pick it up, right? I heard you lived alone."

She hesitated momentarily and said only, "You can leave messages there."

CHAPTER FOUR

"I have a breakfast meeting in half an hour then the partnership meeting for the rest of the morning," Wendall Clayton said
into the phone "Get me the details as soon as possible."

"I'll do what I can, Wendall," Sean Lillick, a young paralegal who worked for Clayton regularly, replied uneasily "But it's,
like, pretty confidential."

" 'Like' confidential. It is confidential or not?"

A sigh from the other end of the phone line "You know what I mean."

The partner muttered, "You meant it is confidential. Well, find out who has the information and aristocratize them. I want the particulars. Which you might just have found out before you called. You'd know I'd want them."

"Sure, Wendall," Lillick said.

The partner dropped the phone into the cradle.

Wendall Clayton was a handsome man.  Not big—under six feet—but solid from running (he didn't jog, he ran) and tennis and skippering the forty-two-foot Ginny May around Newport every other weekend from April through September. He had a thick bundle of professorial hair and he wore European suits, shtless in the back, forgoing the burdened sacks of dark pinstripe that cloaked most of the pear-shaped men of the firm Killer looks, the women in the firm said.  Another three inches and he could have been a model Clayton worked hard at his image, the way nobility worked hard.  A duke had to be handsome.  A duke enjoyed dusting his suits with pig-bristle brushes and getting a radiant glow on his burgundy-colored Bally's.

A duke took great pleasures in the small rituals of fastidiousness.

Aristocratize them.

Sometimes Clayton would write the word in the margin of a memo one of his associates had wntten. Then watch the girl or boy, flustered, trying to pronounce it Ar-is-TOC-ra-tize he'd made up the term himself.  It had to do with attitude mostly.  Much of it was knowing the law, of course, and much was circumstance.

But mostly it was attitude.

Clayton practiced often and he was very good at it.

He hoped Sean Lillick would, in turn, be good at aristo-cratizing some underling in the steno department to get the information he wanted.

By searching through the correspondence files, time sheets and limousine and telephone logs the young paralegal had learned that Donald Burdick had recently attended several very secretive meetings and made a large number of phone calls during firm hours that had not been billed to any clients. This suggested to Clayton that Burdick was plotting something that could jeopardize the merger.  That might not be the case, of course, his dealings could be related to some private business plans that Burdick or his Lucrezia Borgia of a wife, Vera, were involved in.  But Clayton hadn't gotten to his present station in life by assuming that unknown maneuverings of his rivals were benign.

Hence, his sending Lillick off on the new mission to find out the details.

The Tuesday morning light filtered into his office, the corner office, located on the firm's executive row, the seventeenth floor. The room measured twenty-seven by twenty—a size that by rights should have gone to a partner more senior than Clayton. When it fell vacant, however, the room was assigned to him Even Donald Burdick never found out why.

Clayton glanced at the Tiffany nautical clock on his desk Nearly time He rocked back in his chair, his throne, a huge construction of oak and red leather he had bought in England for two thousand pounds.

Aristocratize.

He ordered his secretary to have his car brought around He rose, donned his suit jacket and left the office. The breakfast get-together he was about to attend was perhaps the most important of any meeting he'd been to in the past year. But Clayton didn't go immediately to the waiting car.  Rather, he decided he'd been a bit harsh on ' the young man and wandered down to Lillick's cubicle in the paralegal department to personally thank the young man and tell him a generous bonus would be forthcoming.

"You ever been here, Wendall?" the man across the burnished copper table asked.

When Clayton spoke, however, it was to the captain of the Carleton Hotel on Fifty-ninth Street, off Fifth Avenue "The nova, Frederick?"

"No, Mr. Clayton" The captain shook his head.  "Not today."

"Thanks. I'll have my usual."

"Very good, Mr Clayton."

"Well, that answers my question," John Perelli said with an explosive laugh. "How's the yogurt today, Freddie?"

"That's a joke," Perelli barked "Gimme a bowl. Dry wheat toast and a fruit cup."

"Yessir, Mr Perelli."

Perelli was stocky and dark, with a long face.  He wore a navy pinstripe suit.

Clayton shot his cuffs, revealing eighteen-karat-Wedgwood cuff links, and said, "I feel, in answer to your question, right at home here."

Though this was not completely true Recently Wendall Clayton had been coming to this dining room—where many of Perelli's partners breakfasted and lunched—to make inroads into Midtown. Yet this was not his natural turf, which had always been Wall Street, upper Fifth Avenue, his weekend house in Redding, Connecticut, his ten-room cabin in Newport.

Clayton had a stock portfolio worth around twenty-three million (depending on how the Gods of the Dow were feeling at any particular moment.) Hanging on the oak paneling in his Upper East Side den were a Picasso, three Klees, a Mondnan, a Magntte.  He drove a Jaguar and a Mercedes station wagon.  Yet his wealth was of the hushed, Victorian sort a third
inherited, a third earned at the practice of law (and cautious investment of the proceeds), the rest from his wife.

But here, in Midtown, he was surrounded by a different genre of money. It was loud money.  Acquired from new wellsprings. This money was from media, from advertising, from public relations, from junk bonds, from leveraged buyouts, from alligator spreads and dividend-snatching. Commission money.  Sales money.  Real estate money.  Italian money.  Jewish money. Japanese money.

Claytons wealth was money with cobwebs and therefore it was, ironically, suspect—at least around here.  In this part of town, when it came to wealth the slogan was the more respectable, the less acceptable.

He tried not to give a damn. Yet here Clayton felt as if he were "without passport," the phrase whose acronym gave rise to the derisive term for Italians. Wendall Clayton in Midtown was an immigrant in steerage.

"So why the call, Wendall?" Perelli asked.

Clayton replied, "We need to move faster. I'm trying to accelerate the vote on the merger."

"Faster? Why?"

"The natives are restless."

Perelli barked, "What does that mean? I don't know what it means. That your people wanta go forward or that Burdick and his cromes're trying to fuck the deal?"

"A little bit of both."

"What's Donald doing? Setting up an office in DC and London to goose up your operating expense?"

"Something like that I'm finding out," Clayton conceded with a nod.

The waiter set the plates on the table Clayton hunched over the soft mounds of eggs and ate hungrily, cutting the food into
small bites.

Perelli waited until the server was gone then examined Clayton carefully and said, "We want this to work. We've got labor clients we can parlay into your SEC base. We've got products liability cases that are gold mines. You've got corporate people and litigators who'd be a natural fit. Obviously we want your banking department and you want our real estate group. It's made in heaven, Wendall. What's Burdick's problem?"

"Old school.  I don't know"

"The fact we've got Jewish partners? The fact we have Eye-tahan partners?"

"Probably."

"But there's more to it, right?" the keen-eyed Perelli asked "Cut the crap, Wendall.  You've got an agenda that's scaring the
shit out of Burdick and his boys. What?"

Okay, Clayton thought. This is it. He reached into his jacket and handed Perelli a piece of paper.

Perelli read then looked up questiomngly "A hit list?" Clayton tapped the paper dramatically. "Yep. That's who I want out within a year after the merger. "

"There are—what?—twenty-five names here?" Perelli read "Burdick, Bill Stanley, Woody Crenshaw, Lamar Fredencks, Ralph Dudley Wendall, these men are Hubbard, White & Willis. They've been there for decades."

"They're deadwood, has-beens. This is the last piece of the deal, John.  For the merger to work they have to go." Perelli chewed some of his toast and washed it down with coffee "You said you wanted to accelerate the merger." He waved at the paper "But if you're asking us to agree to this it'll only slow things up. I've got to run these names by the management committee. We'll have to review each one of their partnership contracts. Christ, they're all over forty-five. You know the kind of trouble they could make in court for us?"

Clayton laughed with genuine amusement "John, with my connections you really think the EEOC would be a problem?"

"All right, maybe not. But these're still dangerous men."

"And they're the ones who're bleeding the firm dry.  They have to go.  If we want to the firm to succeed they have to go."
He pushed aside his empty plate "A week, John.  I want the merger papers signed in a week."

"Impossible."

"Considering that you might have to move slightly more quickly," Clayton said, "we would be willing to alter our partnership share price."

"You—"

"If we ink the deal next week, Hubbard, White and Willis is willing to reduce our first-year share take by eight percent."

"Are you out of your fucking mind? You're talking millions of dollars, Wendall."

"Thirteen million dollars."

This meant that the Hubbard, White and Willis partners would in effect give the incoming partners a huge bonus simply for expediting the deal—and for ousting Burdick and his cronies.

Clayton continued, "We'll claim it has to be done by year end for tax reasons. That'll be our excuse. "

"Just tell me.  If I insisted that Burdick stay for, say, five years, would you still be willing to proceed?"

Clayton signed his name to the check He offered no credit card.

"Let me tell you something, John.  Twenty years ago Donald Burdick was asked by the President to head a special committee looking into abuses in the steel industry."

"The Justice Department was involved I heard about that."

"Burdick was picked because he was known in both Albany and Washington. The executive committee at Hubbard, White—
it was called a steering committee then—was ecstatic.  Publicity for the firm, a chance for Burdick to do some serious stroking on the Hill.  Afterward, a triumphant return.  Well, Donald Burdick told the committee he'd accept the appointment on one condition.  That when he returned he and a man of his choosing would be placed on the executive committee and three particular partners would be asked to leave the firm.  Now, John, that was at a time when law firms did not fire partners.  It simply was not done."

"And?"

"Three months later, a memo went around the office congratulating three partners who were unexpectedly leaving Hubbard, White and starting their own firm." Clayton pushed back from the table "The answer to your question is this. The only way the deal works is without Burdick and everyone else on that list. That's the quid pro quo. What do you say?"

"You really fucking want this, don't you?"

"Deal?" Clayton asked, sticking out his hand.

Perelli hesitated for a moment before pronouncing, "Deal," and shaking Clayton's hand but the delay was merely because he had to swallow the piece of bacon he'd snuck off Clayton's plate and wipe his fingers.

*  *  *

Who are these men and women?

What do I know about them other than the baldest facts of their wealth, their brilliance, their aspirations?

In the back of the massive sixteenth-floor conference room Donald Burdick heard the grandfather clock chime and begin its ringing climb toward HAM. The partners were arriving.  Most carried foolscap pads or stacks of files and their ubiquitous leather personal calendars.

Over the years I've seen men like this, women now too,display stubbornness and brutality and brilliance and cruelty.

And generosity and sacrifice.

But those are the mere manifestations of their souls, what's truly in their hearts?

The partners took their places around the table in the dark conference room.  Some, the less confident, the younger ones, examined the dings in the rosewood and traced the pattern of the marble with their fingers and eyes and made overly loud comments about their Thanksgivings and about football games.  They wore jackets with their suits. Others, the veterans, were in shirtsleeves and had no time for chatter or the admmistnvia of meetings like this. They appeared inconvenienced.  And why shouldn't they?  Isn't the point of a law firm, after all, to practice law?

They're my partners but how many are my friends?

Donald Burdick, sitting at the apogee of the table, however, understood that this was a pointless question. The real one was How many of my friends will stab me in the back?  If the tally that Bill Stanley had showed him earlier was accurate the
answer to this question was one hell of a lot.

To Stanley, Burdick whispered, "Nearly fifteen'll be missing.  That could swing it one way or another."

"They're dead," Stanley replied in a growl "And we'll never find the bodies."

Wendall Clayton entered the room and took a seat in the middle of one leg of the U.  He wasn't particularly far away from Burdick and not particularly close.  He busied himself jotting notes and, smiling, chatting with the partner next to him.

At eleven-fifteen Burdick nodded for a partner to close the door.  The lock mechanism gave a solid click It seemed to
Burdick that the pressure in the room changed and that they were sealed in, as if this were a chamber in the Great Pyramid.

Donald Burdick called the meeting to order.  Minutes were read and not listened to, a brief report from the executive committee on staff overtime went ignored Committee reports were recited at breakneck speed, with uncharacteristically
few interruptions and little debate.

"Do you want to hear about the hiring committee's schedule?" asked a sanguine young partner, who had probably stayed up half the night to prepare it.

"I think we'll postpone that one," Burdick said evenly, and—seeing several partners smile—realized that the royal pronoun
was an unfortunate slip.

There was silence in the room, punctuated by the popping of soda cans and papers being organized.  Dozens of pens made graffiti on legal pads Burdick studied the agenda for a moment and then it was time for Wendall Clayton to make his move.
He slipped his suit jacket off, opened a file and said, "May I have the floor?"

Burdick nodded in his direction.  In a rehearsed baritone Wendall Clayton said, "I'd like to make a motion relevant to the proposed merger of our firm with Sullivan & Perelli."

Burdick shrugged "You have the floor."

Sipping had stopped.  Doodling had stopped.  Some partners—like the aging, oblivious Ralph Dudley—were confused because the final vote on the merger wasn't scheduled until January.  They were terrified that they might have to make a decision without someone's telling them what to do.

"I'm moving to change the date of the ratification vote regarding the merger to November 28, one week from today."

