Mistress of Justice

had used her miraculous skills at memory and association to save the butts of almost every attorney and paralegal in the firm on more than one occasion by finding obscure file folders buried among the millions of documents residing on the gray metal shelves.
    She was the doyen of the firm’s massive file room.
    Taylor now stood over Mrs. Bendix’s frothy blue hair as the woman flipped through the three-by-five cards that were her computer. Taylor silently waited for her to finish. Mrs. Bendix—even more so than a senior partner—was a person one did not interrupt. When she was through she looked up and blinked. “I was told you were in the hospital. We contributed for the flowers.”
    “They were lovely, Mrs. Bendix. I recovered more quickly than expected.”
    “They said you were almost dead.”
    “Modern medicine.”
    Mrs. Bendix was eyeing Taylor’s jeans and sweatshirt critically. “This firm has a dress code. You’re outfitted for sick leave, not work.”
    “This is a bit irregular, Mrs. Bendix. But I have a problem and you’re just about the only person who can help me.”
    “Probably am. No need to stroke.”
    “I need a case.”
    “Which one? You’ve got about nine hundred current ones to chose from.”
    “An old case.”
    “In that event, the possibilities are limitless.”
    “Let’s narrow things down. Genneco Labs. Maybe a patent—”
    “Hubbard, White does not do patent work. We never have and I’m sure we never will.”
    “Well, how about a contract for the development of bacterial or viral cultures or antitoxins?”
    “Nope.”
    Taylor looked at the rows and rows of file cabinets. A thought fluttered past, then settled. She asked, “Insurance issues, the storage of products, toxins, food poisoning and so on?”
    “Sorry, not a bell is rung, though in 1957 we did have a cruise line as a client. I got a discount and took a trip to Bermuda. I ate pasta that disagreed with me very badly. But I digress.”
    In frustration, Taylor puffed air into her cheeks.
    Mrs. Bendix said tantalizingly, “Since you said toxins, food poisoning and so on I assume you meant toxins, food poisonings and so on.”
    Taylor knew that when people like Mrs. Bendix bait you, you swallow the worm and the hook in their entirety. She said, “Maybe I was premature when I qualified myself.”
    “Well,” the woman said, “my mind harkens back to …” She closed her eyes, creasing her gunmetal eye shadow, thenopened them dramatically. “… Biosecurity Systems, Inc. A contract negotiation with Genneco for the purchase and installation of Genneco’s new security system in Teterboro, New Jersey. Two years ago. I understand the negotiations were a nightmare.”
    “Security,” Taylor said. “I didn’t think about that.”
    Mrs. Bendix said, “Apparently not.”
    “Can you tell me if anyone checked out the files on that deal in the past few months?”
    This was beyond her brain. The woman pulled the logbook out and thumbed through it quickly then held it open for Taylor to look at. Taylor nodded. “I’d like to check it out too, if you don’t mind.”
    “Surely.”
    Then a frown crossed Taylor’s face. “I wonder if we could just consider one more file. This might be trickier.”
    “I live for challenges,” Mrs. Bendix replied.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
     
    The New York State Department of Social Services worked fast.
    After one anonymous phone call to the police the West Side Club became the front-page feature in the evening edition of every tabloid in the New York area.
    Though gentlemen did not read such newspapers Ralph Dudley made an exception this once, since the
Times
wouldn’t have the story until tomorrow morning. He now sat at his desk, lit only by a single battered brass lamp and the paltry December dusk light bleeding into his office, and stared at the same article he’d already read four times. A half-dozen people were under arrest and two underage prostitutes were being placed in foster homes in upstate New York.
    Good-bye Junie, Dudley thought.
    He’d made one last trip to see her—just before he’d made the call to 911, which closed up the West Side Art and Photography Club forever.
    “Here,” he’d said, handing her a blue-backed legal document.
    She’d stared at it, uncomprehending. “Like, what is it?”
    “It’s a court order. The marshal seized your mother’s and stepfather’s bank accounts and house and they’ve put the money into a special trust fund for