Mistress of Justice

wondered what was going on.
    But as he stared at the brown and gray expanse of the Bronx beneath him his thoughts returned to Wendall Clayton’s funeral, held in an Episcopalian church on Park Avenue. The minister’s words came clearly to mind.
    I recall one time when I happened to meet Wendall; it was a Saturday evening, late. We happened to be strolling up Madison Avenue together, he returning from the firm, I from some function at my congregation.…
    The minister had foresaken the pulpit and, like a talk show host, walked down into his audience.
     … and we passed a few moments in idle conversation. Though we were in very different places in our lives I saw that there were striking similarities between his profession and mine
.
He voiced some concern for a young man or woman, a lawyer at his firm, who was suffering from doubts. Wendall wanted to inspire this protégé to be the best lawyer they might be …
    Hundreds of people. Most of the partners from Hubbard, White & Willis, many associates, many friends had attended.
     … just as I in my own way deal with spiritual doubt in our young people.…
    Quite a church, Reece recalled. Huge, pointy, Gothic, solid. All the joists and beams met in perfect unison—high in the air. It was a fitting place for an aristocratic man to be eulogized.
    Then he thought back to another death at the firm—Linda Davidoff’s. Her funeral, Reece decided, had been much better. The church was tamer, the minister more upset. It seemed to Reece preferable to get more tears and fewer words from men of the cloth at times of mourning.
    Clayton’s Upper East Side minister had been correct about one thing, though: He and Clayton had indeed been cut from the same bolt—noblemen and medieval clergy. In tarot cards pentacles would be their suit. Choose this sign for dark men of power and money.
    Aggressive men.
    The minister was seizing an opportunity to preach, just as Clayton had seized a chance of his own—and had died as a consequence of his reach.
    The sudden grind and windy slam of the plane’s wheels coming down interrupted Reece’s thoughts. And as he glanced out the window, Reece decided it was ironic that he saw below him the huge cluster of dense graveyards in Queens—a whole city of a graveyard. He watched until it vanished under the wing and they landed.
    As he walked down the ramp toward the terminal Reece saw his last name on a card being held up by a limo driver.
    “Is that for
Mitchell
Reece?” he asked.
    “Yes, sir. You have luggage?”
    “Just this.”
    The man took his bags.
    Reece gave him the address of the firm.
    “We’re supposed to stop someplace else, sir.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’m afraid there’s some kind of problem.”
    Reece climbed into the back of the Lincoln. “What kind of problem?”
    “An emergency of some kind.”
    Forty minutes later the driver pulled up in front of yellow-painted doors at an annex to Manhattan General Hospital. It was deserted, except for some big blue biohazard containers and a bloody gurney sitting by itself. It seemed as if a body had just been pulled from it and hauled off to a pauper’s grave.
    Inside, Reece stopped at a reception desk and was directed down a long, dim corridor.
    He found the basement room he sought and pushed open the door.
    Gray-faced and red-eyed, Taylor Lockwood blinked in surprise at his entrance and shut off the soap opera she was watching.
    She smiled. “Mitchell, it’s you! Kiss me—it’s not contagious—then see if you can scarf up some food. I’m starving to death.”

     
    Suck on ice,” Reece said when he returned a few minutes later.
    Taylor frowned.
    “I asked them what you could have to eat. They said you should suck on ice.”
    She nodded at the IV. “Glucose. It’s pure carbohydrates. I’m dying for a hamburger.”
    Reece gave her a Life Saver. “You look, well, awful.”
    “ ‘Awful’ is a compliment, considering how I did look. The nurse tells me I’ve recovered incredibly well.”
    “What happened?”
    Taylor nodded. “I was stupid. I’m sure
my
phone was bugged too, either at my apartment or cubicle. I should’vethought about that. Anyway, we got busted—somebody overhead us. And then at lunch yesterday this guy sits down next to me. He drops a book—I mean,
pretends
to drop a book—and when I bent down to pick it up for him I think he squirted botulism culture into my soup.”
    “Jesus, botulism? The most dangerous food poisoning