Clayton's trim young protege, Randy Simms III, whom Burdick detested, said quickly, "Second."

There was complete silence.  And Burdick was mildly surprised that Clayton's bid caught some people off guard.  But then Burdick and his wife were rumored to have the best intelligence sources on Wall Street and were often one step ahead of everybody else.

One voice called, "Can we discuss it?"

"The rules of order allow for debate," Clayton said.

And debate ensued Clayton was clearly prepared for it.  He met every objection, making a good case for the acceleration—
the year-end tax planning, for instance, hinting that the merger would put significant money into the pockets of all the partners and that they needed to know before December 31 how much this might be.

More voices joined in and a tide of comments and tension-breaking laughter filled the room.

Clayton managed to insert into the discussion a comment on Sullivan & Perelli's income cap on the executive committee partners.  Burdick observed that this was irrelevant to the immediate motion under consideration but would not go unnoticed
by the younger, poorer partners.  The gist of the comment was that after the merger the senior partners could earn no more than two million a year, leaving that much more to be distributed to the rest of the partners Hubbard, White & Willis currently had no such cap, which was the reason that five partners on the executive committee—such as Burdick and Stanley—earned 18 percent of the firm's income and junior partners often earned less than they did as salaried associates.

"What is the cap?" one partner, obviously impressed, asked.

Goddamn socialism, Burdick thought, then he interrupted the youngster to say bluntly, "We're not here now to discuss the substantive issue of the merger.  It's merely a procedural matter on when the vote should be.  And my opinion is that it's impossible to review the material in one week. We need until January."

"Well, Donald," Clayton pointed out, "you've had everything for two weeks already.  And I'd imagine you, like all the rest
of us, read it as soon as they messengered the binders to us from Perelli & Sullivan."

He had read it, of course, and so had the team of lawyers he and Vera had hired.

A new partner at the end of the table made a comment "I don't think we can debate this too much.  It's not inappropriate to
talk about the substance of the merger now, I think." His dialect put him within five minutes of the Charles River.

"Yes, it is inappropriate," Burdick said shortly, silencing him.  Then to Clayton "Go ahead with your vote It makes no sense
to me but if two thirds of the partners are in favor—"

Clayton gave a very minuscule frown "A simple majority Donald."

Burdick shook his head.  A trace of confusion now crossed his face "Majority?  No, Wendall, I don't think so.  The issue is
the merger of the firm and that requires a vote of two thirds."

Clayton said, "No, we'd be voting simply on establishing an agenda and timetable.  Under the partnership rules, Donald, that requires only a simple majority."

Burdick was patient "Yes, but it's an agenda and timetable that pertain to a merger."

Each of the two partners pulled out a copy of the partnership documents, like dueling knights drawing swords.

"Section fourteen, paragraph four, subparagraph d" Clayton said this as if reading from the tome though everyone knew he'd memorized it long ago.

Burdick continued reading for a few moments "It's ambiguous.  But I won't make an issue of it.  We'll be here all day at this
rate.  And I, for one, have some work to do for clients."

The senior partner knew, of course, that Clayton was absolutely correct about the majority vote on this matter.
However, it had been vitally important to make clear to everyone in the room exactly where Burdick stood on the merger—how adamantly against it he was.

"Go ahead," Burdick said to Stanley.

As the rotund partner growled off names, Burdick sat calmly, pretending to edit a letter though he was keeping a perfect
tally in his head of the fors and againsts.

Distraction on his face, agony in his heart, Burdick added them up.  His mood slipped from cautious to alarmed to despairing. Clayton prevailed—and by almost a two-thirds majority, the magic percentage needed to win the entire war.

The list Stanley had shown Burdick earlier was not accurate.  Clayton was stronger than they'd thought.

Clayton looked at Burdick, studying his opponent from behind the emotionless guise of the great.  His gold pen danced on a pad. "If anyone needs any information from Perelli—to make a better-informed decision next week— just let me know."

Burdick said, "Thank you, Wendall I appreciate the time you've spent on the matter." Looking around the room—at both his supporters and his Judases—with as neutral a face as he could muster, he added, "Now, any more issues we ought to discuss?"

CHAPTER FIVE

"Dimitri." Taylor Lockwood's voice was a whisper "Don't say 'satin touch' tonight.  Please."

"Hey, come on," the man replied in a deep Greek-accented voice, "the guys in the audience, they like it."

"It's embarrassing."

"It's sexy," he replied petulantly.

"No, it's not, and all it does is get me moony looks from the lechers."

"Hey, they like to fantasize.  So do I.  You got the lights?"

She sighed and said, "Yeah, I got the lights."

From the amplifier his voice filled the bar "Ladies and gentlemen, Miracles Pub is pleased to bring you the silky and oh-so-smooth satin touch of Taylor Lockwood on the keys.  A warm round of applause please.  And don't forget to ask
your waitress about the Miracles menu of exotic drinks."

Oh-so-smooth satin touch?

Taylor clicked the switch that turned the house lights down and ignited the two overhead spots trained on her Dimitri had
made the spotlights himself—pineapple cans painted black.

Smiling at them all, even the moony lechers, she began to play Gershwin on the battered Baldwin baby grand.

It wasn't a bad gig. The temperamental owner of the club in the West Village—a lech himself—had figured that an attractive woman jazz pianist would help sell bad food, so he'd hired her for Tuesday nights, subject only to sporadic preemption by Dimitri's son-in-law's balalaika orchestra.

With her day job at the firm and this gig, Taylor had found a type of harmony in her life.  Music was her pure sensual love,
her paralegal job gave her the pleasures of intellect, organization, function. She sometimes felt like those men with two wives who know nothing of the other.  Maybe someday she'd get nailed but so far the secret was safe.

A half hour later Taylor was doing the bridge to "Anything Goes" when the front door swung open with its familiar D to B-flat squeak.  The woman who entered was in her mid-twenties, with a round, sweet, big-sister face framed by hair pulled back in
a ponytail.  She wore a sweater decorated with reindeer, black ski pants and, on her petite, out-turned feet, Top-Siders.  She smiled nervously and waved broadly to Taylor then stopped suddenly, afraid of disrupting the show.

Taylor nodded back and finished the tune Then she announced a break and sat down.

"Carrie, thanks for coming."

The young girl's eyes sparkled "You are so good.  I didn't know you were a musician.  Where did you study? Like, Juilhard?"

Taylor sipped her Seagrams and soda "Juilhard?  Try Mrs Cuikova's.  A famous music school Freddy Bigelow went there. And Bunny Grundel."

"I never heard of them."

"Nobody has. We were all in the same grade school.  We'd go to Frau Cuikova's in Glen Cove every Tuesday and Thursday at four to be abused about arpeggios and finger position."

Several men m the audience were restless, about to make their moves, so Taylor did the lech maneuver—positioning her
chair with her back to them—and turned her whole attention to Carrie.

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 secunty 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?" Dimitn called from behind the bar in a singsongy voice.

"Brother." Taylor grimaced "Gotta go pay the rent," she said and climbed back under Dimitn'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 nght 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.

"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, ozonehke 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 3AM, 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 drinnk and felt uncharacteristically out of control. Veronica was easier to handle.  He wondered how to get back in the drivers 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—drapenes 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, White & 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 fistfights on the streets and in the vanous 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 Recce's office and, listening carefully for footsteps, checked the receiver of Recce'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 checked the battery and found it was still good.

When he was finished he spent another three or four minutes arranging the drapes so they looked nice.  This was, after all, his purported job.

He peeled off the gloves and walked out into the halls, which greeted him once again with their silence and their real, or imagined, disdain.

"I suffer from the fallacy of the beautiful woman "The Lincoln Town Car limo crashed through the meatpacking district in the western part of Greenwich Village, near the river Taylor leaned sideways to hear Thom Sebastian over the crackly sound of
the talk show on the driver's AM radio.

He continued, "Which is this that because a woman is attractive she can do no wrong. You think, Christ, the way she lights a cigarette is the nght way, the restaurants she picks are the right restaurants, the way she fakes an orgasm—pardon my French—is the right way so I must be doing something wrong.  For instance, we're now on our way to Meg's.  The club.
You know it?" 

"Absolutely no idea ."

"There, my point exactly. I'm thinking Jesus, I'm doing something wrong. Taylor is a primo woman but she doesn't know about this club. I've fucked up. I've got it wrong " Taylor smirked. "Does this usually work?" Sebastian paused then slouched back
in the cab seat and lit a cigarette "What?"

"That line? The one you're using on me now?" Sebastian waited a few more seconds and must've decided there'd be no recovery from her busting him "You'd be surprised at some of the lines I've gotten away with." He laughed. "The thing is women suffer from the fallacy of the man who knows what he's doing. We never do, of course " He gave her what might
pass for a sincere glance and said, "I like you."

They pulled up in front of nothing.  A row of warehouses and small factories, not a streetlight in sight, only the distant aurora borealis of industrial Jersey across the Hudson River.

"Welcome to my main club "

"Here?"

"Yep. I'm here six, seven nights a week."

Sebastian led them through an unguarded, unmarked door into what looked like a Victorian bordello. The walls were covered with dark tapestry. The tables were marble and brass Oak columns and sideboards were draped with tooling and floral chintz Tiffanyesque lamps were everywhere. The uniform for men was tuxedo or Italian suits, for the women, dark, close-fitting dresses with necklines that required pure willpower to keep nipples hidden. The rooms were chockablock with high-level celebs and politicos, the sort that regularly make New York magazine and Liz Smith's columns.

Sebastian whispered, "The three little piggies," and pointed out a trio of hip young novelists whom a Times critic had just vivisected en masse in an article called "Id as Art The Care and Feeding of Self-Indulgence." Skinny women hovered around the threesome. Sebastian eyed the women with dismay and said, "Why are they wasting time with those dudes? Didn't they
see the article?"

Taylor said dryly, "You assume they can read." And bumped into Richard Gere. He glanced at her with a polite acknowledgment, apologized and continued on.

"Oh my God " She gasped, staring at the man's broad back "He's here."

"Yes," Sebastian said, bored "And so are we."

The music wasn't as loud as at the previous club and the pace was less frantic Sebastian waved to some people.

"What're you drinking?" he asked.

"Stick with R&C."

They sipped their drinks for a few minutes Sebastian leaned over again and asked, "What's your biggest passion?  After handsome men like me, I mean."

"Skiing, I guess " Taylor was circumspect about telling people her second career—the music—and was particularly reluctant
to give a robbery suspect too much information about herself.

"Skiing? Sliding down a mountain, getting wet and cold and breaking bones, is that it?"

"Breaking bones is optional."

"I did some exercise once," Sebastian said, shaking his head "I got over it. I'm okay now."

She laughed and studied him in the mirror. The lawyer didn't look good. His eyes were puffy and red. He blew his nose often
and his posture was terrible. The coke and whatever other drugs he was doing were taking their toll. He seemed deflated as
he hunched over his dnnk, sucking his cocktail through the thin brown straw. Suddenly he straightened, slipped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her hair "Does anyone ever get lost in there?"

She kept the smile on her face but didn't lean into him. She said evenly, "It's true that I had date failure tonight. But I still do things the old-fashioned way. Real slow." She eased away and looked at him. "Just want the ground rules understood."

He left his arm where it was for a noncommittal ten seconds, then dropped it "Fair enough," he said with a tone that suggested all rights reserved.

"You go out a lot?" she asked.

"Work hard and play hard. By the time I burn out at forty-five " His voice faded and he was looking at her expectantly.

Tap, tap, tap.

She saw his hand swinging against the bar. A brown vial.

"You want to retire to the facilities with me? Build strong bodies twelve ways?"

"Not me I have to keep in shape for breaking bones."

He blinked, surprised "Yeah? You sure?"

"Never touch the stuff."

He laughed. Then put the bottle away.

Just then another man appeared from the crowd and walked up to Sebastian though his attention seemed fixed on Taylor. He resembled Sebastian some but was thinner, shorter, a few years younger. He wore a conservative gray suit but bright red sunglasses, from which a green cord hooked to the earpieces dangled down the back of his neck.

She noted Sebastians surprise when the young man approached.

Sebastian said, "Hey, Taylor, meet my main man, Bosk Hey, Bosk, Taylor." They shook hands.

"Will you marry me?" Bosk asked her in a slurred voice. He'd had a great deal to drink and she knew that beneath the silly Elton John sunglasses his eyes would be unfocused.

"Oh, gosh," she answered brightly, "I can't tonight."

"Story of my life " He turned back to Sebastian "Hey, you never fucking called me back. We've gotta talk. He called and wanted to know where—"

Bosk suddenly fell silent and as Taylor reached for her drink she observed in the mirror behind the bar two very subtle gestures by Sebastian, a nod toward her and a wag of his finger, whose only possible meaning was that the topic Bosk was raising was not to be discussed in front of her.

Bosk recovered, though not very well, by saying, "What it is, I've still got some room on that New Jersey project if you're interested."

"How leveraged?"

Bosk said, "We'll need to come up with probably six five."

"No fucking way." Sebastian laughed.

"Sea Bass, come on."

