She stopped him in the hallway of the court.

Reece smiled when he saw her.

"How'd I do?"

"How do you think? I'd say you mopped up the floor with him."

"We'll see." Reece continued, "What most lawyers don't realize is that cross-examination isn't about being an orator. It's about having information. I called a private eye. I've used out in San Diego and he dug up the dirt on the guy. Cost me – well, cost St Agnes – fifty thousand. But it saved them a lot more than that."

"You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

"Handling the cross? Yep." He hesitated a moment, and finally spoke, though whether it was what he'd originally intended to say or not she couldn't tell. "I sometimes feel bad for them – people like that witness – when I tear apart their testimony. But in this case it was easy. He was a rapist."

"You believe he did it? What happened in Mexico?"

He considered. "I chose to believe he did something wrong. It's a mind-set thing. Hard to explain but, yes, I believe it."

Taylor reflected. You could certainly argue that their client, the hospital, had done something wrong too – destroying the plaintiff's life, and she wasn't sure if the rape, if it had actually occurred, undermined the legitimacy of Morse's opinion about that.

She said nothing about any of this though and, indeed, she secretly envied Reece his fervent view of right and wrong. For her, justice wasn't quite as clear as that. It was a moving target, like the birds she'd watch her father hunt every fall. Some he hit and some he missed and there was no grand design as to which.

"Listen," she said. "I've got some leads. Have time for lunch?"

"Can't. I'm meeting one of the vice presidents from New Amsterdam. I've got to be at the Downtown Athletic Club fifteen minutes ago."

He looked around. "Let's talk later. But tell you what. Come over to my place for dinner."

"I'm playing Mata Hari tonight. What's tomorrow? Friday – how's that?"

"Make it Saturday. I'm meeting with the bank people all day tomorrow and I'm sure it'll go into dinner." He fell silent as someone walked by, a sandy-haired man in coveralls, who glanced at them quickly and then continued on. Reece's eyes followed the man uneasily as he walked away.

"Paranoid," he muttered with a smile, gave her hand a fast squeeze and then left the courthouse.

On her way back to the firm Taylor's willpower faded, her lust for a fast-food burger won and she decided she'd get something to eat.

This was how she found out that Mitchell Reece had lied to her.

Instead of going back to the office she'd headed north, to a Burger King, and as she turned the corner she saw Reece ahead of her. But he was walking away from the Downtown Athletic Club, where he'd said he was going for lunch. She slowed, stung at first, then thinking, No, he probably meant another athletic club the New York Athletic Club on Central Park South in Midtown.

Only, if that was so, why was he disappearing into the Lexington Avenue subway stop? The train went uptown but there were no stops anywhere near the NYAC. And why was he taking a train in the first place? The rule on Wall Street was that if you went anywhere on firm business, you always took the car service or a cab.

Taylor had had four or five serious relationships in her life and one thing about men that irked her was that their fondness for the truth fell far short of other appreciations. Honesty was her new standard for love and she didn't think that it was too much to ask.

Reece, of course, was nothing more than her employer – but still the he hurt, she was surprised at how much.

Well, maybe his plans had changed – maybe he'd checked his messages, found the witness had canceled and was on his way to Tripler's to pick up a couple of new shirts.

But on impulse she found herself pulling a token out of her purse and hurrying down the subway stairs.

Why? she wondered.

Because she was Alice. That was the only answer. And once you slip into the rabbit hole, Taylor Lockwood had learned, you go where fate directs you.

Which happened to be Grand Central Terminal.

Taylor followed the lawyer, climbing up the stairs, skirting a small colony of homeless. She watched Reece buy a train ticket and walk toward the gates. She stopped.

Squinting though the misty afternoon light that spilled across the huge cavern of the terminal, she caught a glimpse of him standing at a vending cart in front of a gate. A crowd of passengers walked between them, obscuring him.

She jockeyed aside to get a better view. Then she laughed to herself when she saw what he'd bought.

One mystery of Mitchell Reece had been solved.

He was walking to one of the commuter trains carrying a large bouquet of flowers.

He had a girlfriend after all.

Digging another token from her purse, she descended once more into the piquant subway to return to the firm.

Sometimes he felt like a juggler.

Thom Sebastian was thinking of an off-Broadway magic show he'd seen some years ago.

Sebastian remembered the juggler most clearly. He hadn't used balls or Indian clubs but a hatchet, a lit blowtorch, a crystal vase, a full bottle of wine and a wineglass.

From time to time, Sebastian thought of that show, of the tension that wound your guts up as the man would add a new object and send it sailing up in an arc, a smile on his face, eyes at the apogee. Everyone waited for the metal to cut, the torch to burn, the glass to shatter. But nope, the man's no-sweat smile silently said to the audience. So far, so good.

Sebastian, sitting in his office this afternoon, feeling depleted, coked out, 'phetamined out, now told himself the same thing.

So far, so good.

When he had learned that Hubbard, White & Willis had chosen not to make him a partner. Thom Sebastian had held a conference with himself and decided after considerable negotiation to cut back on his working hours, he was going to relax.

But that didn't work. Clients still called. They were often greedy, they were occasionally bastards, but a lot of times they were neither. And whether they were or not was irrelevant. They were still clients and they were scared and troubled and needed help that only a smart, hardworking lawyer could give them.

Sebastian found to his surprise that he was physically incapable of slowing down. He continued at a frantic pace, his hours completely absorbed by two refinancings, a leveraged buyout, a revolving credit agreement.

By his own real estate transactions, by his special project with Bosk, by his girlfriends, by arranging buys with his drug dealer, Magaly, by his family, by his pro bono clients, all in motion, all spinning, all just barely under control.

So far.

He desperately wanted sleep and that thought momentarily brought to mind another. The brown glass vial hidden in his briefcase. But it was no more than that – a passing image. Sebastian did not even consider slipping into the men's room to partake. He never did drugs within the walls of Hubbard, White & Willis. That would be a sin so good.

He closed the door to his office then pulled a manila envelope out of his desk. He removed the computer printouts and began to read – all about Ms. Taylor Lockwood.

He found the information fascinating. He jotted a few notes and hid them under the blotter on the desk then fed the printouts themselves and the envelope through the shredder in his office.

Sweeping the phone from the cradle, Sebastian dialed her number from memory.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Taylor."

He heard tension and anxiety in his own voice. This was bad. Take charge.

"Thom?"

"Yeah. How you doing?"

"Fine, but guilty. I'm finishing a Whopper."