Mistress of Justice

it. We roomed together for, I guess, about nine or ten months. Until she died.”
    “Did you know her well?”
    “Pretty well. I read some of her pieces and did some editing for her. She wrote reviews for us and I was hoping eventually to publish some of her poems.”
    “Was she good?”
    “She was young; her work was unformed. But if she’d kept at it I know she would’ve gone someplace.”
    “What was her style like? Plath?” Taylor had read some of Sylvia Plath’s poetry and recalled that she too had committed suicide.
    Stuart said, “Her poetry was more traditionally structured than Plath’s. But her personal life? Yep, just as turbulent. The wrong men, always heartbroken. Too stoic. She needed to scream and throw things more. But she kept it all inside.”
    The food came and Danny Stuart dug eagerly into his huge mass of rabbit food. Taylor started working on the sandwich, which she decided should be named not the garden but the cardboard burger.
    “How did it happen, the suicide?” she asked.
    “She was up at her parents’ summer house in Connecticut. The back deck was above this big gorge. One night, she jumped. The fall didn’t kill her but she hit her head and got knocked out. She drowned in a stream.”
    Taylor closed her eyes and shook her head. “Did she leave a note?”
    He nodded. “Well, it wasn’t really a note. It was one of her poems. When you called and said you were curious about her I thought you’d like to see it. I made you a copy. It’s dated the day before she died. It talks about leaving life behind her, all the cares.… I was going to publish it in my magazine but, you know, I haven’t had the heart.”
    He handed her the Xerox copy. Taylor read the title: “When I Leave.”
    She looked at Danny and said, “I hope I can ask you something in confidence. Something that won’t go any further.”
    “Sure.”
    “Do you think Linda killed herself because of something that happened at work?”
    “No.”
    “You sound pretty certain.”
    “I am. I know exactly why she killed herself.”
    “I thought no one knew.”
    “Well, I did. She was pregnant.”
    “Pregnant?”
    “I don’t think anybody knew except me. She got an EPT kit? It was just a couple of weeks before she died. I saw the kit in the bathroom and asked her about it. You know, we were like girlfriends. She confided in me.”
    “But why would she kill herself?”
    “I think the father dumped her.”
    “Who was the father?”
    “I don’t know. She was seeing somebody but never talked about him or brought him around the apartment. She was real secretive about him.”
    “Breaking up … that upset her so much she killed herself?”
    Stuart considered. She thought, studying his face: poet’s eyes, artist’s eyes. Unlike Sean Lillick, this was the real thing. He said, “There’s more to it. See, Linda had no business working at that law firm. She was too sensitive. The business world was way too much for her. She got thrown too easily. Then when her personal life came crashing down I think it pushed her over the edge.”
    “But you don’t know if there was anything specific at the firm that upset her? Anything she might’ve felt guilty about?”
    “Nope. She never mentioned a word about that. And she probably would have. As I said, she and I were like, well, sisters.”
    So, the rabbit hole of Wall Street had proved too much for poor Linda Davidoff.
    Without the heart to read the girl’s suicide poem, Taylor put it in her purse and continued to eat her bland lunch while she and Danny talked about life in the Village.
    Her face broke into another major yawn. She laughed and Stuart joined her.
    “Not getting enough sleep lately?” he wondered.
    “The problem,” she explained, “is that I’ve been living an after-hours life when I’m not an after-hours person. I’m a during-hours person.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
     
    Alice was on another trip through the looking glass.
    This time, in a limo.
    Taylor and Thom Sebastian were speeding down the Long Island Expressway Friday after work. The driver’s eyes flicked to the radar detector needle as often as they glanced at the highway.
    “I’m totally psyched you came,” Sebastian said with apparent sincerity. “I thought you were going to boogie in with the Big E.”
    “E?”
    “Excuse, you know. I—”
    “Get that a lot?” she filled in.
    “Yeah.” He grimaced. “Now let me tell you about Bosk.”
    “What’s the story behind the