Mistress of Justice

a piece of cork or lint or something out of hers and they both drank.
    Then she slipped off her white plastic headband and lay back on the bed. She ran her hand over the middle part of the mattress. “What’s this?”
    “What?”
    “This lump?”
    “I don’t know. A pillowcase, I think.”
    But Carrie was frowning. “No, it’s, like, weird. You better check it out.”
    He stood up and sat on the bed next to her, rummaged under the covers to find the lump. It turned out to be not a pillowcase but a woman’s red high-heel shoe.
    “How’d that get there?” Carrie laughed, teasing.
    “I used it in one of my pieces.”
    “Uh-huh,” she said, not believing him.
    It’s true, goddamn it, he thought angrily. I’m not a fucking transvestite.…
    She looked into his eyes and, without even thinking about it, he leaned forward and kissed her. He tasted lipstick and the Binaca she’d sprayed into her mouth when he was busy pouring the wine.
    Then she lifted the red shoe away, dropped it on the floor and directed his hand to her breasts.
    This is weird.…
    Carrie reached up and turned off the skewed floor lamp. The only illumination in the room was from the display lights on the synthesizer.
    Weird …
    He began to kiss her hard, desperately, and she kissed him right back.
    She pulled off her jeans and sweater. Lillick stared at the huge breasts defined by the netlike cloth of her bra, nipples dark circles.
    He kissed her for a full minute.
    Weird
.
    Lillick realized that he’d left the recorder on the sampler running; it would store every sound in the room for the next twenty minutes. He supposed he should shut it off but in fact he didn’t really want to get up. Besides, he figured, you never knew when you could use some good sound effects.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
     
    Taylor wasn’t sure when the idea occurred to her—probably 4 or 5 A.M . as she lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the city. She was in a half-waking, half-dreaming state—in Wonderland or on the far side of the looking glass.
    She’d been thinking about the evidence she’d gathered. A brief comparison of the prints on the safe with her suspects—Sebastian, Lillick and Dudley—wasn’t conclusive but it was more likely than not that Sebastian had left several prints on the safe.
    But was there any way to verify that he—or someone else—had been in the firm that Saturday night, other than through the time sheets and key card entry logs?
    Sure, she realized, there was: The thief might’ve taken a cab or car service limo to the firm that late at night. And he might’ve just used his real name and employee number on the reimbursement or payment voucher.
    And copiers too. If he’d been in the firm for some legitimate reason he might’ve used a copier—you had to use a special key, with your number on it, to activate the machine.Or, she thought, excited about these leads, the thief might have logged onto one of the Lexis/Nexis computers.
    Or used the phone.
    Every service or function within the firm that can be charged to a client (plus a delightful 300 percent markup for overhead) is recorded in the firm computers.
    She glanced at the clock: 7:40 A.M .
    Brother.
    Exhausted, she rolled out of bed. At least she didn’t have a hangover—and she’d managed to change into boxers and a T-shirt last night, saving her skin from more stigmatas of Victoria’s Secret.
    Let’s go, Alice.… This is getting curiouser and curiouser.…
    At 9 A.M . exactly Taylor was standing in the accounting department at Hubbard, White & Willis.
    “I’m doing a bill for Mitchell Reece,” she told the computer operator. “Can you let me see the copier card, taxi and car service voucher ledger, phone records and Lexis/Nexis log-ons for last Saturday and Sunday?”
    “It’s not the end of the month.” The operator snapped her gum.
    “Mitchell wants to give the client an estimate.”
    Snap
.
    “An estimate of disbursements? It couldn’t be more than a thousand bucks. Who’d care?”
    “If you don’t mind,” Taylor said sweetly. “Please.”
    Snap
. “I guess.” The woman hunched over the keys and typed several lines. She frowned and typed again.
    Taylor bent over the computer screen. The screen was blank.
    Snap, snap …
    “I don’t know what’s going on. There’s no taxi vouchers. There
always
are on Saturday.” Taylor knew this very well. The rule was if you had to work on Saturday the firm paid for your taxi to and from your apartment or