Anything You Can Do(7)

"Mark Powell at Kearns, Worley, Lewis, Hooper and Day."

Austin's firm. "Is Mark Powell the man with dark hair sitting at this end of the table?" she asked, though she already knew what the answer would be.

"Oh, no. Mr. Powell's at the far end. He's short and blond. That other guy's some big gun from the Kearns branch in St. Louis. I don't know who he is, but Margaret had me serve coffee in our real cups. Mark Powell only rates paper cups."

"Thanks, Lisa." Bailey turned back to her message slips and continued down the hall, but she wasn't reading the names and phone numbers in front of her. All she could think about was him—in her territory. A brief, titillating fantasy flashed unbidden through her mind of the two of them going head to head in the courtroom.

She entered her office and slid into her soft gray chair behind the desk she'd chosen for its smooth walnut top, a top she hadn't seen since the day the desk arrived. Someday she'd have to peek under the mounds of paper just to be sure it was still there.

Sorting the new message slips in order of how soon, if ever, the call should be returned, she added them to an existing pile on her desk then scowled at the one on top. Larry Haynes would expect to hear from her ten minutes ago. She had nothing new to tell him on the lease she was negotiating for him, but the man wanted his attorneys to jump on command. He was rich, rude, and obnoxious. She moved his message to the middle of the pile, then, on second thought, to the bottom.

Her mind jumped back to the unresolved question of Austin's presence. Why would a big gun get involved in a simple personal injury lawsuit, one her firm had assigned to a second-year associate? Could the insurance company Kearns, Worley was representing possibly be that important? If so, why was Mark Powell, a fairly new associate, the official attorney of record? Was that only a smoke screen so they could slip something past her firm?

As she recalled, her firm's client, the woman being deposed, had the infamous, unprovable back injury. Therefore it was simply a matter of negotiating a settlement with the insurance company that would be less than the woman deserved if she was really injured and more than she deserved if she was faking.

"Where's that damned Gordon?" The voice charged into her office along with its owner.

"Good morning, Stafford. How are you?" Bailey replied.

"I'd be a hell of a lot better if people could get to work on time," he grumbled.

Bailey rose from her chair, aware that her two-inch heels put her at eye level with Stafford Morris and cut down on his intimidation factor, his strong point. A very bald head accentuated his large nose and stubborn chin, and he walked with his head thrust forward, as though daring anyone to get in his way. They rarely did.

"The next time it's my week to watch Gordon, I'll see to it he gets here early every morning," she assured him sarcastically.

"I want him in my office as soon as he gets in." Morris stalked to her door then turned back. "I hear you did all right at the race Saturday."

"Nothing spectacular." But she smiled in spite of herself, not only about the race but also because Morris didn't add the phrase for a woman to the end of his sentence. It had taken her a long time to achieve that omission.

Morris nodded, and Bailey thought his mouth curved upward fractionally just before he turned to leave her office.

"I saw an acquaintance of yours at the race," she called after him. "Austin Travers with Kearns, Worley."

Morris looked back at her, his face unreadable. "Is that right?"

"Good runner."

"Hmmph."

"Why's he involved in that personal injury case Margaret Hodges got stuck with?"

"What makes you think he is?"

"He's in the conference room taking Candy Miller's deposition."

Morris' eyes narrowed speculatively. He reached into his jacket pocket for a cigar. "Interesting."

Bailey watched as he charged off down the hall. Gordon was right. The man deserved to have Paula as his secretary. But did Paula deserve Stafford Morris?

That afternoon Bailey made it a point to visit Margaret's office. "How'd your deposition go this morning?" she asked, peering around the doorway into the small space. As a second-year associate, Margaret didn't get a window. Partners were entitled to more sunlight than associates.

"Okay, I guess." Margaret shrugged. Her round face projected youth and insecurity in spite of large, black framed glasses and pale hair pulled back into a tight bun.