Rumbling voices greeted Mayson Corelli as she entered the firm’s library. Carefully averting her eyes, she drifted towards the back corner. That she ignored the others was hardly suspicious. They existed only as instruments necessary to her law practice. And she certainly never mingled in the groups milling around her now.
From her safe corner she watched them spill into the library; partners, associates, secretaries; everyone summoned to the emergency meeting. Yet who didn’t already know? Isn’t that what they were all whispering about? Lieber Allen, if not Wall Street’s largest law firm, was without question its most prestigious. She’d been here two years and never once doubted that she’d also retire here, perhaps as Managing Partner like Greg Lamp, if she was lucky. There was no question about the will that had gotten her here, when to even dream such a thing had seemed foolish. Yet she’d defied the odds and at age twenty-seven had no intention of leaving, under any circumstances... even those she’d stumbled upon last night.
She felt so little emotion anymore. It hadn’t always been that way, but now she wore masks in place of emotions, which was tolerable so long as she knew which one to wear. She didn’t now. What was called for — shock, indignation, sadness? Shouldn’t they all run through her? And yet not one of these scratched at her hardened heart. Just fear, like a chilling wind rattling in the darkness. And the cold voice that whispered: The one who threatened you is dead. Avoid the cloud of suspicion that may blow your way. Don’t get trapped. Her eyes lifted as the crowd’s rumble died. Greg Lamp entered the library, striding stiffly to the front podium, a distinct air about him.
“As you’ve no doubt heard,” Lamp marched gravely into the silence. “Morris Mendelsohn was found in his Manhattan apartment last evening, the victim of an apparent homicide. NYPD detectives are pursuing leads and seem confident a suspect will be charged soon...”
How soon? Mayson’s stomach knotted. How confident? And what leads? Was this a ruse or did the NYPD really have a suspect?
“These detectives are with us this morning,” Lamp revealed. “They’ll spend the day at the firm learning what they can about Morris’s practice and talking with those of us who worked with him. Please give them your full cooperation.”
As Lamp fielded the questions that came forward, Mayson wondered why they would start here at the firm. Is this where they expected to find their suspect? They’d most likely question her first. How would she hold up? Was she already a suspect? Did they know about her connection to The Lips? Her eyes collided suddenly with Tyler Waddill’s.
“That’s all we know at this point,” Lamp said, concluding his briefing. “Just please give the detectives your full cooperation and hopefully Morris’s murderer will be apprehended soon.”
As he left, the crowd began drifting toward the doors.
“Excuse me. Do I know you?”
Mayson turned at the familiar irritation; Tyler Waddill, tall and handsome with his tangled, gold hair and eyes as deeply blue as the James River that spawned such snotty creatures. For Tyler life was a cocktail party, its infinite pleasures no farther away than the nearest buffet table.
“Forgive me, Mayson,” he apologized. “For a moment, I had mistaken you for a human being.”
“Why were you leering at me?” she snapped irritably.
“I wasn’t.”
“Don’t pretend not to know what I’m talking about.”
“There!” He nodded. “I definitely saw it that time.”
“What?”
“Emotion. My God, Mayson, you’re human after all.”
She became conscious of the silence, realizing they were suddenly alone in the vast, quiet world of law books, mahogany tables and crystal chandeliers. “You want emotion, Tyler? Try hatred, contempt, disgust. The very sight of you can have me drowning in emotions!” With another icy glare she brushed past him.
“Mayson, what are you afraid of?” he asked.
Freezing, she glanced at Mrs. Nordfelt nose deep in her index cards, a pair of associates researching at a nearby table. “I need your opinion on something.” He led her back into the bookshelves. Grabbing an ancient case reporter, he began flipping pages. “You’re afraid. Why?”
“I’m not afraid,” she whispered. “And I resent being dragged back here to explain myself. And who do you think you’re fooling anyway? No one believes you read anything in here.”
Shutting the book, he studied her intently. He’d never seen her like this. She was usually in control, but she wasn’t now.
“Quit leering at me!” she snapped and again started away.
“Mayson, we need to talk.”
Did he know something about the murder? No, it was a trick. “We have nothing to say to each other. Now leave me alone. I have to get back to work.”
“Where?” he asked, returning the book to the shelf. “I mean, what are we supposed to do? Morris was our slave master but he’s gone.”