"Three eight was the top, dumbo. I'm not going over three eight."

These figures might have referred to percentages or shares of stock or money, in which case, considering that the context was New York metro area business or real estate, they might be talking about hundreds of thousands or even millions of dollars.

And Alice thought Wonderland was topsy-turvy.

"Don't be such a fucking wuss," Bosk muttered drunkenly.  Studying Taylor.

Sebastian gnnned and grabbed Bosk, swung him into a neck lock then rapped him on the head.

Bosk broke away and shouted, laughing, "You're a fucking cow chip, you know that?" He replaced his gaudy sunglasses.
"Hey, you want to come out to Long Island for dinner on Friday? My mother'll be out with her cook. Bunch of the gang. Brittany said she, like, forgives you for not calling."

An electronic pocket calendar appeared in Sebastian's pudgy hand. He studied it "Can do, dude," he said at last. They slapped palms and Bosk vanished.

"Primo guy," Sebastian said.

"He's a lawyer?"

"Among other things. We go way back. We're doing some projects together."

Projects as vague a euphemism as there was.

"Like real estate?"  Taylor asked.

"Yeah."  But she heard a lie in his voice.

Taylor turned back to her drink "I'd like to do some investing. But I got one problem. No money."

"Why's that a problem?" Sebastian said, frowning, genuinely perplexed. "You never use your own money. Use somebody else's.  It's the only way to invest."

"Hubbard, White lets you work on your own? Don't you have to clear it with somebody?"

Sebastian laughed, a sharp exhalation of bitterness that surprised her. "We aren't on such good terms lately, Messrs Hubbard, White and Willis and myself." He apparently decided to drop the fast-lane image. Deflated, he sighed and muttered, "They passed me over for partner." His lips tightened into a bleak smile and she got what she thought was her first real look at Thorn Sebastian.

"I'm sorry" Taylor knew that this would have been a devastating blow to him. Partnership was the golden ring young associates strived for. They worked sixty or seventy hours a week for years for the chance to be asked to join the firm as one of the partners—the owners.

Taylor, on the trail of a thief, after all, sensed he might be revealing a motive to lift the promissory note—revenge—and wanted him to keep talking.  She said, "Must've been tough."

"After they told me, I tried to convince myself I didn't really want to be partner. I mean, Christ, you can make more money at real estate or investment banking I said, Fuck it. Who needs them? It's just a bunch of old men. Well, that's what I told myself. But, damn, I wanted it bad I've worked all my professional life to get my name on the letterhead of Hubbard, White & Willis And this is what they do to me."

"Did they tell you why?"

His pale jaw, round with fat, trembled. "Bullshit I mean, finances was what they said 'Effecting economies,' if I may quote. But that wasn't the reason." He turned to her and said, "See, I don't fit the Hubbard, White mold "

"What's the mold?"

"Ha, that's the catch. They can't tell you, they just know whether you've got it or not. And that prick Clayton didn't think I had it."

"Wendall Clayton? What did he have to do with it?"

"I'm not one of his chosen few. Most of the partnership slots this year got filled with his boys and girls. Look at that asshole Randy Simms. "

She had a vague memory of a young, square-jawed blond partner.

"Randy Simms III," Sebastian spat out "The 'third,'" he mused bitterly "But, hey, he's gotta be the end of that family line though I'm sure the guy doesn't have a dick."

"But Clayton's not even on the executive committee," Taylor said.

He laughed "What difference does that make? He's got ten times more power than Burdick or Stanley think. He's going to ramrod the merger through. "

"The merger?" she said "That's just a rumor. It's been going around for months. "

Sebastian looked at her and detected no irony. He snorted "Just a rumor? You think that, then you don't know Wendall Clayton. Two months from now, you won't be able to recognize our firm."  His voice dwindled "I should say, your firm. Ain't mine no more."

"What're you going to do?"

He was about to say something but grew cautious. She could sense he was selecting his words carefully "Oh, I'll get a new job Probably go in-house, become chief general counsel for a client. That's what happens to most senior associates after they cut your balls off."

Okay, Taylor told herself. Go for it.

"Then why're you working so hard?" she asked "If I got passed over I sure wouldn't be working holiday weekends."

A brief hesitation "Weekends?" he asked.

"Yeah, you were in the firm on Sunday morning, weren't you?"

He took a long sip of his drink then said, "Me?  No I was here all night I left about three, when they were getting ready to
close."

She frowned "That's funny I was doing some billing for who was it?  I don't remember. Anyway, I saw your key card number. You came in real early on Sunday." He looked at her for a long moment. His face was completely blank but she sensed that his thoughts were grinding hard and fast.  Then he nodded in understanding "Ralph Dudley," he said angrily.

"Dudley? The old partner?"

"Yeah, Grandpa. Yesterday he dropped my key off in my office. He said I left it in the library and he'd picked it up by mistake on Friday.  He must've used it on Sunday."

She couldn't tell whether to believe him or not.

Agitated at this news, Sebastian fished in his pocket and found the little vial.  He held it up "You sure?" She shook her head
and he looked toward the men's room "Excusez-moi."

After he disappeared, Taylor motioned the bartender over to her and said, "You working last Saturday night?"

He normally didn't get questions like this. He polished glasses But finally he said, "Yeah."

"Was Thorn in here from one to three or so on Sunday morning?"

"I don't remember."

She slid two twenties toward him furtively. He blinked. This only happened in movies and the man seemed to be considering how his favorite actor would handle it. The bills disappeared into tight black jeans. "No He left around one—without a girl. That never happens If he's by himself usually he closes the place. He's even slept here a couple times."

When Sebastian returned he took Taylor's purse and slipped it around her—over one shoulder and under the other arm, the way paranoid tourists do "Come on. I'm wound, I'm flying like a bird I gotta dance."

"But—"

He pulled her onto the small floor. After fifteen minutes, her hair was down, streaming in thick, sweaty tangles. Her toes were on fire, her calves ached. Sebastian kept jerking away in time to the reggae beat, eyes closed, lost in the catharsis of the motion and music and the coke Taylor collapsed on his shoulder. "Enough."

"I thought you were a skier."

"Exhausted." She was gasping.

His brow arched and the surprise in his eyes was genuine. "But we haven't eaten yet."

Taylor said, "It's one A.M. I've been up for nearly twenty-four hours."

"Time for penne!"

"But—"

"Come on. One plate of darling little squigglies of pasta in alfredo sauce with cilantro and basil, one teeny endive salad, one bottle of Mersault."

Taylor was weakening.

"Belgium endive? " Then he lowered his head. "Okay."

Sebastian the negotiator was now speaking "How's this for a deal?  We have dinner and you can tell me about the Pine
Breath Inn in Vermont or wherever the hell it is you ski and we'll call it a night. Or I can take you home now and you'll
have to fight off my frontal assault at your door. Few women have been able to resist."

"Thom—"

"I take no prisoners."

She lowered her head on his shoulder then straightened up, smiling. "Does this place have spaghetti and meat balls with thick red sauce, a la Ragu?"

"I'll never be able to show my face there again But if you want it I'll force the chef to make it."

She sighed, took his arm and together they made their way toward the door.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The alarm clock wailed like a smoke detector.

Taylor Lockwood opened one eye. Was this the worst headache of her life? she wondered.

She lay still for five minutes while the votes rolled in. Yes, no?

Sitting up decided the contest—a clear victory for the pain. She slammed her palm down on the alarm then scooted gingerly
to the edge of the bed. She still wore her panty hose and bra, the elastic bands had cut deep purple lines into her skin and she was momentarily concerned that she'd have permanent discolorations.

Oh, man, I feel lousy.

Taylor's one-bedroom apartment was small and dark. It was located in the Fifth Avenue Hotel, a dark, Gothic building distinguished only by the prestige of the street it was located on and its reputation for being the place that New York's Judge Crater was supposedly on his way to when he disappeared seventy years before—still an open case on the NYPD books.

Her parents had offered to send her whatever furniture she wanted from their eight-bedroom house in Chevy Chase or from one of their summer homes but Taylor had wanted this apartment to be exclusively hers. It was furnished post-collegiate—Conran's, Crate & Barrel, Pottery Barn.  A lot of fake stone, Formica, black and white plastic A huge
pillow sofa Canvas chairs that, looked at straight on, seemed to be grinning. A number of interesting pieces from the Twenty-sixth Street flea market on Sixth Avenue.

The bedroom was the homiest room in the place, decorated with lace tulle, art deco lamps and old furniture—battered but loaded with personality—a hundred books, souvenirs from the trips young Taylor took to Europe with her parents.

On the wall was a large poster—one of Arthur Rackham's sepia illustrations of Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

The picture wasn't like the Disney cartoon or the original Sir John Tenniel drawings but was a masterful work by the brilliant artist. It showed an alarmed Alice lifting her hands to protect herself as the Red Queen's playing card soldiers flew into the air.

    The caption read:

At this the whole pack rose up into the air,
and came flying down upon her.

The framed poster had been a graduation present from her roommates at Dartmouth. Taylor loved the Carroll books, and
Alice memorabilia were sure bets as birthday and Chnstmas presents. There were many other Wonderland and Through
the Looking-Glass artifacts throughout her apartment.

Taylor sent her tongue around her parched mouth, she didn't enjoy the trip. She staggered into the bathroom, where she downed two glasses of water and brushed her teeth twice. She squinted at the clock Let's see, Sebastian had dropped her
off at about four. Do the math Okay, we're talking about three and a half hours' sleep.

And, more troubling, it turned out that she'd largely wasted her time Thorn Sebastian had denied being in the firm on Saturday
or Sunday and had remained tight-lipped about his dealings with Bosk though he'd continued to talk bitterly about the firm's decision to pass him over. He'd had no response when she'd casually mentioned Hanover & Stiver, Inc.

She kneaded her belly, which swelled slightly over the top of her panties, recalling that there were a hundred fifty calories in each cocktail.  She squeezed her temples Her vision swam.

A blinking red light across the room coincided with the throbbing in her head It was her answering machine, indicating a message from last night She hit the play button, thinking it might be a call from Mitchell Reece, remembering his asking her
if it was okay to call her at home.

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 "Thorn 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 Recce'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 1 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 Ian."

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 fingers 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 &r 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 1 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 corndor—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 partners 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 Dudleys scuffed leather date book, opened to the present week.

She noticed the letters WS penned into the box for late Saturday evening or early Sunday morning, just before the time Dudley—if Sebastian was right—had used the associates key to get into the firm.

The initials WS were also, she observed, wntten in the 10 PM 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.

"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 Secunty 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 Thorn 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 secunty man—the company technical and forensic expert.

"You've got to be unobstrasive 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 startingly 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 m 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."

"Scotland 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 alummum-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 rum 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. "

"Now," she said, "just speaking theoretically, could someone like me take fingerprints?'

"If you practiced, sure. But could you testify that pnnts A and B were the same? No way. Could you even tell if they were
the same or different? Not easy, mama, not at all.  They squoosh out, they move, they splot.  They look different when they're the same, they look identical except for some little significant difference you miss. No, it isn't easy. Fingerprinting is an art "

"How 'bout a machine, or something? A computer?"

"The police use them, sure. The FBI. But not private citizens. Say, Ms Lockwood?"

"Taylor," she prompted.

"Perhaps if you told me exactly what your problem is I could offer some specific solutions. "

"It's somewhat sensitive. "

"It always is. That's why companies like us exist. "

"Best to keep mum for the time being. "

"Understood. Just let me know if you'd like another lesson. Though I do recommend keeping in mind the experts." He grew serious and the charming banter vanished "Should the matter become, let's say, more than sensitive — a lot of our people
here have carry permits."

" 'Carry'?"

"They're licensed to carry weapons."

"Oh," she said in a soft voice.

"Just something to think about. "

"Thanks, John " Then she said, "I do have one question. "

The hand in which a basketball would look so at home rose and a finger pointed skyward "Allow me to deduce. The inquiry
is 'Where you can get a Dick Tracy fingerprint kit?" Before she answered yes, he was writing an address on the back of his business card. "It's a police equipment supply house .You can buy anything but weapons and shields there. "

"Shields?"

"Badges, you know. Those you can buy — one can buy — in Times Square arcades for about ten bucks. But you're not supposed to. Oh, not to be forward, but I did happen to write my home phone number on the back of the card. In case any questions occur to you after hours, say."

She decided she liked this guy "This's been fascinating, John. Thank you. " She stood and he escorted her toward the
elevator, pointing out a glass case containing a collection of blackjacks and saps.

"Oh, and Miss Lockwood? Taylor?"

"Yes?"

"Before you leave I was just wondering. Would you like to hear the lecture I give to our new employees on the laws against breaking and entering and invading privacy?"

Taylor said, "No, I don't believe I would. "

*  *  *

She'll be moody today.

Ralph Dudley sat in his creaky office chair. The nape of his neck eased into the tall leather back and he stared at the thin slice
of sky next to the brick wall outside his window. Gray sky, gray water. November.

Yes, Junie would be in one of her moods.

