Mistress of Justice

was, of course, the paralegals—and the support staff—who had the best access to information at the firm. As with the butlers and maids on
Upstairs, Downstairs
, the higher echelons of the firm babbled like schoolgirls in front of the hired help at Hubbard, White & Willis. This is why Clayton had swooped down on poor Lillick last year and began bribing him for information.
    Lillick swallowed and looked down. “I think I’ve already done enough.”
    “You’ve been very helpful,” the partner agreed smoothly.
    “I don’t want to help you anymore.” He looked in the direction Carrie had disappeared.
    Clayton nodded. There were times to push and times to placate. “I know it’s been tough for you. But everything you’ve done has been for the good of everybody who works here.” He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We’re very close, Sean, close to winning. And if we win, well, that’ll be … rewarding for the whole firm, you included.”
    When the paralegal said nothing more Clayton said, “There’ve been some defections. I need any unusual phone calls that Burdick might’ve made. Travel plans. Anything like that. He’s a desperate man and desperate men are his enemy’s best friends. Know why? Because they make mistakes. You understand that?”
    “Yessir.”
    “You’re grasping it, you’re committing it to memory?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. Find something and it’ll be worth a lot of money. I mean five-figure money.”
    Clayton said nothing further but just leveled his eyes at the boy. After thirty seconds Lillick said slowly, “Let me look around. See if I can find something sort of helpful.”
    “Ah, wonderful,” Clayton said. “Actually, though, it really has to be
very
helpful. I don’t have any time left for subtleties.”

     
    Every color clashed.
    Taylor Lockwood looked over the apparel of the crowd milling in the living room of Wendall Clayton’s country home in Redding, Connecticut. She saw plaid. She saw lemon yellow with orange. She saw lime shirts with red slacks.
    She saw madras!
    Her mother had told her about madras: In the ancien régime of the sixties, star-burst tie-dye marked the hippies; madras flagged the nerds.
    To be fair, the collision of hues was almost exclusively on the frames of the older lawyers. The younger crowd of associates were in chinos and Izod shirts or skirts and sweaters. A lot of pearls, a lot of blond hair, a lot of pretty faces.
    It was Sunday, around five-thirty, and Reece and Taylor had cruise-controlled their way here along the wide parkway in a car he’d rented. They had found Clayton’s place after asking directions twice and, after they’d parked, had walked into the house without knocking. They stood, unnoticed, in the entrance foyer.
    “We’re overdressed,” she observed.
    Reece pulled his tie off and stuffed it in his pocket. “How do I look?”
    “Like an overdressed lawyer who lost his tie.”
    He said, “I’ll take the first floor. You take the second.”
    “Okay,” she said quickly. Then she hesitated.
    “What’s wrong?” Reece asked.
    “We’re kind of like burglars, aren’t we?”
    He recited quickly, “Burglary is entering a dwelling without permission with the intention of committing a felony.” He gave her a fast smile. “We’ve got permission to be here. Therefore, it’s not burglary.”
    If you say so …
    Reece disappeared and Taylor found the bar. The bartender was doing a big business with mugs of sweet, mint-laced Southsiders. Taylor shook her head at the offered drink and got a glass of Stag’s Leap Chardonnay. Before the first sip a man was right beside her, gripping her arm.
    Thom Sebastian.
    She shivered, hearing in her mind’s ear Sebastian’s comment to Bosk, his warning not to get too interested in her, the dangers it implied.
    “Hey,” the pudgy associate said, “you recovered okay?”
    “Recovered?”
    “From a night out with me.”
    “Nothing to report to any official governmental bodies.”
    “Excellent.” His eyes were evasive, almost as if he had something he wanted to confess to her. After a glance around the room he asked casually, “You doing anything tomorrow night?”
    What was on his mind?
    “I think I’ve got some time free.”
    “Maybe dinner?”
    “Sure,” she said.
    “Great. I’ll call you.” He gazed at her, expressionless, for a moment and she believed suddenly, as she looked into his cryptic eyes, that if he
was
the thief he wanted to come