“You idiot,” she huffed. “We’re not slaves on your Tidewater plantation. This is Wall Street. And just because Morris is dead doesn’t mean our assignments simply drift on down the Swanee River.”
His expression didn’t change with her ridicule. If she was angry, it had nothing to do with him. “Mayson, you must work hard at isolating yourself from the human race. You’re quite good at it.”
“Go to Hell!” She stormed off.
He caught her at the elevator. “I don’t know who you think you’re impressing with that shit.”
Angrily she stabbed for the elevator, catching the solemn faces around her. They were in mourning, she remembered, groping for the appropriate mask.
With growing irritation, he watched the panel glow with each stop. Why did the Metropolitan, Wall Street’s oldest building, also have its slowest elevators? Beside him, Mayson’s eyes had become pained. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“It just really hit me that Morris is dead. We worked together for two years. He taught me so much. His poor sister in Connecticut — what she must be going through.”
This was an act, he realized, as the elevator arrived. She was covering her tracks.
“I admit Morris had his faults,” she said, resuming her eulogy on the climb to Fifty-Eight. “But deep down, he was a decent, honest...”
“He was a prick, Mayson. You know that better than anyone. And although he didn’t deserve to die, that doesn’t mean we should bury ourselves in bullshit making him something he wasn’t.”
“And you think I’m emotionless?” she scowled. “How can you have so little sympathy for a man who was just murdered and discarded like trash in his ransacked apartment?”
“Ransacked? Who said anything about the condition of Morris’s apartment?”
As the elevator opened she streaked off. “Damnit Mayson!” Catching her down the hall, he quickly pulled her into a supply room.
“Get your hands off me!”
“Tell me about Morris’s ransacked apartment.”
Ransacked. How could she have been so stupid?
“Now Mayson, how did you know about the apartment?”
“I... heard it on the news... this morning.”
“What station?”
“I don’t know... WNYC maybe.”
“You were at Morris’s apartment last night, weren’t you?”
She gaped at him. Did he really expect her to admit it? “Let me go!”
He held her firmly. “You knew Morris’s practice better than anyone. They’ll question you first. Don’t underestimate them, Mayson. These guys are pros.”
As he released her, she opened the door and fled down the hall. Jill Allen met him as he slipped out. She’d been at Sylvia Lee’s desk when first Mayson, then Tyler, streaked past. Following, she’d caught their agitated whispers behind the supply room door. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“Beats the hell out of me.” He started away, quietly anticipating her inevitable patter. Jill was his clinging vine; pretty with flowing, auburn hair and emerald eyes. They’d arrived at Lieber Allen the same Monday in May, shared the first harrowing weeks of Wall Street Law and, on several occasions, his bed. They’d helped each other through the first grueling, fourteen-hour days and together made a difficult adjustment tolerable. Then the relationship had ended — for him, but unfortunately, not her. He was sorry; he liked Jill. He liked a lot of people. Mayson Corelli wasn’t one of them.
“Tyler, what’s wrong with Mayson?” Jill asked.
“I guess she’s upset. She was closer to Morris than anyone else.”
“Which means she had more reason to hate him and did; only that hate will quickly evaporate when the cops question her. Morris will become her mentor. Maybe she’ll even work herself into tears. Can you imagine that — Mayson Corelli crying?”
Not until this morning, he thought. But now he wasn’t so sure.
“Do you have lunch plans?” Jill asked as he started off again. “The Deli at noon...?”
Turning the corner at the end of the hall, Tyler reached Mayson’s office and stopped. She stood over her desk, quietly studying a phone slip. Her large, dark eyes lifted to find him in the doorway. She had a delicate face, her skin creamy soft as if dipped in the oils of a pink rose before being spread over the exquisite angles and precise features. Lush, dark hair tumbled at her slender neck. With a smile she could’ve been My Fair Lady. “Your call upstairs?” he asked. As she nodded, he slipped inside and closed the door.
“You got back quickly,” she said. “Squeal and peel — is that how it works?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Stool pigeons. If you’ve returned for a confession, you’re wasting your time.”
It was difficult to grasp the extent of her paranoia. “I’ll state my piece, then leave. You’re on your own after that.”
“I’ve always been on my own. What’s in this for you, Tyler — my job?”
“You’re crazy, Mayson.”
“Get out!” she snapped.