It was a talent, this intuition of his. Whereas Donald Burdick, to whom he constantly—obsessively—compared himself, was brilliant, Ralph Dudley was intuitive. He charmed clients, he told them jokes appropriate to their age, gender and background, he listened sympathetically to their tales of sorrow at infidelities and deaths and to their stones of joy at grandchildren's births. He told war stones of his courtroom victories with a dramatic pacing that only fiction—which they were, of course—permits. With his patented vestigial bow Dudley could charm the daylights out of the wives of clients and potential clients.

He had sense and feeling while Burdick had reason and logic.

And, sure enough, he was now right.  Here came fifteen-year-old Junie, a sour look on her face, trooping sullenly into his
office, ignoring the woman from the word processing pool who was handling a typing job for him.

The girl stopped in the doorway, a hip-cocked stance, unsmiling.

"Come on in, honey," Dudley said "I'm almost finished."

She wore a jumper, white blouse and white stockings.  A large blue bow was in her hair. She gave him a formal kiss on the cheek and plopped into one of his visitor's chairs, swinging her legs over the side.

"Sit like a lady, now."

She waited a defiant thirty seconds then slipped on her Walkman headset and swiveled slowly m the chair, planting her feet on the lime-green carpet.

Dudley laughed.  He picked up the handle of his dictating machine. "Look, I've got one, too — a recorder. "

She looked perplexed and he realized she couldn't hear what he was saying (and would probably have thought his joke was idiotic if she'd been able to.)  But Dudley had learned not to be hurt by the girl's behavior and he unemotionally proceeded to dictate a memo that gave the gist of some rules of law he believed he remembered.  At the end of the tape he included instructions to Todd Stanton, his associate at the firm, who would rewrite the memo and look up the law Dudley hoped existed to support his points.

Ralph Dudley knew they sometimes laughed at him, the young associates here.  He never raised his voice, he never criticized, he was solicitous toward them.  He supposed the young men (Dudley had never quite come to terms with the idea of women lawyers) held him in all the more contempt for this obsequiousness.  There were a few loyal boys, like Todd, but on the whole no one had much time for Old Man Dudley.

"Grandpa," he'd heard that the associates called him Partners, too, although somewhat more subtly, joined in the derision. Yet though this treatment soiled his days here — and obliterated whatever loyalty he had once felt for Hubbard, White & Willis — he was not overly troubled.  His relation with the firm became just what his marriage to Emma had been one of respectful acknowledgment.  He was usually able to keep his bitterness contained.

Junie's eyes were closed, her patent-leather shoes swaying in time to the music.  My God, she was growing up.  Fifteen.  It
gave him a pang of sorrow.  At times he had flashes — poses she struck, the way the light might catch her face—of her as a woman in her twenties.  He knew that she, abandoned in adolescence, earned the seeds of adulthood within her more fertilely than other children.

And he often felt she was growing up far too fast for him.

He handed the dictated tape to the typist, who left.

"So," he said to the girl, "are we going to do some shopping?"

"I guess."

That question she heard perfectly, Dudley observed "Well, let's go."

She shrugged and hopped off the chair, tugging at her dress in irritation, which meant she wanted to be wearing jeans and a T-shirt—clothes that she loved and that he hated.

They were at the elevator when a woman's voice asked, "Ralph, excuse me, you have a minute?"

He recognized the young woman from around the firm but couldn't recall a name. It stung him slightly that she had the effrontery to call him by his first name but because he was a gentlemen he did nothing other than smile and nod "Yes, you're Taylor Lockwood "

"Sure, of course.  This is my granddaughter, Junie.  Junie, say hello to Miss Lockwood.  She's a lawyer here "

"Paralegal, actually." Taylor smiled and said to the girl pleasantly, "You look like Alice."

"Huh?"

"Alice in Wonderland.  It's one of my favorite books. "

The girl shrugged and returned to the oblivion of her music.

Dudley wondered what this woman wanted.  Had he given her some work?  An assignment?

"I'd like to ask you something. "

"What's that?"

"You went to Yale Law School, didn't you?"

"That's right, I did. "

"I'm thinking of applying there. "

Dudley felt a bit of alarm.  He hadn't quite graduated, despite what he'd told the firm, and so couldn't exactly send a letter of recommendation for her.

But she added, "My application and letters and everything're in.  I just want to know a little about the school I'm trying to decide between there and Harvard and NYU. "

Relieved, Dudley said, "Oh, I went there before you were born. I don't think anything I'd have to tell you would be much help. "

"Well, somebody here said you helped them decide to go to law school, that you were very helpful. I was sort of hoping you could spare a half hour or so. "

Dudley felt the pleasure he always did at even minor adulation like this "Tonight?"

She said, "I was thinking tomorrow night maybe After work?  I could take you out to dinner"

A woman taking a man out to dinner? Dudley was nearly offended.

The paralegal added, "Unless you have plans."

He did, of course—plans he wouldn't miss.  But that was at 10 PM.  He said, "I'm busy later in the evening.  But how would seven be?"

A charming smile "I'll take you to my club."

Junie of the selective hearing said, "Like, Poppie, you told me they didn't let women in there. "

Dudley said to her, "That's only as members, honey." To Taylor he said, "Come by tomorrow at six, we'll take a cab uptown. " Then, calculating the taxi fare, he added, "No, actually a subway would be better. That time of day, traffic is terrible. "

*  *  *

"Now he's going after the clients. "

Donald Burdick knotted the silk tie carefully with his long fingers He liked the feel of good cloth, the way it yielded yet was tough. Tonight, though, the smooth texture gave him little pleasure.

"First he rams through the accelerated vote and now I hear he's targeting the clients "

"The clients," Vera Burdick repeated, nodding "We should've thought of that." She sat at her dressing table in the bedroom of their Park Avenue co-op, rubbing prescription retin-A cream on her neck. She wore a red and black silk dress, which revealed pale freckled skin along the unzipped V in the back.  She was leaning forward studiously, watching the cream disappear.

A resolute woman, in her early sixties, she'd battled age by making tactical concessions. She gave up tanning fifteen years ago and carefully gained a little weight, refusing to join in the dieting obsession of many of her friends, who were now knobby scarecrows. She let her hair go white but she kept it shiny with Italian conditioner and wore it pulled back in the same style as her granddaughter. She'd allowed herself one face-lift and had flown to Los Angeles to have a particular Beverly Hills surgeon perform the operation.

She was now as she'd always been attractive, reserved, stubborn, quiet.  And virtually as powerful as the two men who'd influenced her life—her father and Donald Burdick, her husband of thirty-two years.  Arguably she was more powerful in some ways than each of these men because people were always on guard with the masters of Wall Street, like Donald Burdick, but tended to get careless around women and be too chatty, to give away secrets, to reveal weaknesses.

Burdick sat on the bed.  His wife offered her back and he carefully zipped up the dress and hooked the top eyele. The partner continued, "Clayton's moving against them.  It's pretty clever, I have to admit. While Bill Stanley and Lamar and I've been taking on as much debt as we can to poison the merger. Wendall's been spending time with the clients, trying to convince them to pressure the partners at the firm to support the merger."

Vera too felt admiration for what Wendall was doing.  Although a firm's clients have no official vote in firm affairs they ultimately pay the bills and accordingly can exert astonishing influence over which way the partners vote. She'd often said that if clients unionized against law firms it would be time for her husband to find a new line of work.

"How's he doing it?" she asked, cunous to learn his technique.

"Probably promising big discounts in legal fees if they support the merger. Those that still don't go along with him—my clients
or Bill's, the ones who won't support the merger in any case—we're afraid he's going to sabotage. "

"Sabotage. Oh, my. What's the vote so far?"

"It's closer than it should be. "

"You've got the long-term lease with Rothstem, right?" Vera asked. "That should slow him up some. When are you signing it?"

"Friday or the weekend," he answered glumly.

"Not till then?" She winced.

"I know," he said "The fastest they could get the papers together. But it's okay—Clayton doesn't know anything about it.
Then I've been talking to Steve Nordstrom."

"At McMillan Holdings," Vera recalled "Your biggest client Steve's the chief financial officer, right?"

A nod. "I'm closer to him than I am to Ed Gliddick, the CEO I'm going to get them to lobby some of the other partners against the merger."

"And Steve'll agree?"

"I'm sure he will. Gliddick's in charge. But he listens to Steve. Wendall doesn't know about that either I've been excruciatingly discreet I..."

Burdick realized that he sounded desperate and hated the tone of his voice. Then he glanced at his wife, who was gazing at him with a savvy smile on her face "We can do it," she said "Clayton's not in our league, dear."

"Neither was that cobra on vacation last year. That doesn't mean he's not dangerous. "

"But look what happened to it."

Hiking in Africa, Burdick had accidentally stepped on the snake in the brush.  It had puffed out its hood and prepared to strike. Vera had taken its head off with a swipe of a sharp machete.

Burdick found his teeth clenched. "Wendall just doesn't understand what Wall Street law practice is. He's crude, he bullies. He has affairs. "

"Irrelevant." She began on her makeup.

"Oh, I think it is relevant.  I'm talking about the survival of the firm. Wendall doesn't have vision.  He doesn't understand what Hubbard, White is, what it should be. "

"And how do you define 'should be'?"

Touche, Burdick thought.  He grinned involuntarily. "All right, what I've made it Bill and Lamar and I. Wendall wants to turn
the firm into a mill.  Into a big merger-and-acquisition house. "

"Every generation has its own specialties. That's very profitable work. " She set down the blush "I'm not justifying him, darling. I'm only saying we should stay focused. We can't make logical arguments against the nature of the legal work he wants the new firm to handle. We have to remember that the risk is that as part of the merger he's going to burn the firm to the ground and then sow the ashes with salt. That's why we have to stop him. "

She was, as usual, right. He reached for her hand but the phone rang and he walked to the nightstand to answer it.

Burdick took the call and listened in dismay as Bill Stanley's gruff voice delivered the message. He hung up and looked at his wife, who stared at him, clearly alarmed by his drawn expression.

"He's done it again. "

"Clayton?'

Burdick sighed and nodded.  He walked to the window and gazed outside into the tnm, windswept courtyard. "There's a problem with the St Agnes case. "

Donald Burdick's oldest and second-most-lucrative client was Manhattan's St Agnes Hospital.  It had recently been sued for malpractice and Fred LaDue, a litigation partner, was handling the trial, which was in its fourth day now.

The case was routine and it was likely that the hospital was going to win. Stanley had just reported, however, that the plaintiff's attorneys—from a tough Midtown personal injury firm—had found a new witness, a doctor whose testimony could be devastating to St Agnes. Even though he was a surprise witness, the judge was going to let him testify tomorrow.

The judgment could be for tens of millions and a loss this big might mean that St Agnes—which was self-insured—would fire Hubbard, White & Willis altogether.  Even if the hospital didn't do so, though, the credibility of Burdick and his litigation department would be seriously eroded and the hospital might push to support the merger, John Perelli's firm was renowned for its brutal handling of personal injury defense work.

"Damn," Burdick muttered "Damn. "

Vera's eyes narrowed "You don't think that Wendall slipped your client's files to the other side, do you?"

"It did occur to me. "

Vera took a sip of scotch and set the Waterford glass down on the table. Burdick's eyes were distant, trying to process this news.  His wife's, however, had coalesced into dark dots "One thing I'd say, darling. "

The wind rattled the leaded-glass windows Burdick glanced at the sound.

She said, "With a man like Wendall, we have to hit him hard the first time. We won't have a second chance. "

Burdick's eyes dropped to the Pakistani carpet on the bedroom floor.  Then he picked up the phone and called the night operator at the law firm. "This is Donald Burdick," he said politely "Please locate Mitchell Reece and have him call me at
home. Tell him it's urgent."

Taylor Lockwood walked through the breezy evening streets of the East Village, the curbs banked with trash, and thought
of a funeral she'd attended several months earlier.

She'd sat in the front pew of the church in Scarsdale, north of the city, a wood-and-stone building built, someone behind her had whispered, by contributions from tycoons like J P Morgan and Vanderbilt.  Although Taylor had been in black, that color did not seem to be requisite at funerals any longer, any somber shade was acceptable—purple, forest green, even dusk-brown tapestry.  She sat on the hard pew and watched the family members, lost in their personal rituals of grief, tears running in halting streams, hands squeezing hands, fingers rubbing obsessively against fingers.  The minister had spoken of Linda Davidoff with genuine sorrow and familiarity.  He knew the parents better than the daughter, that was clear, but he was eulogizing well.

Most attendees had seemed sad or bewildered but not everyone had cried, suicide makes for an ambivalent mourning.

The minister had closed the service with one of Linda's poems, one published in her college literary magazine.

As he'd read, images of Linda had returned and the tears that Taylor Lockwood had told herself not to cry appeared fast, stinging the corners of her eyes and running with maddening tickles down her cheeks, even though she hadn't known the paralegal very well.

Then the organ had played a solemn cue and the mourners had filed outside for the drive to the internment.

As she'd told Reece, nothing that she'd found suggested that Linda Davidoff had had any connection with Hanover & Stiver or the loan deal.  But there was something suspicious to Taylor about the way the girl had worked such long hours on the case then stopped abruptly—and then committed suicide.

