Mistress of Justice

To be fair, the collision of hues was almost exclusively on the frames of the older lawyers. The younger crowd of associates were in chinos and Izod shirts or skirts and sweaters. A lot of pearls, a lot of blond hair, a lot of pretty faces.

It was Sunday, around five-thirty, and Reece and Taylor had cruise-controlled their way here along the wide parkway in a car he'd rented. They had found Clayton's place after asking directions twice and, after they'd parked, had walked into the house without knocking. They stood, u

"We're overdressed," she observed. Reece pulled his tie off and stuffed it in his pocket. "How do I look?"

"Like an overdressed lawyer who lost his tie."

He said, "I'll take the first floor. You take the second."

"Okay," she said quickly. Then she hesitated.

"What's wrong?" Reece asked.

"We're kind of like burglars, aren't we?"

He recited quickly, "Burglary is entering a dwelling without permission with the intention of committing a felony." He gave her a fast smile. "We've got permission to be here. Therefore, it's not burglary."

If you say so…

Reece disappeared and Taylor found the bar. The bartender was doing a big business with mugs of sweet, mint-laced Southsiders. Taylor shook her head at the offered drink and got a glass of Stag's Leap Chardo

Thom Sebastian.

She shivered, hearing in her mind's ear Sebastian's comment to Bosk, his warning not to get too interested in her, the dangers it implied.

"Hey," the pudgy associate said, "you recovered okay?"

"Recovered?"

"From a night out with me."

"Nothing to report to any official governmental bodies."

"Excellent." His eyes were evasive, almost as if he had something he wanted to confess to her. After a glance around the room he asked casually, "You doing anything tomorrow night?"

What was on his mind?

"I think I've got some time free."

"Maybe di

"Sure," she said.

"Great. I'll call you." He gazed at her, expressionless, for a moment and she believed suddenly, as she looked into his cryptic eyes, that if he was the thief he wanted to come clean with her.

And if he confessed and produced the note? What then? she wondered.

Reece or her father… well, they would, of course, destroy Sebastian's life: force him into leaving the practice of law in New York. But her inclination would be to reward a confession with anonymity and to let him go.

But, as she watched him walk down a corridor in search of more liquor, she realized that she was getting ahead of herself.

Find the note first, then we'll consider justice. Taylor made her way through the hallway. As she did she noticed an older woman scrutinizing her carefully, with a look of almost amused curiosity. The woman reminded her of Ada Smith, Bosk's mother. Taylor tried to avoid her but once their eyes met and held, she felt the power of a silent summons and she remained where she was as the woman approached.

"You're Taylor Lockwood," the woman said.

"Yes."

"I'm Vera Burdick, Donald's wife. "

"Nice to see you," Taylor said recalling the name from the newspaper article her father had just faxed to her. They shook hands. The woman must have seen the surprise in Taylor 's face – surprise that the Burdick camp would be represented in enemy territory. Vera said, "Donald had business tonight. He asked me to come in his stead."

"It's a nice party," Taylor said.

"Wendall was kind enough to donate his house for the evening. He does the same for the summer associates in July. It's a sort of fresh-air outing for lawyers."

Silence filled the small space between them Taylor broke the stalemate with. "Well, I think I'll mingle a little."

Vera Burdick nodded, as if her examination of Taylor had produced all the information she needed. "A pleasure seeing you again, dear. And good luck."

Taylor watched the partner's wife join a cluster of associates nearby. Good luck? As the woman's voice rose in laughter. Taylor started again for the stairs. She'd gotten halfway across the hall when she heard another voice – a man's voice, soft, directed at her. "And who are you again?" Her neck hair bristled Taylor turned to look into the face of Wendall Clayton.

She was, at first, surprised that he was only a couple of inches taller than she. Then she noticed that he was much more handsome up close than he seemed from a distance.

And then her mind went blank. For three or four seconds she was utterly without a conscious thought. Clayton's eyes were the reason. They were the eyes of a man who knew how to control people, a man to whom it would be excruciating to say no, even if he made his demands with silence.

A man exactly like her father.

"Pardon?" Taylor asked.

He smiled. "I asked who you were again?"

She thought. The same person I've always been, no "again" about it, hotshot. Then she got lost in his eyes once more and didn't try a snappy comeback. She said, "Taylor Lockwood."

"I'm Wendall Clayton."

She said, "Yes, I know. I'd thank you for inviting me, Wendall, but I'm afraid I crashed. Are you going to kick me out?" She found a smile somewhere and slipped it on, reminding herself to resist the urge to call him. "Mr. Clayton".

"On the contrary, you're probably the only person in this crew worth talking to."

"I don't think I'd go that far."

He took her arm. She had never been touched in this way. His grip wasn't a disciplinarian's or a friend's or a lover's. In the contraction of the muscles was a consuming pressure of authority. As if he'd squeezed her soul. After a moment he lowered his hand.

Clayton said, "Would you like a tour of the house?"

"Sure."

"It's an authentic 1780s."

" I -"

"Taylor! You're here." Carrie Mason trotted up to them.

"Hello, Carrie."

"Welcome." Clayton took Carrie Mason's hard-pumping hand. "Sean's not here?"

Carrie hesitated and said, "No, he had something else to do." It seemed there was a darkness in her face.

"Ah, maybe one of his performances."

"Carrie," Taylor said, "Wendall was just going to give me a tour of his house. Join us."

"Sure," the chubby girl said.

Clayton didn't appreciate that they were now a threesome but his reaction vanished as Vera Burdick walked past.

The woman stopped and extended a hand to Clayton.

He smiled and shook it graciously, clasping hers in both of his. "Vera. How good to see you again. Donald made it, I hope."

"Unfortunately not. That fund-raiser at City Hall?"

"When the mayor summons you -" Clayton said.

"The governor actually," she corrected.

"- you better go."

Taylor felt the tension between them like sparking wires Vera Burdick clearly detested the partner, and while Clayton obviously returned the feeling, it was she who easily held his eye and the lawyer who looked defensively away as he made trivial conversation.

In this tableau Taylor recognized a truth about Clayton. While the partner knew men and how to handle them, he was only comfortable with women he could sexualize or control as his lessers.

She was nearly queasy, observing a man like this feeling threatened – a powerful man and, considering that he might have engineered the theft of the New Amsterdam note, one who was quite dangerous.

"I'll leave you to your friends," Vera said, the disdain visible like breath on a cold spring day. A glance at Taylor and Carrie. A meaningless smile.

Clayton said, "I hope Donald enjoys the fund-raiser."

"Donald, you're white as snow. Damn it, man, you've got to get more fresh air. Brought your racket, I hope?"

Burdick leaned against the railing of the penthouse suite in the Fleetwood Hotel in Miami Beach and looked at the cool disk of the setting sun. "More business than pleasure today, I'm afraid, Steve."