went untouched.
“What now?” he finally asked.
“We keep looking.” She took a sip of the wine she’d ordered, and then another. “While this might appear to substantiate James’s testimony, we’re planning to get that thrown out on Monday. Assuming we do, the onus will be on Schuster to tie all this together—to find witnesses or some other way to explain what all of this means. Based on what Eaton said, I don’t think he’ll be able to do that. The transactions that took place were kept completely private. Between two men who are no longer here to speak for themselves.”
Blake nodded, feeling a little less trapped. “You said we keep looking? For what?”
“Anything that’ll tell us what really took place five or six years ago. I didn’t have time tonight, but over the weekend I intend to go over all of your father’s payables, both personal and through Ramsden. We have a record of deposits into the Cayman Islands account, but no way of proving who made the deposit.”
“Unless my father’s records show something?”
She shrugged and picked up a stalk of celery, but didn’t take a bite. “Even if he did, that doesn’t clear you. Technically, that account is still yours and now that Schuster has evidence that’ll hold up in court on that, we have to find a way to prove you didn’t open the account.”
“You think my father opened that account in my name? That he’s the one guilty of fraud?”
Blake felt her pointed look. “Do you?” she asked.
“No.”
She took a bite of the celery. “And what happens if I find out differently?”
“Then you do.”
He’d be free. At least in a legal sense.
On an emotional level, he wasn’t sure. Had his selfishness of almost four years cost his father not only his physical life, but his soul as well? Had he been forced to compromise the most important thing he’d given Blake—the only thing that sustained Blake at the moment—his sense of integrity?
Had the old man died a thief and a criminal?
AS THE BAR slowly filled with Friday-night traffic, Blake and Juliet talked about other possibilities. Juliet was going to subpoena the records for the other businesses closely associated with Terracotta—the ones Schuster had claimed were false fronts behind which James hid Terracotta losses. She already had a private investigator in the Cayman Islands, questioning bank employees, showing pictures of James and Blake and Walter Ramsden to see if he could get any takers. The government was not required to cooperate. The banks weren’t likely to either, since much of their business was based on the assurance that whatever happened there would go no further.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked just after the waitress delivered their second round of drinks. They’d made a very small dent in the appetizers.
“I didn’t know I was.” It was the truth. He grabbed a bean-and-cheese-filled chip.
“Well, you were.”
“Hmm.” Dipping the chip in sour cream, he took a bite, and then finished it off.
“Why? What were you thinking?”
Damn, the woman was persistent.
“About you.”
“What about me?”
He always told the truth. So he could tell her the truth—that he didn’t wish to answer her question.
Instead, he murmured, “That no matter how bad things appear, being with you makes them seem more manageable.”
Face down, she ran a finger along the edge of her wineglass. Then she looked up. “Thank you.”
“And I was wondering if it’s something about you, something you bring to all of your…clients. Or if it’s more than that.”
“What more would it be?”
He took another chip. Broke it in half. Ate one half. “I don’t know,” he told her. “Something more personal.”
“I don’t get personal with my clients.” The words were said with total confidence. And just a bit too quickly.
“I didn’t think you did.”
“It’s completely unethical. I could be disbarred.”
“I know.”
He ate a wing. And then another. She toyed with a potato skin. He took a sip of whiskey.
“So, is this extra…nurturing or whatever it is something you offer everyone?”
She frowned and looked away, following the progress of an older couple as they left the bar.
“No.”
She replied so softly, he wasn’t sure she had, until that completely open gaze settled firmly on him. He read the truth there and was satisfied. He should leave it at that. Needed to leave it at that.
Wanted to leave it at that.
“When this is all over, will we be friends?” He blamed the question on the whiskey, and a residual fear of being thrown in jail for the rest of his life that was making him needy in ways he didn’t understand.
“As opposed to enemies?” She’d pretty much mutilated the potato, eating only a couple of bites and smashing the rest with her fork.
“As opposed to not seeing each other for another five or ten years, at which time we casually say hello when we bump into each other on the street.”
Assuming he was on the street by then.
She peered over at him, eyes narrowed. “Do you want to be friends?”
“I think so.”
Her eyes closed, her lips not quite steady.
“I…”
Reaching across the table, he touched her lips, barely, with one finger. And even that was a mistake. He wanted so much more.
“I’m not asking for a future, or even a relationship,” he said. “I’m just asking if you’d like to keep in touch.”
He waited a long time for her answer and was forced to realize how much it mattered.
“Yes.” The relief was palpable when her response finally came. “I would like to be friends.”
He chose to ignore the “but” he suspected he heard at the end of that sentence.
BLAKE’S PRETRIAL HEARING went exactly as Juliet had predicted. James’s testimony was disallowed. The Cayman bank statements stood as evidence. The trial was confirmed to start on the morning of July twenty-third and expected to last a minimum of two weeks. She and Blake met a few
