Mistress of Justice

Donald? I can’t believe it. Whoever stole the note risked not only my career but risked losing a client as well—if we lost the case. There’s no way Donald would’ve put New Amsterdam at risk.”
    Taylor countered, “But there
was
no risk. At the very worst, if we hadn’t found the note, Donald would’ve sent his thief to get the note back from Clayton’s office and it would’ve shown up on the file room floor or someplace in time for you to introduce it at trial.”
    Reece nodded, considering this. “And look how well Burdick covered everything up. The medical examiner, the prosecutor, the press … Nobody knows about the promissory note theft. And everything else—the evidence we found in Clayton’s office, the real suicide note—I’m sure Burdick’s shredded it by now.” But then Reece shook his head. “Let’s think about this. If it
is
Burdick remember that he’s real tight with City Hall and Albany. We can’t trust the police. We’ll go to the U.S. attorney’s office; I’ve still got friends there. I’ll call them—”
    “But didn’t Donald call somebody in the Justice Department?” she asked. “After they found the body?”
    Reece paused. “I don’t remember. Yeah, I think he did.”
    Taylor said, “You’re going to Boston tomorrow for the settlement closing. Do you know anybody in Justice up there?”
    “Yeah, I do. I haven’t talked to him for a while. Let’s see if he’s still there.” He walked to his desk and found his addressbook and picked up the phone. But he looked at it warily.
    “Bugs?” Taylor asked.
    “Let’s not take any chances—we’ll go downstairs.”
    On the street they found a pay phone and Reece made a credit card call.
    “Sam Latham, please.… Hey, Sam, Mitchell Reece.”
    The men apparently knew each other well and Taylor deduced from the conversation that they’d both been prosecutors in New York some years ago. After a few whatever-happened-to’s, Reece told him their suspicions about Clayton’s death. They made plans to meet at the U.S. attorney’s office in Boston the next day, after the Hanover settlement closing. He hung up.
    “He’s getting his boss and an FBI agent to meet with me.”
    Taylor felt a huge weight lifted from her. At last the authorities were involved. This was the way the system was supposed to work.
    They returned upstairs. Reece closed the front door and latched it then walked up behind her, enfolded her in his arms. She leaned her head back and slowly turned so that they were face-to-face.
    He glanced at the table, where the meal sat unfinished: the exceptionally good tortellini salad, the cold wine, the sagging bread. She smiled and, with her fingertips, turned his head back to face her.
    She kissed him hard.
    Without a word they walked to Reece’s bed.

     
    So far, not so good …
    Thom Sebastian sat back in his office chair, pushing aside the documents he’d been working on all morning, a revolving credit agreement for New Amsterdam Bank.
    He should have been comfortable, should have been content. But he was troubled.
    Wendall Clayton, the man who’d destroyed his chances for partnership at Hubbard, White, was gone—as dead as a shot pheasant in one of the hunting prints hanging in the partner’s office.
    Good.
    But his life didn’t really
feel
good. He had a brooding sense that his entire world was about to be torn apart. And this terrified him.
    Three times he reached for the phone, hesitated, put his hands flat on his thick thighs and remained where he was.
    He peeked under his blotter and saw the notes he’d gathered on Taylor Lockwood over the past ten days or so.
    Taylor Lockwood … the sole reason that things weren’t so good.
    Come on, Mr. Fucking Negotiator, make a decision.
    But ultimately, he knew, there was no decision at all. Because there was only one thing to do.
    The problem was finding the courage to do it.

     
    The next morning Reece called Taylor from Boston.
    She was at her apartment; she’d decided it was safest to stay away from the firm. He called to report that the settlement had gone well. The money from the Hanover settlement had been safely wired into a New Amsterdam account and he’d endured Lloyd Hanover’s relentless glare and potshots at lawyers throughout the closing.
    Reece was on his way to meet with his friend in the U.S. attorney’s office.
    “I miss you,” he said.
    “Hurry home,” she told him. “Let’s get this behind us and go back and ski for