Mistress of Justice

message has been deleted.”
    She hung up the receiver.
    Taylor pulled on her raincoat and walked through the half-lit corridors. The Slavic cleaning women in their blue uniforms moved from office to office with their wheeled carts. Taylor could hear the whine of vacuums coming from different directions. She imagined she could smell sour gunpowder, as if Reece had in fact fired real bullets from the heavy pistol. But she realized, as she passed a conference room littered with a thousand papers, that the smell was only the residue of cigar smoke. Earlier in the evening a deal had perhaps closed here. Or maybe it’d fallen apart. Or maybe negotiations had been postponed till tomorrow or the next day. In any case the participants had abandoned the room for the time being, leaving behind only the pungent aroma of tobacco as the evidence of that success or failure or uncertainty.
    The police had gone. Burdick had gone. The partner would need some rest—he’d have plenty to do in the morning. More favors would have to be called in. Taylorsuspected, though, that Donald Burdick and his wife would have a sizable inventory remaining.
    She continued through the firm, pressed a door latch button and stepped into the lobby. The door swung closed behind her and when the elevator arrived she stepped in wearily.
    Outside, Wall Street was nearly as quiet as the halls of Hubbard, White & Willis. This neighborhood was a daytime place. It worked hard and curled up to sleep early. Most of the offices were dark, the bartenders had stopped pouring drinks, cabs and cars were few.
    Occasionally someone in a somber overcoat would appear from a revolving door then vanish into a limo or cab or down a subway stairwell. Where, she wondered, were they going? To one of Sebastian’s clubs, to pursue some private lust like Ralph Dudley, to plot a coup like Wendall Clayton?
    Or maybe just to retreat to their apartments or houses for a few hours’ sleep before the grind began again tomorrow?
    What a place this was, the topsy-turvy land at the bottom of the rabbit hole.…
    But, Taylor considered, was this
her
land?
    Alice’s trips to Wonderland and the Looking-Glass world had, after all, been dreams and the girl had eventually wakened from them.
    She couldn’t, for the moment, say.
    Taylor flagged down a cab, got in and gave the driver the address of her apartment building. As the dirty vehicle squealed away from the curb she slouched down in the seat, staring at the greasy Plexiglas divider.
    Thank you for not smoking. 50-cent surcharge after 8 p.m.
    The cab was a block away from her apartment when she leaned forward and told the driver she’d changed her mind.

     
    Taylor Lockwood sat in the spotlight.
    Dimitri twisted his curly hair and leaned over the microphone. (His habitual suspicion left when she told him,“I’ll play for free. You keep the receipts—all of them—but the tips’re mine. And, Dimitri: No satin touch. Not tonight, okay?”)
    “Ladies and gentlemen …”
    She whispered ominously, “Dimitri.”
    “… it is my pleasure to present Miss Taylor Lockwood at the piano.”
    He hit the switch controlling the faux spotlight. She smiled at the crowd and touched the keys, cold and smooth as glass, enjoying their yielding resilience as she began to play. After half an hour Taylor looked out into the cockeyed lights, brilliant starbursts beaming at her, so bright she couldn’t see the patrons. Maybe the wobbly tables were completely occupied. Or maybe the place was empty. In any event, if anyone
was
in the audience they were listening in absolute silence.
    She smiled, not to them but only for herself, and swayed slowly as she played a medley of Gershwin that she herself had arranged, all revolving around
Rhapsody in Blue
. Tonight she improvised frequently, playing jazzy harmonies and clever riffs, allowing the music to carry itself, the notes soaring and regrouping, then flying to risky altitudes. But Taylor Lockwood never let go completely and was careful to alight at regular intervals on the theme; she knew how much people love the melody.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
     
    Jeffery Deaver’s novels have appeared on a number of bestseller lists around the world, including the
New York Times
, the
London Times
and the
Los Angeles Times
. The author of sixteen novels, he’s been nominated for four Edgar Awards from the Mystery Writers of America and an Anthony award and is a two-time recipient of the
Ellery Queen
Reader’s Award