She felt she needed to follow up on this question.  Alice, after all, had wandered everywhere throughout Wonderland—a place, however, in which you sure wouldn't find the disgusting six-story tenement she now stood in front of.  In the foul entry foyer the intercom had been stolen and the front door was open, swinging in the breeze like a batwing door in a ghost town saloon. She started up the filthy steps.

*  *  *

"It may look impressive, but the bank owns most of it," Sean Lillick said.

The young paralegal was sitting on the drafty floor, shirtless and shoeless, shoving a backpack under the bed as she walked in.

Taylor Lockwood, catching her breath from the climb, was surveying what Lillick was referring to a wall of keyboards, wires, boxes, a computer terminal, speakers, guitar, amps. Easily fifty thousand dollars' worth of musical equipment.

Lillick—thin, dark-haired, about twenty-four—was smelling socks, discarding them. He wore black jeans, a sleeveless T-shirt. His boots sat in front of him. The only clue as to his day job at Hubbard, White & Willis were two dark suits and three white shirts, in various stages of recycling, hanging on nails pounded crookedly into the wall. He studied her for a moment "You look impressed or confused I can't tell."

"Your place is a little more alternative than I expected " The apartment was a patchwork.  Someone had nailed pieces of plywood, plastic or sheet metal over cracks and holes Joints didn't meet, plaster was rotting, floorboards were cracked or missing.  In the living room one hanging bare bulb, one floor lamp, one daybed, one desk.

And a ton of bank-owned musical instruments and gear.

"Have a seat."

She looked helplessly about her.

"Oh Well, try the daybed.  Hey, Taylor, listen to this I just thought it up. I'm going to use it in one of my pieces. You know
what a preppy is?"

"I give up. "

"A yuppie with papers. "

She smiled politely. He didn't seem concerned about the tepid response and wrote the line down in a notebook. "So what do you do?" she asked "Stand-up comedy?"

"Performance art. I like to rearrange perceptions. "

"Ah, musically speaking," she joked, "you're a re-arranger."

He seemed to like her observation too and mentally stored it somewhere.

Taylor walked over to a music keyboard.

Lillick said, "You're thinking organ, I know. But—"

"I'm thinking Yamaha DX-7 synthesizer with a digital sampler, MIDI and a Linn sequencer that should store about a hundred sequences in RAM. You mind?"

He laughed and waved his hand. She sat on a broken stool and clicked on the Yamaha. She ran through "Ain't Misbehavin'"

Lillick said, "This machine cannot deal with music like that I think it's having a breakdown."

"What do you play?" she asked him.

"Postmodern, post-New Wave. What I do is integrate music and my show I call myself a sound painter. Is that obnoxious?"

Taylor thought it was but just smiled and read through some of his lead sheets. In addition to standard musical notation they included drawings of pans and hammers, light-bulbs, bells, a pistol.

"When I started composing I was a serialist and then I moved to minimalism. Now I'm exploring nonmusical elements, like choreography and performance art. Some sound sculpture, too I love what Philip Glass does only I'm less thematic. Laurie Anderson, that sort of thing I believe there should be a lot of randomness in art. Don't you think?"

She shook her head, recalling what she'd told Reece that morning.  How she believed music should stay close to melodies
that resonated within people's hearts. She said, "You're talking to Ms. Mainstream, Sean," and shut off the system. She asked,
"Got a beer?"

"Oh. Sure. Help yourself I'll take one, too, while you're at it."

She popped them and handed him one. He asked, "You perform?"

"You wouldn't approve Piano bars. "

"They serve a valuable function. "

Irritated by his too hip, and too righteous, attitude, Taylor asked, "Are you being condescending?"

"No I mean it I like classics too " Lillick was up, hobbling on one boot to his rows of records and CDs and tapes. "Charlie Parker I got every Bird record ever made. Here, listen " He put on an LP, which sounded scratchy and authentic. "Man, that was the life," Lillick said. "You get up late, practice a bit, hang out, play sax till three, watch the sunnse with your buddies. "

Taylor, lost in one of Bird's solos, mused, "Man died young. "

"Thirty-five," Lillick said.

"World lost a lot of music."

"Maybe it wouldn't have been so, you know, deep, so nghteous if he'd lived longer."

Taylor said, "Maybe just the opposite. Hooked on smack's gotta affect you."

He nodded at his record collection, which did contain a lot of mainstream jazz. "See, I'm not a snob. We need people like
that.  If you don't have rules and traditions there's nothing to break."

If it ain't broke, don't fix it, Taylor thought.  But she wasn't here to debate the philosophy of music with him.

Lillick retrieved a fat joint and lit it up. He passed it toward Taylor. She shook her head and, examining the musical armada
of equipment, asked, "What're you doing at a law firm, you're so into artsy-fartsy?"

"Steady salary, what else. The way I look at it, Hubbard, White & Willis is supporting the arts. " He seemed uneasy, as if the conversation was going down paths he didn't want to tread.

He suddenly pulled out a pad of music staff paper and a pencil. "Keep talking I work best when I'm only using half my mind."

She asked, "What I came to ask you about. You took over for Linda Davidoff on the Hanover & Stiver case, right?"

"Yeah."

"What do you know about her?"

Lillick looked at his cracked plaster walls for a moment and wrote a measure of music. She sensed he was performing for her—playing the distracted artist.

"Linda Davidoff?" she repeated.

After a moment he looked up "Sorry.  Linda?  Well, we went out a few times I thought she was more interesting than most of the prep princesses you see around the firm. She wanted to be a writer. It didn't go very far between us."

"Why'd she stop working on the Hanover case?"

Silent for a moment, Lillick thought back "I'm not sure. I think she was sick. "

"Sick? What was wrong with her?"

"I don't know I remember she didn't look good. She was — pale," Taylor recalled.

"Yeah, exactly. I saw her filling out insurance forms a couple of times I asked her about it but she didn't tell me anything. "

"Do you know why she killed herself?" Taylor asked.

'No, but I'll tell you I wasn't wildly amazed she did. She was too sensitive, you know? She took things too much to heart. I don't what she was doing working for a law firm." Lillick erased and rewrote a line. He hummed it "Give me a B-flat
diminished."

Taylor turned on the DX-7 and hit the chord.

"Thanks " He wrote some more musical notations.

"Where'd she live?"

"I don't know — in the Village somewhere, I think. What's up? Why 're you so interested in Linda?"

"Screwup with the New Amsterdam bill, going way back. They were majorly underbilled and I'm supposed to check out
what happened. When you took over for her did she say anything about the case?"

Lillick shook his head.

Taylor asked, "You're still billing time on the case, aren't you?"

"Some. But Mitchell's handling most of it himself. " Lillick didn't seem to have any reaction to her questions.

"Anybody she was close to?"'

"Her roommate, Danny Stuart. He's an editor or something. Lives in the West Village Over on Greenwich Street, I think."
He rummaged in a stack of papers. "I've got the number somewhere." He handed it to her "Hey, back in a flash. "

He ducked into the John.

Which gave Taylor the chance she'd been waiting for. She dropped to her knees and found the backpack that Lillick had
been stashing when she'd entered.  It had seemed to her that he'd hidden it just a little too quickly when she walked inside.

A fast unzip revealed cash. A lot of it Taylor had only ten seconds for a fast estimate but figured the total would probably be something on the order of thirty or forty thousand dollars. An amount equal to his yearly salary at the firm—which didn't, of course, pay in greenbacks.

And, a regular of the Downtown performing circuit herself, Taylor knew that, to quote her father, there was no way in Satan's backyard that anyone would ever make any kind of serious money playing music in bars.

Which meant that, no, Sean, the bank didn't own most of your equipment.

She'd come here only for information but had found another suspect.

Taylor shoved the bag back a few seconds before the young man returned. "Better roll," she said "Thanks for the beer."

"You like goat?"

"What?"

"I'm thinking of going over to this place on Fourteenth. The goat's the best in the city. It's a totally happening place. "

The thought of another night partying was more than she could handle.  Besides, she had a mission back at the firm.

"Not tonight."

"Hey, this place is mondo cool.  Bowie hangs out there.  It's so packed you can hardly get in.  And they play industrial out
of one set of speakers and the Sex Pistols out of the other. I mean in the same room.  Like, at a thousand decibels. "

"Kills me to say no, Sean.  But I'll take a pass. "

Wendall Clayton liked the firm at night.  He liked the silence, the jeweled dots of boat lights in New York Harbor, liked
taking a mouthful of cigar smoke and holding it against his palate, free from the cntical glances his secretary and some of the more reckless younger lawyers shot his way when he lit up a Macanudo in the firm.

This after-hours atmosphere took him back to his days just after law school, when he'd spend many of his nights proofreading the hundreds of documents that make up typical business deals loan agreements, guarantees, security agreements, cross-collateralization documents, certificates of government filings, corporate documents and board resolutions.

Proofreading and carefully watching the partners he was working for.

Oh, he'd learned the law, yes, because in order to be good a lawyer must have a flawless command of the law. But to be a great lawyer—that requires much more. It requires mastering the arts of demeanor, tactics, leadership, extortion, anger and even flirtation.

Sabotage too.

He now looked over statements by a witness in a case that Hubbard, White was currently defending on behalf of one of Donald Burdicks prize clients, St Agnes Hospital in Manhattan. Sean Lillick and Randy Simms, Clayton's head of the SS, had dug up the identity of a doctor who had firsthand knowledge of the hospital malpractice St Agnes was allegedly guilty of.

Clayton had slipped the identity of this man to the plaintiff—in effect, scuttling the case against his firm's own client.

This troubled him some, of course, but as he read through the witness's statements and realized that the St Agnes doctors had indeed committed terrible malpractice, he concluded that his sabotage was in fact loyalty to a higher authonty than the client or the firm loyalty to abstract justice herself.

He rolled these thoughts around in his complex mind for a few minutes and reached this conclusion that he could live with St Agnes Hospital's extremely expensive loss in the trial.

He hid these documents away and then opened another sealed envelope. Sean Lillick had dropped it off just before he'd left
for the night.  He read the memo the paralegal had written him.

Clayton's money was being well spent, he decided Lillick had apparently aristocratized the nght people. Or begged them or fucked them or whatever.  In any case the information was as valuable as it was alarming.

Burdick was taking an extreme measure. The firm's lease for its present office space in Wall Street would be up next year.
This expiration had been a plus for Clayton's merger because it meant that the firm could move to Perelli's Midtown office, which was much cheaper, without a difficult and expensive buyout of an existing lease.

The purpose of the secret talks Lillick had learned about between Burdick, Stanley and Harry Rothstem, the head of the partnership that owned the building, was to negotiate a new, extremely expensive long-term lease for the existing office space.

By entering the lease, the firm would take on a huge financial commitment that would cost millions to buy its way out of. This would make Hubbard, White a much less attractive target for a merger. The full partnership didn't need to approve the lease, only the executive committee, which Burdicks side controlled.

The lease agreement, Lillick had learned, wouldn't be signed until this weekend.

Son of a bitch, he raged.  Well, he'd have to stop the deal somehow.

He put Lillick's memo away and began thinking about defensive measures.  If Burdick learned what Clayton was up to, particularly with the St Agnes case and the lease, he and his bitchy wife would strike back hard Clayton began to worry
about loose ends.

He picked up the phone and called Lillick.

The boy's cheerful voice drooped when he realized who the caller was.

"That information was helpful."

This was one of Claytons highest forms of compliments Helpful.

"Like I mean, I'm glad. "

"I'm a little concerned though, Sean. You are being careful, aren't you?"

The boy hesitated and Clayton wondered if there was anything more to his uneasiness than a phone call from his boss.

"Of course. "

"I'm aware of people asking questions around the firm, Sean Anybody been asking you questions?"

"Uh, no. "

"You are making sure you cover tracks? Being a good Boy Scout or nature guide or something?"

"Yeah, I'm not stupid, Wendall."

"No, of course you're not. Just make sure everything's covered up carefully, no way to trace what you and I've been up to. You know legal defense fees can be so expensive. They can eat up all one's savings in a flash. "

The boy's silence told him that the threat had been received.

Clayton looked up into the doorway, where a young woman stood at attention "Better go, Sean. Be in early tomorrow. Snip any ends, okay?"

"Sure. "

The partner hung up, his eyes on the woman. She was one of the night stenographers from the word processing department. Her name was Carmen and she was slim and had a complexion like a week-old tan. She wore tight blouses and dark skirts
that would be too short for the day, but on the evening shift the dress code was more relaxed.

"1 got your call, Mr Clayton. You need some dictation?"

Clayton looked at her legs then her breasts "Yes, I do."

Carmen had a five-year-old son, fathered by a man who was currently in prison. She lived with her mother in the Bronx. She had a patch of stretch marks on her lower belly and a tattoo of a rose on her left buttock.

She waited until he'd taken his wallet from his suit jacket pocket and opened it up before she swung the door shut and
locked it.

