Veronica couldn't get over it. Jerry an ace. Of course she was one, too, but she didn't dwell on it. As long as she didn't use her power, she couldn't say for sure that it was still there.
"We haven't seen him since," Cordelia said. "I think maybe he gave up on you."
Dessert was fried bananas in honey. Afterward, they gathered around the tiny bonsai pine in what had once been the waiting room. Miranda had bought Veronica a beautiful silk blouse that was now two sizes too small, even if Veronica still wore such things. Cordelia gave her earrings that she couldn't wear since she'd let the holes in her earlobes close. "They can put clips on them," Cordelia said awkwardly. Ichiko gave her a delicate china saki jug and bowls. Veronica didn't mention that she had given up drinking as well. Veronica had bought books for all three of them in a fit of idealism and repressed anger: The Marx-Engels Reader, The Women's Room, The Feminist Encyclopedia. There was a moment, when all the presents were opened, when Veronica was sure she was going to cry. Then Miranda said, "Some Christmas, huh?" and started to laugh. Then they were all laughing, arms around each other, huddled on the floor, laughing until they did cry, after all.
And as Veronica had feared, Ichiko hadn't lasted, dying on the last day of February. And Jerry, it seemed, hadn't given up on her, after all.
Close Encounters, and the magazine offices, were on Broadway north of Columbus Circle. When the first burst of energy from her anger and embarrassment wore off, she kept on walking, into Central Park. She found a bench and looked at the bare trees, the little knots on their branches showing the first fuzzy signs of the leaves to come.
A man and a woman, both in their sixties or seventies, shuffled past, wearing knit caps, gloves, and layers of sweat clothes. They seemed to be jogging in slow motion. And how long, Veronica thought, am I going to keep on running? How long am I going to hide my power and let other people make decisions for me?
The sky had started to cloud over, and the wind had turned cool. Veronica walked south, out of the park, and stopped for a cup of coffee at the Cosmic Cafe, a Greek-run lunch counter. She asked for a phone book and looked up Latham, Strauss. The address was on Park Avenue South.
She took a cab and got there a few minutes early for her appointment. It was an older building, and the wallpaper between the slabs of granite in the lobby was turning the color of nicotine. Latham, Strauss had one of only two suites on the eighth floor. It looked like a movie studio. Behind double glass doors was a reception desk, a single thin sheet of ebony supported by steel legs the diameter of pencils. There was nothing on the desk but a telephone. Behind it was a stunning blond in a white silk blouse, and behind her, on a wall covered in red velvet, was the name Latham, Strauss in gold.
Veronica walked in. "I'm here to see Dyan Mundy."
"Ms. Mundy is in conference just now. Do you have an appointment?"
Veronica gave her name. The receptionist directed her to a waiting area to her right, out of sight of the elevators. Veronica was fascinated by her precise, emotionless gestures. "What do you do if you have to write something down?" she asked.
The woman smiled mechanically. "We have secretaries for that."
Veronica looked through the magazines. Smithsonian, Fine Homebuilding, European Travel and Life. No Aces or Cosmo here.
In less than a minute, a woman appeared behind her and said, "Veronica?" She was six feet fall, heavily built, with strong features, glasses, and slicked-back hair. "I'm Dyan Mundy."
She was not the socialite Veronica had expected. It was comforting, but it made things more difficult as well. Mundy led her down wine-colored carpeting, past recessed lighting, toward a huge office with corner windows. Veronica caught a glimpse of someone she felt sure was Latham himself. Then they turned into a side corridor, and Mundy ushered her into an empty office.
As soon as Mundy sat down, Veronica said, "This is about Hannah. Hannah Jorde."
"I don't recall the name."
"You were hired by an organization called W O. R. S. E. to defend her. A shooting in a bank? There was all this weird stuff about the case. Only it never came to trial because Hannah killed herself in her cell."
"Yes, yes, I remember it now"
"The problem is, W O. R. S. E. wasn't paying you at all. Latham, Strauss volunteered to defend her. I want to know why." Mundy swiveled her chair around and scooted over to a file cabinet. " I remember you now. You were… personally involved, I think."
Veronica gave her a small shrug.
"Ordinarily, the sort of information you're asking for is confidential. But I can promise you that you're on a wildgoose chase." She pulled an olive-drab hanging file out of the cabinet and opened it up on her desk. "Here's the case file. We show payment in full, by cashier's check. W O. R. S. E., as I'm sure you understand, is not a chartered corporation with bank accounts and so forth, so that is the form of payment we would be looking for in this situation."
If the woman was lying, it was beyond Veronica's ability to tell. Which meant the answers lay higher up.
With Edward St. John Latham.
From Jerry she knew that Latham worked long hours, nights and weekends. When he wasn't in the courtroom, he was in the office.
Getting a key was not difficult. She called Frances, from W O. R. S. E., who gave her a wax block in a small plastic case. "Be sure and get the whole key," Frances told her, "head and all, both sides."
At noon on the following Monday, Veronica rode the elevator up and down in Latham's building. On her third trip, a young guy in a suit got on at the eighth floor. She followed him to the street, then used her power to stagger him. She shoved him face first against a wall and smiled at the people passing by, who all turned their heads away. He didn't seem to notice as she took out his key ring and sorted through them. Two keys looked possible. She printed them both and put the key ring back in his pocket. By the time he turned around, she had faded back into the crowd.
Frances made the keys for her while she waited. "You sure you don't want no help? Been awhile. I'd love some action."
"It's a one-woman job," Veronica said.
"And you won't tell me who you're going after."
"You can read about it in the papers."
She sat in a coffee shop until ten P.M., so nervous that she ate three pieces of chocolate pie and drank four cups of coffee. There was a guard in the lobby when she went inside. She signed Dyan Mundy's name and got in an elevator. The guard never looked up from his copy of the Post.
The first key worked. The office was barely lit by a couple of pin spots. Veronica locked the door after herself and retraced the route she'd taken the day before.
Latham's office was lighted, the door closed. Veronica crept down the hall and tried the knob. It turned. She shoved the door open and stepped inside.
Latham looked up from his desk. He was working at a computer, with green-bar paper spread all around him. He didn't seem surprised to find a stranger in his office. "Yes?" he said.
"We have to talk," Veronica said. "I doubt that."
"It's about Hannah Jorde. She was jumped, and the jumper made her shoot up a bank. The jumper's name was David Butler."
That got a reaction. Latham's mouth twitched, and his eyes lost their focus for a second.
"Butler worked for you. You arranged to have Latham, Strauss represent Hannah in court. That let you send David down to see her in jail. Where he jumped her again-and made her kill herself."