Mistress of Justice

penis pressing through layers of cloth against her leg. Clayton said, “I have some toys.”
    “Do you?”
    “I can make you feel very, very good. Like you’ve never felt before.”
    She laughed and more power slipped to her side of the board. When the spell wasn’t working, his lines began to sound silly. She asked, “Why do you hate Donald Burdick?”
    “I’m not interested in talking about him. Or about the merger.”
    “Why not?”
    “I’d rather make love to you.”
    “The merger is all everybody’s talking about.”
    “Are you worried about your job? You won’t have to be. I promise you that,” he said.
    “I haven’t worried about a job for years. I’m mostly just curious why you dislike Donald Burdick so much.”
    She sat up. Clayton seemed befuddled. The evidence of his passion hadn’t diminished but he seemed uncertain—as if he had met and overcome all types of reluctance in seducing women over the years yet had suddenly run into a new defense: a barrage of questions.
    “Go on,” she said. “Tell me why.”
    “Well,” Clayton finally offered, “I don’t dislike Donald personally. He’s one of the most charming men I know. Socially, I admire him. He’s a fine representative of old money.”
    “The rumor is that you want to destroy him.”
    Clayton considered his answer. “I hear lots of rumors at the firm. I suspect those that I hear aren’t any more accurate than the ones you hear. The merger is solely business. Destroying people is far too time-consuming.…”
    Finally the partner’s spell broke completely.
    Taylor Lockwood rolled off the bed and ran her fingers through her hair. “You should go downstairs, I think. You are the host, after all.”
    Clayton tried one last time. “But …” His hand strayed across the bulging front of his slacks.
    “You know, Wendall,” Taylor said, smiling, “that’s the best compliment I’ve had in months. Does a girl’s heart good. But if you’ll excuse me.”

     
    After leaving the bedroom Taylor walked into the upstairs bathroom (which, she noticed, seemed to be in perfect working order). There she waited until Clayton was out of sight. Then she slipped into his office.
    Inside, in addition to the desk, were an armchair, a Victorian tea serving table, several floor lamps, two large armoires; there were no closets. She turned on a lamp and pushed the door partially closed.
    The desk was unlocked. Its cubbyholes were filled with hundreds of slips of paper. Bank statements, canceled checks, memos, notes, personal bills, receipts. Taylor sighed at the volume of material she’d have to look through then sat in the red-leather chair and started going through the items one by one.
    She’d been doing this for fifteen minutes when she heard a voice in the doorway say, “Ah, here you are.…”
    The man speaking was Wendall Clayton.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
     
    Taylor spun around and stood up, knocking a stack of papers to the floor. The sheets spread like spilled water.
    Wendall Clayton was outside the door, talking to someone else. Just out of his line of sight, she reached toward the papers then heard Clayton say, “Let’s go inside here for a minute, shall we?”
    Desperately she kicked the papers under the desk; they disappeared—except for the corner of one letter. She reached down for it but the door was swinging open. Taylor leapt behind the largest armoire. She pressed herself flat against the wall, her head pressing painfully into the hard, cold plaster. Another voice spoke. A man’s voice, one she recognized. Ralph Dudley asked, “What is it exactly you wanted to see me about, Wendall?”
    The door closed. Clayton said, “Have a seat.”
    “Is something wrong?”
    Clayton’s voice was curious. “I don’t remember this light being on.”
    Taylor eased back harder against the wall.
    Silence. What were they doing? Could they see the tips of her shoes, the corner of the paper under the desk? Was the chair she’d sat in still warm?
    Clayton said, “Ralph, you’re part of, I guess I’d call it, the old guard, the old-boy network at the firm.”
    “I go back a ways, that’s true.”
    “You and Donald started at about the same time, didn’t you?”
    “Bill Stanley, too. And Lamar Fredericks.”
    “I see you at the DAC with Joe Wilkins and Porter quite a bit, don’t I?”
    “Yes, we go there often. What do you—”
    “Enjoying yourself tonight, are you?”
    “Quite, Wendall.” The old partner’s voice was