determined, with Walsh's words a faint memory. She might have been an amateur detective, but she was a professional lawyer. And this was lawyer's work.
She conceptualized her task as a legal case, about to be tried. The case she had to prove was that Whittier had made Trevor kill Honor Newlin and that he had done so to get the money from the Buxton estate. She needed exhibits to make her case and there had to be a paper trail in Whittier's office, some document, accounting records, or something in the wills. Anticipation quickened her pace. The paper trail had to begin, or end, with Whittier.
She checked her watch as she hurried along. Eight o'clock. Late enough. She hoped everybody would be gone and she couldn't wait any longer. She would search all night if that's what it took. She wouldn't stop until she made her case, piece by piece. Paper by paper. As she approached the building, she reached into her handbag and popped on her sunglasses in case anybody recognized her. She had already pulled her hair back into a low ponytail to complete a sketchy disguise, which was all she needed. The rest she would accomplish with sheer attitude.
Mary drew herself up to her full five feet two inches, reminded herself she had attended an Ivy League law institution, and pushed open the glistening door to the lobby like a self-important lawyer, which was redundant. The lobby was opulent and the young security guard decorated with gold epaulets, but Mary hurried past him to the elevator with her newfound professionalism.
'Miss? Miss,' he called after her. 'You have to show building ID after hours.'
'Oh, no. Sorry.' Mary hustled halfway toward the desk, then stopped in fraudulent agitation. 'I don't work here, my sister does.'
'I knew you weren't a lawyer.'
Mary forced a hasty smile. So much for professionalism. 'Listen, you gotta help me! Call nine-one-one!' She hurried back toward the last elevator bank, which serviced the
twenty-third to the thirtieth floors. Tribe amp; Wright was on twenty-five to thirty. 'Hurry!'
'What?' The guard looked alarmed. 'Why?'
'My sister's on the twenty-third floor, in labor! She's having her baby! She just called me on the cell phone!' Mary slammed the button for the elevator and the doors slid open. 'Call nine-one-one! See you on twenty-three! Don't forget! Twenty-three!' She leapt into the elevator and hit the button to close its doors. 'Hurry!'
'Okay! Tell her don't push!' called the guard, and she heard him pick up the phone as the doors slid closed.
Mary hit the button for thirty, the top floor of Tribe's six floors. If Tribe were like the other big firms, Whittier's office would be on the top floor. Nearer my God, to thee. The elevator whisked her skyward, and she leaned against the cab wall with relief. The security guard would go to twenty-three; she would go to thirty. Sufficiently far apart to give her time to search Whittier's office and run. As relieved as she was that her plan was working, she felt a prick of conscience that she had lied, and so effectively, right after church. What turned a good Catholic into a good liar?
Law school.
TRIBE amp; WRIGHT, read the gilt Roman letters on the paneled wall. Mary knew she had the right floor as soon as the elevator doors opened. The smell of fresh paint and the newness of the rug tipped her off; the aftermath of Trevor's shooting. The firm would have wanted to put that incident behind it quickly and overnight repairs would be in order.
She hurried off the elevator. The reception area was elegant, and the overhead lights in the common areas had been left on. Under glass on the reception desk was a map of the floor layout, and she crossed to it quickly. She didn't have much time before the security guard and paramedics came looking for her and her allegedly pregnant sister.
In the meantime, she'd grab any documents that looked relevant and get the hell out of there.
Mary checked the floor map, running a finger down the row of partners' offices, past Jack's name to Whittier's. It was right down the hall. She paused, listening. It was silent and looked empty; no sound on the Power Floor. Of course, nobody at this level would be working this late; those lawyers worked on the Loser Floor. She hustled down the hall straight ahead and passed one huge office and the next until she reached the one in the corner. Whittier's.
She flicked on the lights. The office was well-appointed, with a huge mahogany desk and end tables, brass lamps rubbed to a soft finish, family photographs in heavy sterling silver frames. Though she didn't have time to assess decor, there was something visually incongruous about the tasteful mahogany desk in front of the rough-hewn plywood expanse over the broken window.
It stopped Mary in her tracks, wordlessly posing an excellent question. Was Whittier the kind of a man who jumped out a window when the shit hit the fan? It didn't fit the picture. If he had known Mary, or the law, was closing in, why didn't he take off to Brazil? Get lost in Europe or the Caymans? He had the money. Mary blinked, pondering it. She recalled what the D.A. had said about Jack at his arraignment. A wealthy partner in a major law firm, the defendant possesses financial resources far beyond the average person and poses a significant risk of flight. He can use his resources to flee not only the jurisdiction but the country. The argument had the force of common sense. It was the reason she had lost the bail petition. So why didn't it apply here, as well?
Mary stared at the clash of mahogany and plywood in the still office. Had Whittier really jumped from the window? She recalled what Walsh had told her: Whittier had sent his secretary down to the cafeteria, and when she came back, he had jumped. A lawyer down the hall had heard the crash of the chair against the window. A suicide would be
a logical conclusion. But now Mary had seen the layout of the hall. Somebody could have come into Whittier's office from one side of the hall, knocked him out and pushed him out the window, then kept walking down the other side and never have been detected. Was that possible? Was Whittier pushed out the window? But who would have killed him, and why?
'Turn around, very slowly,' came a commanding voice from the door.
59
'Hello,' said the short man standing on the threshold of Whittier's office. He aimed a black gun at Mary's chest. 'My name is Marc Videon and I'll be your lawyer tonight.'
Mary stiffened with terror. She couldn't speak. She didn't know who he was. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't believe it was happening. She didn't want to die.
'You must be Mary DiNunzio behind those Foster-Grants.' Videon smiled, his thin lips curling unpleasantly. 'You're practically famous. Got a talk show yet?'
The sunglasses. She had forgotten she was wearing them. For some reason she snatched them off her face and saw him better. His eyes were small and slitted, his hair dark, and his goatee came to a waxed point. He reminded Mary of the Devil himself, but she had just come from church. Or maybe it was his gun. Her stomach felt cold and tight.
'Congratulations. You have found your way to my partner's office, having identified him as the malefactor. You were half-right. Or is it half-wrong? Is the glass half-full or half-empty?' Videon cocked his head as if he were actually considering the question. 'I say half-empty, but you look like one of those relentlessly perky, half-full types to me.'
Panic told Mary to bolt, but she knew she wouldn't make it. He'd fire as soon as she moved. She had to think of something. Brinkley's gun was still in her briefcase. The security guards and paramedics would be here soon. Stall him. 'I thought Whittier was the bad guy,' she said.