CHAPTER TEN

It was nearly 8 pm but for some reason the closing of a corporate merger that had begun at 2 that afternoon ran into
difficulties and was not yet completed—some delay in Japanese regulatory approvals.

The Hubbard, White & Willis lawyers and paralegals working on the case, clutching stacks of documents, scurried back and forth between the several conference rooms devoted to the closing like ants stealing bread crumbs from a picnic though with considerably more content faces than their insect counterparts—presumably because ants don't make a collective $4,000 per hour for carting around bits of soggy food. The clients, on the other hand—the payers of those legal fees—were nothing but frustrated.

Back from her trip to Lillick's apartment, Taylor Lockwood had learned many intimate details about the closing because
she'd been dodging the lawyers and clients for the past hour. Like the clients in the delayed deal, Taylor had her own frustrations.

John Silbert Hemming had neglected to tell her that dactyloscopy powder didn't come off.

She'd just finished fingerprinting Reece's burglarized file cabinet and painstakingly transferring the sticky tape of the two dozen latents she'd found to cards. She thought back to what Hemming'd told her. Yes, he'd mentioned the different kinds of
powders. He'd mentioned how to spread it around and how to brush, not blow, the excess away.

But he hadn't told her the stuff was like dry ink.

Once you—once one—dusted it onto the surface the damn stuff didn't wipe off.  The smear just got bigger and bigger.

She wasn't concerned about the file cabinet that had contained the note. She was concerned about Mitchell Reece's coffee mug, emblazoned with "World's Greatest Lawyer," which she'd dusted to get samples of his prints to eliminate those from the ones she lifted off his cabinet.

Fingerprinting powder coated the mug like epoxy paint. She did her best to clean it then noticed she'd gotten some on her blouse. She pinched the midriff of the shirt and fluffed the poor garment to see if that would dislodge the powder. No effect. She tried to blow it away, and—as her tall private eye had warned—spit into the smear, which immediately ran the powder
into the cloth. Permanently, she suspected.

Taylor sighed and pulled on her suit jacket to cover the smudge.

She hurried down to Ralph Dudley's office, where she lifted samples of his fingerprints, then on to Thom Sebastian's, where
she did the same.

Finally, back in the paralegal pens, she took samples of Sean Lillick's prints from several objects in his cubicle. Then back in her own cubicle she put the fingerprint cards in an envelope and hid it under a stack of papers in the bottom drawer of her desk.

She found the phone number that Lillick had given her—Danny Stuart, Linda Davidoff's roommate—and called him. He
wasn't in but she left a message asking if they could meet, there was something about Linda she wanted to ask him about.

She hung up and then happened to look down at her desktop and, with a twist in her gut, noticed the managing attorney's
daily memo.  In the square for Tuesday of next week were these words.

New Amsterdam Bank & Trust v Hanover & Stiver Jury trial Ten am. No continuance.

As she stared there was suddenly a huge explosion behind her.

Taylor spun around, inhaling a scream.

Her eyes met those of a young man in a white shirt. He was standing in the hall, staring back at her. He held a bottle of
French champagne he'd just opened "Hey, sorry," he said.  Then smiled "We just closed. We finally got Bank of Tokyo approval."

"I'm happy for you," she said and snagged her coat then started down the hallway as he turned his groggy attention to opening more bottles and setting them on a silver tray.

*  *  *

The drapery man watched her pull her overcoat on and step into the lobby, the door swinging shut behind her.

He patiently waited a half hour, just in case she'd forgotten anything, and when she didn't return he walked slowly down the corridor to Taylor Lockwood's cubicle, pushing the drapery cart in front of him, his hand near his ice-pick weapon.

Upstairs the firm was bustling like mid-morning—some big fucking business deal going on, dozens of lawyers and assistants ignoring him—but down here the place was dark and empty. He paused in the Lockwood woman's cubicle, checked the hallways again and dropped to his knees. In two minutes he'd fitted the transmitting microphone, like the one he planted in Mitchell Recce's phone, into hers.

The drapery man finished the job, tested the device, ran a sweep to make sure it wasn't detectable and walked to the entranceway of the paralegal cubicles.

Nearby was a conference room, in which he saw a half-dozen open bottles of champagne sitting on a silver tray. When he touched one with the back of his hand he found it was still cold. He glanced behind him, pulled on his gloves and lifted the first bottle to his mouth. He took a sip then ran his tongue around the lip of the bottle. He did the same with the others.

Then feeling the faint buzz from the dry wine—and a huge sense of satisfaction—he returned to the hallway and started
pushing his cart toward the back door.

*  *  *

"Never take a job," Sean Lillick said pensively, holding the door open, "where you have to hold things in your teeth. "

Carrie Mason, standing in the door of his shabby East Village walk-up, blinked. "Never what?" she asked, entering.

"That's a line from a piece I'm working on right now. I'm, like, a performance artist. This one's about careers I call it
'W2 Blues ' Like your W2 form, the tax thing It's spoken over music. "

"Never take a job that " Pained, she said, "I don't think I get it."

"There's nothing to get," he explained, a little irritated. "It's more of a social comment, you know, than a joke. It's about how we're defined in terms of what we do for a living. You know, like the first thing lawyers say when you meet them is what they do for a living. The point is we should be human beings first and then have a career."

She nodded. "So when you just said you were a performance artist, that was, like, being ironic?"

Now, he blinked. Then, even more irritated, he nodded. "Yeah, exactly.  Ironic."

He examined her from the corner of his eye. The girl was hardly his type. Although on the whole Lillick preferred women to men (he'd had his share of both since he came to New York from Des Moines five years ago) the sort of women he wanted
to fuck were willowy, quiet, beautiful and passed cold judgment on anyone they bothered to glance at.

Carrie Mason didn't come close to meeting his specifications.  For one thing, she was fat. Well, okay, not fat, but round—round in a way that needed pleated skirts and billowy blouses to make her look good.  For another, she was polite
and laughed a lot, which was evidence that she would rarely pass moody judgments on anyone at all.

Lillick also suspected she blushed frequently and he couldn't see himself getting involved with anybody who blushed.

"You know," she said after a moment, "tailors hold pins and things m their teeth. Fashion designers too.  And carpenters hold nails when they're building houses."

That was true. He hadn't thought of that. And her comment made him even angrier with her. "I meant more like, you know, maybe holding bits of tape or tools or something." Then he added quickly, "The point is, like, just to make people think about things."

"Well, it does make you think," she conceded.

Lillick took her coat. "You want a beer?"

She was studying the keyboards and computers "Sure."

"Have a seat."

She ran her hand over the tie-dye bedspread and glanced at her fingers to make sure the coloring didn't come off.

Excuse me, your royal highness.

She sat down. He opened a Pabst and handed it to her, thinking only after he did that he probably should have poured it into
a glass. But to take it back and find a clean mug would now seem stupid.

"I was surprised when you called, Sean."

"Yeah?" Lillick punched on a Meredith Monk tape "I've been meaning to. You know, you work with somebody and you think, I'm going to call her up, yadda, yadda, yadda, but you get caught up in things."

"That's sure true."

"Anyway, I was thinking of going over to this place for goat. " But he stopped speaking fast, thinking what the hell would his buddies from the East Village say if they saw him at Carlos' with a fat preppy princess?

But he didn't need to worry, Carrie wrinkled her nose at the food "Goat?"

"Maybe," he said, "we'll find someplace else. Whatta you like?"

"Burgers and fries and salads. Usual stuff, you know. I usually hang out at the bars on Third Avenue. They're fun. You know, sing along."

"When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." God in heaven save me.

"You want me to ," Carrie began.

"Huh?"

"Well, I was going to say If you want me to iron your shirt I'm, like, way good at that sort of thing."

The garment was a tan shirt printed with tiny brown scenes of European landmarks. It was one of his favorites and the cloth was wrinkled as a prune.

He laughed "You iron this poor thing, it'd curl up and die."

Carrie said, "I like ironing. It's therapeutic. Like washing dishes."

In his five years in Manhattan he'd never ironed a single piece of clothing. He did do the dishes. Occasionally.

Outside a man's scream cut through the night. Then another, followed by a long moan Carrie looked up, alarmed.

Lillick laughed "It's just a hooker. There's a guy turns tricks across the air shaft. He's a howler." He pointed to a machine "That's a digital sampler. It's a computer that records a sound and lets you play it back through your synthesizer on any note you want."

Carrie looked at the device.

Lillick continued, "I recorded the screaming one night. It was totally the best." He laughed. "I performed a piece from Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier, only instead of the harpsichord sound it's a gay hooker shouting, 'Deeper, deeper'."'

She laughed hard. Then looked out the window toward the diminishing walls. "I don't get downtown as much as I'd like. "

"Where do you live?"

"East Eighty-fourth."

"Ah."

"I know," she said, blushing, as he'd predicted. "It's not so cool. But I kinda ended up there and I've got a three-year lease."

"So, how's Mexican?" he asked. He glanced down at his shirt. It wasn't that fucking wrinkled. "There's a place around the corner I call it the Hacienda del Hole. Kinda a dive but the food's good."

"Sure, whatever." Then she suggested, "Or we could just hang out here. Like, maybe order pizza, watch the tube." Carrie nodded at his dusty TV set "I like Cheers," she said "And M*A*S*H".

Lillick only watched TV to pick up on pop culture icons he could trash in his performance pieces. He had to admit, though,
he liked M*A*S*H Well, and Lucy reruns. And Gilligan's Island (though not a soul in the universe knew that).

"It's kinda broken. I mean, the receptions pretty shitty."

He walked over to his Yamaha keyboard and turned it on. The amps sent a moan of anticipation through the warm air. "I'll
show you how the sampler works. I'll play something for you."

"Good, I'd like to hear it. Hey, got another beer?"

He went to the fridge. "Those were the last. How 'bout wine?"

"Sure."

He poured two large tumblers and handed one to her. They tapped glasses. She picked a piece of cork or lint or something
out of hers and they both drank.

Then she slipped off her white plastic headband and lay back on the bed. She ran her hand over the middle part of the
mattress "What's this?"

"What?"

"This lump?"

"I don't know. A pillowcase, I think."

But Carrie was frowning. "No, it's, like, weird. You better check it out."

He stood up and sat on the bed next to her, rummaged under the covers to find the lump. It turned out to be not a
pillowcase but a woman's red high-heel shoe.

"How'd that get there?" Carrie laughed, teasing.

"I used it in one of my pieces."

"Uh-huh," she said, not believing him.

It's true, goddamn it, he thought angrily. I'm not a fucking transvestite.

She looked into his eyes and, without even thinking about it, he leaned forward and kissed her. He tasted lipstick and the Binaca she'd sprayed into her mouth when he was busy pouring the wine.

Then she lifted the red shoe away, dropped it on the floor and directed his hand to her breasts.

This is weird.

Carrie reached up and turned off the skewed floor lamp. The only illumination in the room was from the display lights on the synthesizer.

Weird.

He began to kiss her hard, desperately, and she kissed him right back.

She pulled off her jeans and sweater Lillick stared at the huge breasts defined by the netlike cloth of her bra, nipples dark circles.

He kissed her for a full minute.

Weird.

Lillick realized that he'd left the recorder on the sampler running, it would store every sound in the room for the next twenty minutes. He supposed he should shut it off but in fact he didn't really want to get up. Besides, he figured, you never knew
when you could use some good sound effects.

Taylor wasn't sure when the idea occurred to her—probably 4 or 5 AM as she lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the
city. She was in a half-waking, half-dreaming state—in Wonderland or on the far side of the looking glass.

She'd been thinking about the evidence she d gathered A brief comparison of the prints on the safe with her suspects—Sebastian, Lillick and Dudley—wasn't conclusive but it was more likely than not that Sebastian had left several prints on the safe.

But was there any way to verify that he—or someone else—had been in the firm that Saturday night, other than through the time sheets and key card entry logs.

Sure, she realized, there was. The thief might've taken a cab or car service limo to the firm that late at night. And he might've
just used his real name and employee number on the reimbursement or payment voucher.

And copiers too. If he'd been in the firm for some legitimate reason he might've used a copier—you had to use a special key, with your number on it, to activate the machine.

Or, she thought, excited about these leads, the thief might have logged onto one of the Lexis/Nexis computers.

Or used the phone.

Every service or function within the firm that can be charged to a client (plus a delightful 300 percent markup for overhead)
is recorded in the firm computers.

She glanced at the clock 7:40 A M.

Brother.

Exhausted, she rolled out of bed. At least she didn't have a hangover—and she'd managed to change into boxers and a
T-shirt last night, saving her skin from more stigmatas of Victoria's Secret.

Let's go, Alice. This is getting curiouser and curiouser.

At 9 A M exactly Taylor was standing in the accounting department at Hubbard, White & Willis.

"I'm doing a bill for Mitchell Reece," she told the computer operator. "Can you let me see the copier card, taxi and car service voucher ledger, phone records and Lexis/Nexis log-ons for last Saturday and Sunday?"

"It's not the end of the month." The operator snapped her gum.

"Mitchell wants to give the client an estimate. "

Snap

"An estimate of disbursements? It couldn't be more than a thousand bucks. Who'd care?"

