Mistress of Justice

them really disgusting, flew back and forth. (The upper class, Taylor remembered, had by and large not been Puritans.)
    Halfway through the profiteroles and espresso with anisette, the doorbell rang. Bosk rose and a few minutes later returned with a man of about forty-five. He was introduced as Dennis Callaghan.
    Taylor disliked him at once.
    She wasn’t sure why. What she might in fairness have read as groomed, discerning and charming she believed was vain (spun, sprayed hair combed forward, a close-fitting suit with shot cuffs, gold bracelet), pompous (a disdaining lookat the children around him) and dishonest (a broad smile he could not have felt).
    He was also insulting: He ignored Taylor while he studied the bloused or sweatered breasts of every woman younger than herself at the table before turning a flattering smile on Ada with the respect due a matriarch.
    Taylor then noticed that the climate at the table had changed considerably. Sebastian’s expression was one of anger. He shot a dark, mystified glance at Bosk, who shrugged with a look that meant, It wasn’t my fault. When she saw that, Taylor’s interest immediately perked up. Perhaps Callaghan had some connection with the “project.”
    The visitor, whose beach house was apparently nearby, announced that he’d played hooky from Wall Street today to hold a couple of meetings out here and happened to notice the cars as he was driving back to the city. He thought he’d stop in and see Bosk and Sebastian.
    The man glanced at Sebastian, and Taylor saw another finger wag, just like the other night. Callaghan nodded subtly.
    And so the conversation remained social. As he sat down at the table and took a glass of wine—he’d eaten already—they talked about problems in finding grounds-keepers and the advantages and risks of helicoptering into Manhattan. Sebastian remained nervous as hell and when Taylor asked Callaghan what he did for a living the young lawyer answered for the businessman, offering quickly, “Wall Street, darling.
Everybody
out here’s on Wall Street. Well, you’ve got an artist or two from time to time—Taylor’s a musician, by the way.”
    “Really?”
    The conversation turned back to her momentarily and before she could ask anything more about Callaghan, dinner was over and Sebastian had quickly shepherded Bosk and the businessman downstairs, explaining that they were going to check out Bosk’s cigar cellar.
    No one else was invited but the herd of preppies didn’ttake any offense. Ada nodded toward the port, sherry and liqueur and, armed with yet more alcohol, this contingent ambled into the panoramic living room for more gossip.
    It was then that Taylor recalled: She hadn’t told Sebastian that she was a musician.

     
    Soon several people lit up cigarettes, Ada among them.
    The smoke gave Taylor an excuse to drain her Grand Marnier and say she was going to step outside to get some air. Whether anyone thought this was rude, or suspicious, didn’t matter; they all seemed relieved that the 7-Eleven heiress was leaving and they could spend some time dishing in earnest.
    She took her leather jacket from the closet and walked out the front door, then strolled around the house until she spotted a four-foot-deep window well. She climbed down into it. A piece of glass was loose and she worked it free. She could not see the three men downstairs but their words, carried on the warm air, streamed up to her with the awkward-sounding hesitancies of conversations overheard but not witnessed.
    “Got to be more careful,” Sebastian said. “Jesus, I shit when I saw you here.”
    Callaghan said, “We’ve still got some details to work out. And you’re impossible to get ahold of, Thom.”
    “Well, we can’t just fucking waltz into each other’s office and take a meeting now, can we? We’ve got to be careful about it, set it up ahead of time, keep everything secret.”
    Callaghan sighed. “I’ve been doing this sort of thing a lot longer than you have, Thom. We’re going to get away with it. Stop worrying so much.”
    “I’m thinking about the phones,” Bosk said. “You really think they’re bugged?”
    Sebastian said, “Of course they’re fucking bugged. Jesus, don’t be so naive.
    Bosk: “Well, I can’t run downstairs to make a call from apay phone every time I want to talk to you. Somebody sees me doing that a couple of times and what’re they going to think?”
    Sebastian: “Well, that’s what you’re going to