Fatal Reaction

but motion. I opened the door of the car, scrambled out onto the sidewalk, and pulled my briefcase out behind me. Then, startled by what I’d done, I tried to stammer out some kind of explanation. But by the time I turned around Stephen had already pulled away.
     

CHAPTER 4
     
    I pushed through the revolving doors of my building and crossed the gray marble of the lobby, which that morning seemed as sterile and oppressive as a tomb. Stopping at the newsstand, I bought a king-size bag of M&M’s for my breakfast. Then I took the elevator to the forty-second floor.
    Passing through the imposing double mahogany doors of Callahan, Ross, Peterman & Seidel, I produced a distracted wave for Lillian, the receptionist. On becoming a partner I had been surprised to learn that, in addition to picking up her weekly hairdressing tab, the firm paid her more than they paid a first-year lawyer. Lillian acknowledged my arrival with a regal nod of her head and then went back to the serious business of answering the phone, murmuring the firm’s multiple names into her headset with the reverence of a prayer.
    Callahan Ross is the third largest law firm in the city, one of the dozen or so biggest in the world. It is also an old firm—old moneyed, old-line, and old-fashioned—the kind of WASP institution forged long ago by men who assumed that theirs was an association of gentlemen and would always be so. Things do change at a place like this—I wouldn’t be there if they didn’t—but usually someone has to die first.
    Turning the corner into my office I made a face at my secretary, Cheryl, who was busy on the phone. She took one look at the bag of M&M’s in my hand and rolled her eyes. I shrugged off my coat and hung it up in the closet, frowning at myself in the dim mirror that hung inside the door. I tucked a stray wisp of my dark hair back into its usual French twist and gave a couple of hairpins a shove for good measure. I thought about putting on some lipstick but decided it wouldn’t do any good.
    When I kicked the closet door shut I found Cheryl waiting for me, a cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of pink message slips in the other. She looked very well put together in a deep blue suit. I was on the verge of complimenting her on it when I remembered that it was an old one of mine that I’d given her at the end of last season.
    “Which do you want first?” she asked, offering me both. I took the coffee cup and we made for our usual places—me to my desk and Cheryl to the wing chair I’d rescued from one of my mother’s many redecorations.
    “What’s been going on?” I asked.
    “Maybe you’d better have your M&M’s first,” Cheryl suggested. She was three years younger than I was, with an intelligent, heart-shaped face and straw-colored hair.
    “That bad?”
    “Larry Hanlon at Dexter & Brock is screaming for the registration documents on Nuland Petroleum and Bob Preston says that Lydia Cavanaugh’s investment bankers are having heart attacks about the valuation figures that you okayed as final. Oh, and Mrs. McCreary has already called me twice this morning. She’s threatening bodily harm if you don’t turn in your time sheets.”
    Mrs. McCreary was the firm’s billing administrator. All the lawyers were accountable to her for keeping track of their time, which was billed to the client in six-minute increments—tenths of an hour.
    “She made me promise that you’d have them in by the end of the day. I also didn’t know if you’d make it back in time, so I rescheduled your ten-thirty conference call for one o’clock. Also, Ted Nicholdson at First Chicago wants to set up a meeting today or tomorrow to go over the offering documents on McKenna. Oh, and John Guttman just called. He wants to see you right away.”
    “What did he want?” I asked, reaching for chocolate. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Cheryl whispered, suddenly catching sight of him coming down the hall. “Here he comes.” She sprang to her feet and beat a hasty : retreat.
    I took a deep breath and mentally braced myself. “What’s this about you not being willing to help Stephen Azorini on this deal with Takisawa?” demanded Guttman, charging in without even bothering to knock. “Isn’t this exactly what I warned you about yesterday?”
    “Why don’t you have a seat, John,” I said quietly. Inside I was seething. The minute I’d gotten out of the car Stephen must have gotten on his mobile to Guttman, looking