"If you don't mind," Taylor said sweetly "Please."

Snap "I guess." The woman hunched over the keys and typed several lines. She frowned and typed again.

Taylor bent over the computer screen The screen was blank.

Snap, snap

"I don't know what's going on. There s no taxi vouchers. There always are on Saturday." Taylor knew this very well. The
rule was if you had to work on Saturday the firm paid for your taxi to and from your apartment or house.

Alarmed, Taylor said, "How about the copiers?"

The fingernails tapped. The operator squinted, tapped some more and stared at the screen. "Well, this's damn funny. "

"Nobody made any copies either."

"You got it."

Snap

"Phones? Lexis/Nexis?"

The clattenng of keys "Nothing."

Taylor asked, "You think the files were erased?"

"Hold on a minute." Her fingers tapped as noisily as her popping gum.

Snap, snap

The young woman looked up "That's it. Erased. Must've had a software hiccup or something. The disbursement and
incidental expense files for the past week've been deleted. Taxis, meals, copiers, even the phones.  All gone. "

"Has that ever happened before?"

"Nup. Never."

Snap

*  *  *

Sean Lillick stopped by Carrie Masons cubicle to say good morning to her.

He could tell immediately how pleased she was to see him comply with the famous morning-after rule.

They talked for a few minutes and then he said how much he wanted a cup of coffee and, as he'd expected, she was on her
feet immediately and asking him, "How do you want it?"

"Black," he answered because even though he liked a lot of sugar it was cooler to say "Black."

"Sure I'll be right back. "

"You don't have to—," he started to say.

"No problem."

She trotted off down the hallway.

Which gave him the chance to put her computer room access card back into her purse.

That's what'd been so weird last night.

The fact that the sex had been initiated by her.

Because the whole point of calling her up was to get her over to his place, get her drunk, seduce her and when she was dozing afterward steal her access card, which would allow him to erase the telltale files of expenses—like the taxi he'd taken from the firm to the office of the plaintiff's lawyer in the St Agnes case, or the phone calls he'd made about the new lease with Rothstem. After he'd talked to Wendall Clayton earlier Lillick had realized that he had been pretty careless and needed to, as the partner had said, "snip some ends".

Hence, the grand seduction last night.

Weird

Carrie now returned with the coffee and when she handed it to him their hands met and they looked into each other's eyes for
a moment. It took perhaps two seconds for the guilt to prod him into looking away and he said quickly, "Got a big project. Better run I'll call you."

*  *  *

Donald Burdick believed that bringing one's first client into a law firm was the most significant milestone in the career of a Wall Street lawyer.

Unlike graduation from law school, unlike admission to the bar, unlike being made partner—all of which are significant but abstract stages in a lawyer's life—hooking a money-paying client was what distinguished, in his metaphor, the nobility from the gentry.

Many years ago Burdick—a young, newly made partner at Hubbard, White & Willis—had just finished the eighteenth hole at Meadowbrook Club on Long Island when one of the foursome turned to him and said, "Say, Donald, I hear good things about you. Legal-wise, I'm saying. You interested in doing a little work for a hospital?"

That had been on a Sunday afternoon and two days later Burdick had presented to the executive committee of the firm his
first signed retainer agreement—with the huge St Agnes Hospital complex in Manhattan.

At nine-thirty this morning Donald Burdick sat in his office with the chief executive officer of St Agnes, a tall, middle-aged, mild-spoken veteran of hospital administration. Also present were Fred LaDue, the senior litigation partner handling the malpractice case against the hospital, and Mitchell Reece.

Three of these four appeared very unhappy, though for different reasons Burdick, because of what he'd learned last night—
that with the new witness St Agnes would probably lose the malpractice trial, which would make the hospital throw its support to Clayton and the pro-merger crowd. The CEO, of course, because his hospital now stood to lose millions of dollars Lawyer LaDue, because Burdick had summarily ordered that he stand down today and that a young associate Mitchell Reece, take over the cross-examination of the new witness.

Reece, on the other hand, was calm as a priest though it was clear the man hadn't had more than a few hours' sleep. He'd
been prepanng virtually nonstop since Burdick and LaDue had briefed him last night around 9pm.

"Who is this guy?" the CEO asked. "The witness?"

"That's the problem. He was working at St Agnes when they brought the plaintiff in. He didn't treat the patient himself but he
was in the room the whole time."

"One of our own people? Testifying against us?" The CEO was dumbfounded.

"Apparently he was a visiting professor from UC San Diego."

"Can't we object?"

"I did," LaDue said plaintively. "Judge overruled me. The best he did was give us a chance to depose the witness before he
goes on."

Reece said, "I'll do that in a half hour. The guy goes on the stand at eleven."

"How bad do you think his testimony's going to be?" the administrator asked.

"From what the other side's lawyer said," Reece explained bluntly, "it could lose you the case."

Burdick, who realized he had been squeezing his teeth together with fierce pressure, said, "Well, Mitchell, perhaps it isn't as hopeless as you're painting it "

Reece shrugged "I don't think it's hopeless I never said it's hopeless. But the plaintiff's lawyers've upped their settlement offer
to thirty million and they're holding firm. That means that this witness is the smoking gun."

LaDue sat and stewed. The doughy man was as pale as always though at this particular moment his waxen complexion was largely due to the fact that he'd done a very clumsy job at the trial so far.

Burdick played with a manicured thumbnail. He was furious that Clayton had probably spent thousands of dollars to track
down this witness and had anonymously sent his name to the plaintiff's attorney.

"What do you have in mind, Mitchell?" LaDue asked "How're you going to handle the cross?"

Reece looked up and started to answer but then Burdick's secretary walked into the doorway "Mr. Reece, your secretary
said you've just got an important call. You can take it in the conference room there."

"Thank you," he said to her.  Then glanced at his watch "I'll be busy for the rest of the morning, gentlemen I'll see you in court."

If she hadn't been initiated, Taylor Lockwood would never have known she was watching a trial.

She saw a bored judge rocking back in his chair, distracted lawyers. She saw clerks walking around casually, no one really concentrating on what was going on. She saw dazed jurors and few spectators—a half dozen or so, retirees, she guessed,
like the unshaven men who take trains out to Belmont or Aqueduct racetracks in the morning, just for a place to spend their slow days.

She'd found Reece in the hall at the firm earlier and wanted to update him on what she'd learned—the fingerprints and the erased files But he was jogging from the library to his office, two huge Redweld folders under his arms. He paused briefly to
tell her that he'd been called in to handle an emergency cross-examination and that he could see her at the courthouse on Centre Street later, around noon.

Taylor had decided to sit in on this portion of the trial and catch him in the hall afterward Maybe they could have lunch.

She now looked around the courtroom in which Marlow v St Agnes Hospital and Health Care Center was being tried and located the plaintiff Mr. Marlow sat m a wheelchair, pale and unmoving Unshaven, his hair disheveled His wife was nearby,
with her hand resting on his arm Taylor's father, a trial lawyer himself, had instilled enough cynicism in his daughter to make her believe that, while undoubtedly the man had suffered a serious injury, the wheelchair might just be a prop and there was no need for him to be looking as destroyed as he did here.

The door opened, and in walked a man she recognized from the firm. It took her a moment to place the name Randy Simms—either the III or the IV. She recalled that he was a protege of Wendall Clayton. He sat in the back row, by himself, putting away a cellular phone. He put his hands in his lap and sat perfectly still, perfectly upnght.

She scanned the rest of the visitors and was surprised to find Donald Burdick himself in the gallery. He too glanced at Randy Simms, a faint frown on the old partner's face.

Finally, papers were sorted out and the judge pulled off his glasses. In a gruff voice he told the plaintiff's counsel that he could present his witness.

The lawyer rose and called to the stand a handsome, gray-haired man in his mid-fifties. He gazed pleasantly out at the jury. Under questioning from the plaintiff's counsel, he began his testimony.

Taylor Lockwood worked primarily for corporate lawyers at Hubbard, White & Willis but she knew the basics of personal injury law.  This man's testimony was clearly devastating to St Agnes.

Dr William Morse's credentials were impeccable and, unlike many expert witnesses, who testify based only on what they've read in reports long after the accident, he was actually present at the hospital when the alleged malpractice occurred. The jury members took in his comments and looked at each other with lifted eyebrows, obviously impressed with the man's demeanor and by what he was saying.

"Let's reiterate what happened here," the plaintiff's lawyer said "In March of last year a doctor at St Agnes treated a patient—Mr Marlow there in the wheelchair, the plaintiff in this case—who was suffering from arthntis and adrenal insufficiency with seventy milligrams of cortisone acetate in conjunction with one hundred milligrams of indomethacin."

"That's correct," Morse said.

"Did you observe him do this."

"I saw the injection and then looked at the chart afterward and told him immediately the mistake he'd make."

"And why was that a mistake?"

"Mr Marlow had a preexisting ulcerous condition Everyone knows that such a patient should absolutely not be treated with
the drugs he was administered."

"I'd object, sir," Reece said politely "The witness can't speak for, quote, everyone. "

Dr Morse corrected, "The medical literature is quite clear that such a patient should not be treated with those particular drugs"

The plaintiff's lawyer continued, "What was this doctor's reaction when you told him that?"

"He said that I was not on the staff, I was a visiting physician and, in effect, I should mind my own business."

"Objection," Reece called again. "Hearsay."

The plaintiff's lawyer said, "I'll rephrase. Sir, after you called attention to what you perceived as a dangerous condition, did anyone take any steps to correct it?"

"No."

"What happened then?"

"I told a nurse to monitor the patient carefully and that I thought he might have serious adverse reactions. Then I went to see
the chief of staff."

"That would be Harold Simpson?"

"Yessir."

"And what was his reaction?"

"Dr Simpson was not available. I was told he was playing golf."

"Objection. Hearsay."

"He was not available," the witness corrected.

"What happened then?"

"I returned to Mr. Marlow's ward to see how he was doing but he was unconscious, comatose. The nurse I'd left to monitor
his condition was gone. We stabilized his condition. But he remained comatose. "

"Would it have been possible, when you called attention to the drugs that had been improperly prescribed, to administer an antidote—"

"Objection," Reece called "He's suggesting that we poisoned the plaintiff."

"You did," Dr. Morse snapped.

"Your honor?" Reece asked.

"A more neutral term, counselor," the judge said to the plaintiff's lawyer.

"Yessir. Dr Morse, would it have been possible to administer other drugs to counteract the damaging effects of the drugs that the St Agnes staff doctor administered?"

"Absolutely. But it would have to be done immediately."

"And what happened then?"

"That was my last day at the hospital. I returned to California the next day and as soon as I arrived I called the hospital to check on the status of the patient I was told that he'd come out of the coma but had suffered irreparable brain damage. I left messages for the chief of staff, the head of the procedures committee and the head of the department of internal medicine. No one ever called me back. "

"No further questions. "

A murmur from the peanut gallery at the deadly testimony Taylor concurred with the apparent reaction. She thought, Okay,
we just lost the case.

The judge rocked back in his chair and said, "Mr Reece, cross-examination?"

Mitchell Reece stood and—in smooth motions—buttoned his jacket, straightened his paisley tie.

"Thank you, your honor. First of all"—he turned to the jury—"I'd like to introduce myself. I'm Mitch Reece I work for Hubbard, White & Willis, along with my friend and colleague, Fred LaDue, who I think you know. And he's been
gracious enough to let me visit with you for a few hours today." He smiled, creating a camaradene with six men and women bored numb from days of medical testimony.

Hunkered down behind two octogenarian trial buffs, Taylor watched him pace back and forth slowly.

Reece said, "Now, sir, you know I'm getting paid for asking you questions. "

The witness blinked. "I—"

Reece laughed "It's not a question. I'm just telling you that I'm getting paid to be here, and I assume you're getting paid to testify.  But I don't think it's fair to ask you how much you're getting, if I'm not prepared to tell you how much I'm getting. And I'm not.  Lawyers're overpaid anyway." Laughter filled the room. "So we'll just let it go at the fact that we're both professionals. Are we all together on that?"

"Yessir."

"Good."

The plaintiff's lawyers grew wary at this. One of the first ways cross-examining lawyers attack experts is to make them sound like mercenaries.

"Now, Doctor," Reece said, "let me ask you, how often do you testify at medical malpractice cases like this one?"

"Rarely."

"How rare would that be?"

The witness lifted his hand "I've probably testified three or four times in my life. Only when I feel a terrible injustice has been done and—"

Reece held up his hand and, still smiling, said, "Maybe if we could just stick to answering my questions, please "

"The jury will disregard the witness's last sentence," the judge mumbled.

"So it's safe to say that you spend most of your time practicing medicine. Not testifying against other doctors. "

"That's right."

"That's so refreshing, Doctor. I mean that It's clear you care about your patients. "

"Helping patients is the most important thing in the world to me. "

The witness laughed.  "I have had a bit of expenence."

"Let's talk about that, sir.  Now, you practice internal medicine, correct?"

"That's correct."

"You're board-certified in internal medicine?"

