Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Twenty-Five

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jim waited impatiently all day to hear from Sarah. His anger mounted as the hours rolled by, and his phone remained silent. They were a team. Why wouldn’t she call to tell him how things had gone in court that morning?
Afer Alexa was settled for the night, he headed to Sarah’s place only to find a black, Porsche 911 S Turbo Cabriolet in her drive. Stay calm, he thought. You don’t know who it belongs to, and you have no right to be upset. But he headed for home tired and preoccupied.
He was surprised when his phone went off just as he parked in his garage. It was Sarah.
“I was wondering where you were,” he said. “I’ve been waiting all day for news.”
“It looked like a victory, but it wasn’t. And things since then have been complicated. Are you still at the hospital? Can you come by?”
“Actually, I just got home. But give me a few minutes, and I’ll be there.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
She was wearing black leggings and a gray hooded sweatshirt that seemed to have swallowed her when she opened her front door for him twenty minutes later. The night air was unseasonably chilly, and she invited him inside quickly to keep out the sharp wind.
She looked uncharacteristically shaken by something, and he wondered what had ruffled her normally unflappable exterior.
She looked down at the plastic container in his hand. “What’s that?”
“My world famous beef stew. I figured you hadn’t had any supper. I’ll warm it up in the microwave while you fill me in on the details.”
He followed her into the kitchen where he prepared to heat the container, and she poured him a glass of wine. Why did this feel so natural and comfortable, he asked himself, as if they spent every evening talking over the events of the day?
“How is Alexa?”
“Brightening up more and more, but she still can’t remember that visit to Brigman’s, and her voice comes and goes. She wanted to do legal research on Battered Woman’s Syndrome, so I gave her a laptop and let her use my Lexis password.”
The oven beeped, and Jim opened the door and pulled out the container with the potholders Sarah handed him.
“It smells heavenly.”
“It is.” He poured it into the bowl she had provided and smiled. “Eat.”
“Ok. Thanks. Come sit in the living room.”
She perched on one end of the sofa and described the hearing that morning between bites while he sat on the other end and listened.
“Should I say congratulations?”
“No. Tara made a fool of herself, but I’m sure Coleman is the executor of Michael’s estate, and he’ll be back in a heartbeat to quash those subpoenas.”
“On what grounds?”
“The same grounds that kept Bob Metcalf from getting Michael’s bank records in the divorce: attorney-client privilege. As soon as Coleman hears about Tara’s fiasco today, he’ll send some of his Warrick, Thompson partner buddies to do what she couldn’t do: protect his son’s financial privacy.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I wasn’t served with any more motions to quash today, but I’d guess they would have one ready to go by day after tomorrow.”
“But isn’t it time for the bank to produce the documents?”
“Yes, and if they come back before Coleman can get his act together, we could at least look at them before he gets a protective order, sealing them.”
“Then let’s hope that happens.”
“And there’s another thing. Coleman can’t keep us from getting Brigman’s records. He’s not the executor of Brigman’s estate.”
“Do you know who is?”
“His ex-wife. She lives in Tel Aviv. I sent her notice of the subpoenas through her attorneys in New York and not a peep out of her. I doubt she cares if her ex is embarrassed.”
“So we’ll get Brigman’s even if we don’t get Michael’s?”
“Right. And that may be enough to show us if there were bribes going on.” She put the empty bowl on the coffee table and smiled. “Thanks. It was delicious as usual.”
“Alexa liked it, too.”
“Alexa?”
“Yeah, I’ve been taking her extras at supper time because the hospital food isn’t so great.” He was pleased to see her eyes darken.
“Every night?”
“One of us has to keep an eye on her.”
She frowned and studied the black and white durie rug on the floor. “Of course.”
“You seem upset.”
Her eyes met his again, and she ran her fingers through her close-cropped hair. “To be honest, I am.”
“Is it something I’ve done?” He knew the answer was yes, but she would say no.
“No, of course not. It’s the David Scott thing. I shouldn’t talk to you about it.”
“You can if it helps.”
She told him about Tessa’s visit that morning.
“She threatened your life, you could call the police.”
“No, I can’t. Those photographs were not fakes, but her threats were just bluffing.”
“You can never be too sure.”
“I’m sure. And David was too.”
“David?”
“I asked him to come by tonight before I called you.”
So David Scott drove a 911 S Turbo Cabriolet. Useless piece of trivia. “And?”
“He laughed about the whole thing, and said he’d buy the photographs from her.”
“What if she won’t sell?”
“As David said, Tessa always has her price.”
“Well, then, you are both off the hook.”
“Except David wants the affair to continue after he’s acquired Tessa’s pictures, and I don’t.”
Jim was careful not to show how happy that news made him. “Well then, let Mrs. keep the photographs because she’ll have no reason to use them.”
* * *
Sarah was restless after Jim left around ten o’clock. Her demons didn’t haunt her in his presence, but they came roaring back the minute she closed the door behind him. She poured herself another glass of wine, hoping it would help her silence the inner voices and go to sleep.
But she was still grappling with her guilt over Alexa when the phone rang at midnight.
“Hey, babe.”
“David, it’s late, and there’s nothing more to talk about.”
“Wrong. There’s plenty to talk about. I came back to your place around 9:30 to tell you the news, but I saw you were otherwise occupied.”
“You have no right to spy on me.”
“Yes, I do. I bought Tessa’s pics and her silence for half a mil.”
“I didn’t ask you do to that.”
“Doesn’t matter. You owe me. Don’t get the idea you can dump me for someone else. My relationships end when I say they do. Period.”
“I’ve had enough threats for one day. Good night.”
“You’d better take mine seriously. Dinner, my place on Friday. Eight sharp.”
“I have plans.”
“Then unmake them.”