“Look, if you want to go to prison that’s fine. Only before putting yourself under the microscope, you should realize those cops either know, or will soon, that you hated Morris’s guts and had every reason to. The Lambrusco case was going to be your debut — and in the New York Supreme Court, of all places. An appeal that was sure to have an impact on commercial law and, in the process, become a featured article in every major bar journal. Winning would’ve brought you national recognition. In a year you would’ve made partner. Lambrusco’s a golden opportunity and after busting your ass, you’d earned it.”
He sighed. “Mayson, you’re the best associate in this firm. Smart and hardworking, but also such a damned pain in the ass that no one cared when Morris took Lambrusco from you. But they will soon. I mean those cops upstairs, when they learn that the man they found last night with a bullet in his head is the same one who stripped you of your biggest case... And it gets worse, doesn’t it? The prick didn’t just take it away; he gave it to another far less deserving associate. Me, specifically. Morris gave me all your hard work on a silver platter.”
Her glare frosted him. “Hasn’t everything in your life been served on a silver platter?” she asked. “You’d hardly been here long enough to break a sweat. All you’ve done besides bedding every pretty face, a breach of firm policy no one seems to care about, is steal the fruits of my labor. Your career path has been shortened and mine lengthened, if it even still exists. But what’s really ironic is that you don’t even need this job. You must have millions socked away in some family trust fund. But here you are to rob me of the one thing I have in this world: my job, which means everything to me.”
“And this obviously makes you very mad.”
“Mad?” Her nostrils flared. “Morris ripped my heart out! Humiliated me! I could’ve...!”
He glanced at her clenched fists. “What? Killed him?”
The morning’s second slip. Her fingers sprung to her lips. How many more would she commit with the cops upstairs? Her rage vented, she sighed with despair. “I worked so hard for him. He won cases on the arguments I crafted. I made him shine and not once did he acknowledge my work. He had no right to treat me that way.”
He sensed her need to cry. Did she ever? What did it take to reduce cold Mayson Corelli to tears? “No,” his eyes softened. “Morris had no right to treat you that way. And when I realized what he was doing, it made me sick.”
Her eyes widened. “What did you realize?”
“Look, we don’t have time to discuss it. You need to get upstairs. There’s just one more thing. Morris called me last night, but I wasn’t home. He left two messages: the first at eight, the second twenty minutes later. I discovered them when I got in around midnight.”
Her heart pounded. She should’ve known these calls would be made, and what must certainly be coming next. Months ago her life, though empty, had at least been safe, charted. But almost overnight Morris’s advances became more insistent, to the point where she was no longer able to brush them off.
Babe, you’re doing so well. Don’t screw it up.
You mean by screwing you?
I mean that I’ve been good to you. I gave you Lambrusco.
I earned Lambrusco.
I could give you bigger projects.
If I become your puttana?
Babe, you put words in my mouth I don’t even understand.
It means whore. And here’s another: gavonne. I should tell Lamp what a gavonne I work for.
That’d be stupid, Babe. You don’t want to stake your credibility against a senior partner’s.
No, she didn’t. She’d wanted to practice law but Morris was making it impossible.
Babe, I could take away Lambrusco.
You wouldn’t dare.
Try me.
She had and he did. Their arguments became more violent. Screw you, you gavonne!
Wrong words, Babe, if you expect me to dump Tyler.
She’d refused to give him the right ones and now suddenly he was dead. Yet nothing had changed. If one threat had been eliminated, another had taken its place. “Tyler, why tell me about these calls?”
“Because you can’t dodge a bullet unless you know where it’s coming from.”
“And why should I expect a bullet?”
“In his first call, Morris said he had some emergency. He wanted me to pick him up at the Essex. But in the second call his agitation was gone. He said not to call back because he’d found someone else to pick him up, someone on the way at that moment. You, Mayson, you’re the one he told me was coming. I assume you arrived before ten when the cops discovered his body and ransacked apartment?”
“He didn’t call me! I wasn’t...” Her eyes shot to the ringing phone then the opening door. Nicole Martin’s suspicious glare shifted from her to Tyler. Heart in her throat, she snatched up the phone.
“Mayson, didn’t you get my message?” an irritated Lamp asked. “We’re waiting on you upstairs.”
His secretary and Tyler in her office, the cops upstairs — who should she be more afraid of? Did it matter? Weren’t they all on the same team; in a game played by their rules? Rule number one: A Corelli, no matter what the stakes, will always lose.
She was losing now.