Mistress of Justice

though when she said the words this time, they were not spoken as a question but as a command. He opened his mouth to protest, but she shook her head and touched his lips with her finger.
    He leaned close, following the motion of her finger toher own lips. They kissed hard and their arms wound around each other.
    A moment later this embrace was interrupted by several probing flashlights, their fierce halogen beams converging on the car. As Reece and Taylor leapt apart they could hear a laugh and an amused voice. “Whoa, lookit that car! Looks like it’s floating. Hank, lookit! I mean, you ever seen anything like that?”
    To which another voice replied, “I surely haven’t. Not in a month of Sundays.”

     
    At lunch on Monday, the day before the New Amsterdam trial, Taylor Lockwood sat in Mc Sorley’s Old Ale House in Manhattan and watched John Silbert Hemming down a mug of ale.
    He may not’ve been the traditional private eye who tossed back Scotch on the job but this boy loved his beer. The tall man finished his sixth mug of dark brew and called for three more. “They’re small.”
    True, they were, though Taylor was having trouble with her second. She’d drunk more wine than she’d intended at Clayton’s and had not gotten much sleep, thanks to the dip in the reservoir—and Reece’s presence in bed next to her.
    She told Hemming about the Supreme Court case that required the pub to allow women in; for many years it had been a men-only establishment.
    “Some achievement,” Hemming muttered, looking at the carved-up bare wood tables, the wishbone collection growing a dark fur of dust and the crowds of young frat boys shouting and hooting. He glowered at a drunk, beer-spilling student stumbling toward them. The boy caught the huge man’s gaze and changed direction quickly. With some true curiosity in his voice the detective asked Taylor, “Are we having a date?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Ah,” he said and nodded. “How did the fingerprints work out?”
    “Not bad. I’ll send you a postcard.”
    “If you want I’ll show you how to do plantars.”
    “Vegetable prints?”
    “Very good but no—feet, Ms. Lockwood.”
    “Taylor.”
    “Feet.”
    Taylor handed him the piece of paper with the information from the invoice she’d found in Wendall Clayton’s desk. “John, have you ever heard of this company?”
    He read, “Triple A Security? They’re not around New York. But we can assume it’s a sleazy outfit.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “It’s an old trick to get in the front of the phone book—to have your listing first. Name your company with a lot of A’s. You want me to check it out?”
    “Can you?”
    “Sure.” A waiter carrying fifteen mugs in one hand swooped past and dropped two more, unasked-for.
    “Would somebody from a security service—say, this disreputable Triple A outfit—commit a crime?”
    “Jaywalking?”
    “Worse.”
    “Stealing apples?”
    “That category. More valuable than fruit.”
    He sat up and towered over her for an instant then hunched forward again. “At the big security firms, like our place, absolutely not. You commit a crime, you lose your license and your surety bond’s invalidated. But these small outfits”—he tapped the paper—“there’s a fine line between the good guys and the bad guys. I mean, somebody’s got to
plant
the bugs that my company finds, right? And planting bugs is illegal.”
    “Any funny stuff?”
    “That’s not a term of art in my profession.”
    “Say, hypothetically, trying to run somebody off the road.”
    “Run somebody off …”
    Taylor whispered, “… the road.”
    Hemming hesitated a moment and said, “This sort ofplace—Triple A Security—yeah, you could possibly find somebody there who might be willing to do that. Worse too.”
    Taylor finished the bitter dark ale. She opened her purse, pulled out a twenty and signaled the waiter.
    “Is there a Mr. Lockwood?” Hemming asked.
    “Yes, but you wouldn’t really like my father.”
    “Well, anything in the fiancé-boyfriend category. You know, those pesky fellows that tend to get there first?”
    “Not exactly.”
    John Silbert Hemming said, “How about dinner?”
    “Can’t.”
    “I was going to let
you
take
me
out so you could deduct it.”
    She laughed and said, “I’ve got plans for the immediate future.”
    “Plans are what contractors and shipbuilders use.”
    “Some other time?” she asked. “I mean it.”
    “Sure,”