Mistress of Justice

basically a blueprint about how to break into the place. You checked the file out and gave the information to your hit man. He broke in, stole some botulism culture and poisoned me!”
    “No, I swear I didn’t.”
    “And when that didn’t work you sent him to stab me. Well, he’s
dead
, Donald. How do you like that?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He started to turn and walk away.
    “No!” Taylor cried. “Don’t move.” She thrust the gun toward him. The partner stumbled backward, lifting his hands helplessly.
    “Taylor!” Reece shouted.
    “No!” she screamed and cocked the gun. Burdick backed against the wall, his eyes huge disks of terror. Reece froze.
    They stood in those positions for a long minute. Taylor stared at the gun, as if willing it to fire by itself.
    “I can’t,” she whispered finally. “I can’t do it.”
    The gun drooped.
    Reece stepped forward slowly and took the pistol from her. He put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s all right,” he whispered.
    “I wanted to be strong,” she said. “I wanted to kill him.
    But I can’t do it.”
    Burdick said to them both, “I swear I had nothing to do—”
    She pulled away from Reece’s arm and faced Burdick in her fury. “You may think you have the police and the mayor and everyone else in your pocket but it’s not going to stop me from making sure you spend the rest of your life in jail!”
    Taylor grabbed a telephone off the table.
    The partner shook his head. “Taylor, whatever you think, it’s not true.”
    She had just started dialing when a hand reached over, lifted the receiver away from her and replaced it in the cradle.
    “No, Taylor …,” Mitchell Reece said. He sighed and lifted the gun, the muzzle pointing at her like a single black pearl. “No,” he repeated softly.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
     
    She gave a faint laugh of surprise.
    Much the same sound that Mitchell Reece himself had uttered when she told him a few days ago that Clayton had been murdered. Then her smile faded and with bottomless horror in her voice she said, “What are you doing?”
    His face was stone, his eyes expressionless, but the answer was clear.
    “You, Mitchell?” she whispered.
    Donald Burdick said, “One of you tell me what’s going on here.”
    Reece ignored him. Still holding the gun on both of them, he walked to the door, looked outside, made sure the corridor was empty and returned. He said to her angrily, “Why the hell didn’t you stop when you should have, Taylor? Why? It was all planned out so carefully. You ruined it.”
    Burdick, horrified, said, “Mitchell, it was you? You killed Wendall Clayton?”
    Taylor’s eyes closed for a brief moment. She shook her head.
    Reece told her, “Wendall Clayton killed the woman I loved.”
    Taylor frowned then said, “Linda? Linda Davidoff!”
    Reece nodded slowly.
    “Oh, my God …”
    After a moment Reece said, “It was all about a man and a woman. As simple as that.” His eyebrows rose. “A man who’d never had time for relationships, a woman who was beautiful and creative and brilliant. Two people who’d never been in love before. Not real love. It wasn’t a good combination. An ambitious, tough lawyer. Best in law school, best at the firm … The woman was a poet—shy, sensitive. Don’t ask me how they became close. Opposites attract, maybe. A secret romance in a Wall Street law firm. They worked together and started going out. They fell in love. She got pregnant and they were going to get married.”
    A moment passed and Reece seemed to be hefting the words to select among them. Finally he continued, “Wendall was working on a case one weekend, and he needed a paralegal. Linda’d cut way back on her hours—that’s when she’d stopped working for me and Sean Lillick took over. But she still worked occasionally. She did a few assignments for Wendall Clayton and he got obsessed with her. One weekend in September he found out she was at her parents’ summer house in Connecticut, not far from his place. He went to see her, tried to seduce her. She called me, crying. But before I could get up there or she could get away there was a struggle and she fell into the ravine. She died. Clayton left her poem to make it look like a suicide.”
    “This whole thing,” Taylor whispered, “it was fake. You lied about everything.… Your mother, in the hospital? You weren’t going to see her at all. You were going to Scarsdale—to take flowers to