Mistress of Justice

gaze, what to Clayton—had the fucking prick even noticed—must have seemed like a grin of madness: teeth bared, eyes crinkling in a psychotic squint.
    “We’d like to make you a partner, Thom—you’re respected here—but you understand that economies have to be effected.”
    Meaning simply that Sebastian was not a clone of Wendall Clayton and was, therefore, expendable.
    Effecting economies …
Oh, how that term—pure corporatespeak—had inflamed him like acid.
    Listening to Clayton, he’d lowered his head and had seen something resting on the partner’s desk: an inlaid dish of Arabic design. Sebastian’s eyes had clung to the dish as if he could encapsulate the terrible reality in the cloisonné and escape, leaving his sorrow trapped behind him.
    And now he thought about the problem of Taylor Lockwood.
    But he tried as hard as he could to push her away, put her out of his mind, and replaced her with the image of the juggler once more.
    He glanced at his watch.
    Okay, let’s do it. He stood up from the bar, told the bartender he’d be back in five.
    So far …

     
    Without really thinking about it, the man in the Dodge reached over to the passenger seat and felt the breakdown—a Remington automatic 12-gauge shotgun.
    Six shells in the extended magazine. Six more wedged into the seat, business end down.
    He wasn’t concentrating on the hardware, though; his eyes were on the woman walking down the street toward the fat boy, Thom Sebastian, who waved at her, smiling a weird smile. Looking all shit-his-pants.
    All right, so this bitch was the one.
    The man in the Dodge watched her, wondering what kind of body she had underneath the overcoat. He would’ve liked it if she’d been wearing high heels. He liked high heels, not those stupid black flat shoes this broad wore.
    The man in the Dodge checked for blue-and-whites and pedestrians who might block the shot.
    Clear street, clear shooting zone.
    He eased the car forward then braked slowly to a halt twenty feet from the woman. She glanced at him with casual curiosity. Her eyes met his and, as he lifted the gun, she realized what was going down. She screamed, holding up her hands.
    Nowhere for her to run …
    He aimed over the bead sight and pulled the trigger. The huge recoil stunned his shoulder. He had a fast image of the woman as she took one load of buckshot in the side, a glancing hit. He fired two more toward her back but the way she fell, it seemed that only one cluster struck her and even that wasn’t a square hit.
    Well, if she wasn’t dead yet she probably would be soon. And at the very worst she’d be out of commission for months.
    People screamed and horns wailed as cars screeched to a halt, avoiding the pedestrians who dived into the street for safety.
    The man in the Dodge accelerated fast to the next intersection, skidded through the red then slowed and, once out of sight of the hit, drove carefully uptown, well within the speed limit, diligently stopping at every red light he came to.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
     
    Thom Sebastian, hands cuffed, was led into the precinct house by two uniformed cops.
    Everybody stared at him—the cops, the drunk drivers, the hookers, a lawyer or two.
    “Man,” somebody whispered.
    It was the blood, which covered Sebastian’s jacket and white shirt. Nobody could figure out how somebody could be covered with this much blood and not have a dozen stab wounds.
    The chubby lawyer slumped on a bench, waiting for the booking officer to get around to him, staring at his brown wing tips. A girl sat next to him, a tall black hooker with a tank top and hot pants under her fake fur coat. She looked at the blood then shook her head quickly, a shiver.
    “Jesus,” she whispered.
    Sebastian felt a shadow over him, someone walking close. He looked up and blinked.
    Taylor Lockwood said, “Are you all right? The blood …”
    Sebastian nodded then closed his eyes and lowered his head again slowly. “Nosebleed,” he muttered.
    The desk sergeant said gruffly to her, “Who’re you?”
    Taylor said, “What happened?”
    He looked over her black nylons, short black skirt and leather jacket. “Get outta here, lady. He’s missin’ his date for the night.”
    A bit of her father’s temper popped within her. “And I’m making the trip down here to meet with my client. So I guess I’m missing mine too. Anything else you’d like to put on the record?”
    The man’s face reddened. “Hey, I didn’t know you was a