"I am. "

"And you have occasion to administer various drugs?"

"Oh, yessir. "

"Would you say you have great experience administering them?"

"I would say so, sure. "

"Those ways of administering them would include sublingual—that's under the tongue, right?"

"That's right."

Reece continued, "And rectally as well as administering injected medicines, like the sort that the plaintiff received."

"That's true."

"I don't want you to think I'm up to anything here, sir. You've testified that my client did something wrong in administering certain medicines and all I want to do is make it clear that your observations about what my client did are valid because of
your expertise. We're all together on that?"

"All together, yessir."

"Good."

Taylor could see that the jury had brightened up. Something was happening. Reece was being nice to the witness. Shouldn't they be screaming at each other? The jury was confused and because of that they'd started paying attention.

She noticed something else.  Though she hadn't seen him change his appearance, Reece's jacket, at some point, had become unbuttoned and in lifting his hand to straighten his hair he'd mussed it.  He looked boyish.  She thought of him suddenly as a young Southern lawyer—a hero in a John Grisham book.

The witness too had relaxed.  He was less stiff, less cautious.

Taylor, though, thought that Reece had gone too far with the good-old-boy approach. The witness was looking good in the eyes of the jury, the credibility of his testimony was improving.  By now, she reflected, her father would've cut the balls off this doctor and had him cowering on the stand.

Reece said, "Now, let me quote from the record as best I can." He squinted and recited, " 'In March of last year a doctor from St Agnes treated a patient—Mr. Marlow there in the wheelchair, the plaintiff—who has arthritis and adrenal insufficiency with seventy milligrams of cortisone acetate in conjunction with one hundred milligrams of indomethacin. '"

"That's nght."

"And you testified that you wouldn't have done that."

"Correct."

"Because of his preexisting ulcerous condition ."

"Yes."

"But I've looked through his charts. There's no record of his having an ulcer."

The witness said, "I don't know what happened with the charts. But he told the doctors he had an ulcer. I was there I heard
the exchange."

"He was in the emergency room," Reece said "Generally a busy place, a lot of doctors trying to cope with all kinds of
problems I've been in them myself—cut my thumb bad last year." Reece winced and smiled at the jury. "I'm a real klutz,"
he told them. Then back to the doctor "So will you agree that it's possible that the person Mr. Marlow told about his ulcer wasn't the person who administered the drugs?"

"That doesn't—"

Reece smiled "Please, sir."

"It's possible. But—"

"Please. Just the question "

Taylor saw that Reece was preventing the witness from reminding the jury that it didn't matter who knew before the
injection because Dr. Morse had brought it to the staff's attention just after the injection, when there was still time to
correct it, but the staff had ignored him.

"It's possible."

Reece let this sit for a moment "Now, Dr. Morse, there's been a lot of talk in this trial about what is and is not an accepted
level of medical treatment, right?"

Morse paused before answering, as if trying to figure out where Reece was going.  He looked at his own lawyer then answered, "Some, I suppose. "

"I'm thinking that if, as you say, you wouldn't've treated the patient with these medications then I assume you feel that
St Agnes's treatment was below the standards of proper medical care?"

"Certainly."

Reece walked to a whiteboard in the corner of the courtroom, near the jury, and drew a thick line horizontally across it "Doctor, let's say this is the standard-of-care line, all right?"

"Sure."

Reece drew a thin dotted line an inch below it "Would you say that the level of care St Agnes provided in administering those drugs was this far below the standard level of care? Just a little bit below?"

Morse looked at his lawyer and was greeted with a shrug.

"No. It wasn't just a little bit below. They almost killed the man."

"Well." Reece drew another line, farther down "This far?"

"I don't know."

Another line "This far below?"

Dr Morse said in a solemn voice, "It was very far below."

Reece drew another two lines then stopped writing. He asked, "Once you get below a certain level of the standard of care
well, how'd you describe that?"

Another uncertain look at his lawyer then the witness answered, "I'd say I'd guess I'd say it was malpractice."

"You'd characterize St Agnes's treatment of Mr. Marlow," Reece said in a sympathetic voice, "as malpractice."

"Well, yes, I would."

A murmur of surprise from several people in the courtroom. Not only was Reece befriending the witness but his cross-examination was having the effect of making the witness repeat over and over again that the hospital had made a
mistake. He had even gotten the witness to characterize the staff's behavior as malpractice—a legal conclusion that no defense lawyer in the world would have accepted from a plaintiff's witness. Yet it had been Reece himself who elicited this opinion.

What was going on here? Taylor glanced at Burdick and saw him sitting forward, clearly troubled.

A dozen rows behind him Clayton's representative, Randy Simms, sat immobile though with a slight smile on his face.

The judge looked at Reece, opposing counsel looked at Reece.

"I appreciate your candor, Doctor. Malpractice, malpractice " Reece walked back to the table slowly, letting the word sink
into the jury's consciousness.  He stopped and then added brightly, "Oh, Doctor, if you don't mind, I just have a few matters
of clarification."

"Not at all."

Reece said, "Doctor, where are you licensed to practice?"

"As I said before, California, New Jersey and New York."

"No other state?"

"No."

Reece turned to look into Morse's eyes "How about any other country?"

"Country?"

"Yessir," Reece said "I'm just curious if you've ever been licensed to practice in any other country."

A hesitation. Then a smile "No. "

"Have you ever practiced medicine in another country?"

"I just said I wasn't licensed."

"I caught that, sir.  But what I just asked was 'practiced,' Doctor, not licensed. Have you ever practiced medicine anywhere outside of the United States?"

The man swallowed, a look of horror in his eyes "I've done some volunteer work."

"Outside of the country."

"Yes, that's right."

"And would you be so kind as to tell us which country, if that isn't too much trouble, Doctor?"

"Mexico."

"Mexico," Reece repeated "What were you doing in Mexico?"

"I was getting a divorce. I liked the country and I decided to stay for a while—"

"This was when?"

"Eight years ago. "

"And you practiced medicine in Mexico?"

Morse was looking at his fingertips "Yes, for a while. Before I moved back to California. I set up a practice in Los Angeles. I found Los Angeles to be—"

Reece waved his hand "I'm much more interested in Mexico. than Los Angeles, Doctor. Now, why did you leave Mexico?"

Dr. Morse took a sip of water, his hands trembling. The plaintiff's lawyers looked at each other. Even the poor plaintiff seemed to have sat up higher in his wheelchair and was frowning.

"The divorce was final. I wanted to move back to the States. "

"Is that the only reason?"

The witness lost his composure for a moment as a time-lapse bloom of anger spread on his face. Finally he controlled it. "Yes. "

Reece said, "Did you run into some kind of trouble down in Mexico?"

"Trouble, like the food?"  He tried to laugh. It didn't work and he cleared his throat again and swallowed.

"Doctor, what is Ketaject?"

Pause Morse rubbed his eyes.  He muttered something.

"Louder, please," Reece asked, his own voice calm and utterly in control of himself, the witness, the universe.

The doctor repeated "It's the brand name of a drug whose generic name I don't recall."

"Could it be the brand name for ketamme hydrochloride?"

The witness whispered, "Yes. "

"And what does that do?"

Morse breathed deeply several times "It is a general anesthetic." His eyes were joined to Recce's by a current full of fear
and hate.

"And what is a general anesthetic, Doctor?"

"You know. Everybody knows. "

"Tell us anyway, please. "

"It's a solution or gas that renders a patient unconscious. "

"Doctor, when you were in Mexico, did you have a patient, a Miss Adelita Corrones, a seventeen-year-old resident of Nogales?"

Hands gripped together. Silence. He wanted water but was afraid to reach for the glass.

"Doctor, shall I repeat the question?"

"I don't recall."

"Well, I'm sure she recalls you. Why don't you think back to the St Teresa Clinic in Nogales. Think back seven years ago.
And try to recall if you had such a patient. Did you?"

"It was all a setup. They set me up." The locals—the police and the judge—blackmailed me! I was innocent."

"Doctor," Reece continued, "please just respond to my questions. " His tie was loose, his face was ruddy with excitement, and even from the back of the courtroom Taylor could see his eyes shining with lust.

"On September seventeenth of that year, pursuant to a procedure for the removal of a nevus—that is, a birthmark—from Miss Corrones's leg, did you administer Ketaject to her and then, when you perceived her to be unconscious, partially undress her, fondle her breasts and genitals and masturbate until you reached a climax?"

"Objection!" Marlow's lead lawyer was on his feet.

The judge said, "Overruled."

"No! It's a lie." the witness cried.

Reece returned to the counsel table and picked up a document "Your honor, I move to introduce Defense Exhibit Double
G a certified copy of a complaint from the federal prosecutor's office in Nogales, Mexico."

He handed it to the judge and a copy to the plaintiff's counsel, who read it, grimaced and said in disgust, "Let it in. "

"So admitted," the judge intoned and looked back to the witness.

Dr Morse's head was in his hands. "They set the whole thing up. They blackmailed me I paid the fine and they said they'd
seal the record."

"Well, I guess it's been unsealed," Reece responded "Now, the report goes on to say that the reason Miss Corrones was
aware you were molesting her was that you not only administered the wrong dosage of Ketaject but that you injected it improperly so that most of the drug didn't even reach her bloodstream. Is this what the prosecutor's report says?"

"I..."

"True or not true? Answer the question."

"They set me—"

"Is this what the report says?"

Sobbing, the man said, "Yes, but—"

"Wouldn't you say, sir, that you can hardly state my client is guilty of malpractice because of the improper administration of drugs when you can't even knock out a teenager enough to rape her?"

"Objection."

"Withdrawn."

"They set me up," the witness said "Just to blackmail me. They—"

Reece turned on him "Well, then, Doctor, did you at any time contact the law enforcement authorities in Mexico City or in the United States to report that you were being blackmailed?"

"No," he raged "I paid them the extortion money and they said I could leave the country and they'd seal the record I—"

"You mean," Reece said, "you paid the fine for your punishment. Like any other cnminal. No further questions."

Taylor found herself sitting forward on the edge of the pew. She now saw Recce's brilliant tactic. First, he'd gotten the jury's attention. Expecting petty bickering, they'd seen Reece befriend the witness, surprising them and getting them to sit up and listen. Then he got the man to say the magic word that, by rights, Reece or LaDue or anyone on the St Agnes legal team
would try never even to allow into testimony, let alone elicit themselves "malpractice".

And then, in a masterful stroke, he'd linked that characterization—that one magic word—to the witness s terrible behavior
and completely destroyed his credibility.

Taylor saw a gleam in Recce's face, a flushing of the cheeks, fists balled up in excitement.

Reece turned. He noticed Donald Burdick in the back of the courtroom. The two men looked at each other. Neither smiled, but Burdick touched his forehead in a salute of respect.

Taylor turned and looked at Burdick then behind him. Finally Randy Simms showed some emotion. His lips were tight and his eyes bored into the back of Donald Burdick's head.  He rose and stepped out of the courtroom, which was utterly silent.

Except for the sobbing of the witness.

She stopped him in the hallway of the court.

Reece smiled when he saw her.

"How'd I do?"

"How do you think? I'd say you mopped up the floor with him."

"We'll see." Reece continued, "What most lawyers don't realize is that cross-examination isn't about being an orator. It's
about having information I called a private eye. I've used out in San Diego and he dug up the dirt on the guy. Cost me—well, cost St Agnes—fifty thousand. But it saved them a lot more than that."

"You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

"Handling the cross? Yep." He hesitated a moment, and finally spoke, though whether it was what he'd originally intended to say or not she couldn't tell. "I sometimes feel bad for them—people like that witness—when I tear apart their testimony. But
in this case it was easy. He was a rapist."

"You believe he did it? What happened in Mexico?"

He considered "I chose to believe he did something wrong.  It's a mind-set thing. Hard to explain but, yes, I believe it."

Taylor reflected. You could certainly argue that their client, the hospital, had done something wrong too—destroying the plaintiff's life, and she wasn't sure if the rape, if it had actually occurred, undermined the legitimacy of Morse's opinion about that.

She said nothing about any of this though and, indeed, she secretly envied Reece his fervent view of right and wrong. For her, justice wasn't quite as clear as that. It was a moving target, like the birds she'd watch her father hunt every fall. Some he hit and some he missed and there was no grand design as to which.

"Listen," she said "I've got some leads. Have time for lunch?"

"Can't. I'm meeting one of the vice presidents from New Amsterdam. I've got to be at the Downtown Athletic Club fifteen minutes ago."

He looked around "Let's talk later. But tell you what. Come over to my place for dinner."

"I'm playing Mata Hari tonight. What's tomorrow? Friday—how's that?"

"Make it Saturday. I'm meeting with the bank people all day tomorrow and I'm sure it'll go into dinner." He fell silent as someone walked by, a sandy-haired man in coveralls, who glanced at them quickly and then continued on. Reece's eyes followed the man uneasily as he walked away.

"Paranoid," he muttered with a smile, gave her hand a fast squeeze and then left the courthouse.

On her way back to the firm Taylor's willpower faded, her lust for a fast-food burger won and she decided she'd get
something to eat.