Mistress of Justice

not my granddaughter and then … they might find out the real situation. Besides, I’ve borrowed against my partnership draw so much the firm’d fire me if they knew I was spending my time on a project that wasn’t making Hubbard, White any money.”
    He looked up, wretched and lost. “I’m really not a very good lawyer. I can charm people, I can entertain clients … but this is the only real law I’ve done in years.”
    “Prove it to me.”
    He said stiffly, “I don’t think I owe you anything more.”
    Once again the same dark power she’d felt before filled Taylor Lockwood’s heart and she whispered harshly, “Prove it to me or I go to the cops.”
    A wounded animal, Dudley hesitated. Then he glanced down, opened his briefcase. Shoved it toward her.
    She knew little about trusts and estates law but it was clear that these documents—petitions to the Surrogate’s Court, copies of cases and correspondence—bore out what he’d told her.
    “You were in the firm early Sunday morning after Thanksgiving.”
    “Yes” he answered as if he were a witness under cross-examination.
    “You used Thom Sebastian’s key?”
    “Yes. I didn’t want anybody to know I was in that night. I got there about one-thirty. After I’d been to the West Side Club.”
    She asked, “Where
were
you in the firm?”
    “Just the library and my office. The rest room. The canteen—for some coffee.”
    “Did you see anyone else there?”
    Dudley rocked slowly back and forth on the trash can, under the rain of harsh streetlight. His breath popped out in small puffs as he worried the tear in his coat. “As a matter of fact,” he answered, “I did.”

     
    The loft door was open. She paused in the hallway, seeing the trapezoid of ashen light fall into the corridor. Taylor felt a jab of panic. In a burst of frightening memory she remembered the white car driving them off the road and, though at the time she believed the thief had intended only to scare them, she thought for an instant that the man had come back and killed Mitchell. She ran to the door and pushed inside.
    He was lying on the couch, wearing blue jeans and a wrinkled dress shirt. His hair was mussed and his arms lolled at his sides. His eyes stared unmoving at the ceiling.
    “Mitchell?” she asked. “Are you all right?
    He turned on his side slowly and looked at her. A faint smile. “Must’ve dozed off.”
    Taylor crouched next to him and took his hand. “I thought … you were hurt or something.”
    She felt the slight pressure of his hand on hers. He looked at her jacket and jeans. “What happened to you?”
    Taylor laughed. “Little wrestling match.”
    “Are you all right?”
    “You should see the other guy.” Then she said, “I know who the thief is.”
    “What?” His eyes returned to life. “Who?”
    “Wendall Clayton.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I eliminated Thom and Dudley.” She told him about Sebastian’s adventure with the police and the old partner’s attack on her. Then she said, “Clayton let the thief in that night.”
    “But he wasn’t in the firm,” Reece said.
    “Yes he was. Dudley saw him. And Clayton’s key entry didn’t show up because he got to the firm on
Friday.”
    Reece nodded, eyes closing at the obvious answer. “Of course. He was there all weekend, working on the merger. He didn’t leave until Sunday. He stayed two nights. Must’ve slept on the couch. I should’ve thought about that.”
    Taylor continued. “I just went back to the firm and checked his time sheets. We would’ve seen that he’d ordered food in and made phone calls and photocopies but all those records were erased, remember?”
    Reece’s smile faded. “That doesn’t mean he stole the note though.”
    “But Dudley told me something else. About three-thirty or four on Sunday morning he saw this man, like a janitor, walking through the firm with an envelope. Dudley thought it was odd that he was carrying something like that. He noticed he went into Clayton’s office with the envelope but came out without it. Dudley didn’t say anything to him—or to anyone else about him—because he was working on something unrelated to firm business.
    “I talked to my private detective. He said there is a Triple A Security—the receipt I found in Wendall’s desk—and he checked the grapevine. It’s in Florida. He said they’re a firm that has a reputation for doing labor work. Which he tells me is a euphemism for rough stuff, like