The Bad Judgment Series: The Complete Series (14 page)

I
n spite
of the fact that we were most likely under surveillance, and that I most desperately wanted to sleep with my hot client, the next several days fell into an easy routine: Walker and I would work all day, order takeout, work some more, then have a chaste sleepover. We got into a routine of writing down important things and using our fake-normal voices for everything else. After a while, it was easy.

I wished that we could just stay like this, forever. In our perfect little bubble. I would have stayed with him like that, if I could. Avoiding the rest of the world, all of its obligations, pitfalls and awkwardness. Even though the situation we were in was not perfect, it was still perfect. I wished it could be summer forever, and that the rest of everything else would just fall away.

I had reviewed almost all of the tax files. I had noticed a few things, but because of the situation, I kept them to myself. I was a risk-averse person; my current state of paranoia only heightened my natural instincts to double-check everything and make sure that the information I needed would always be accessible. I started emailing documents to myself at a new, private email address from a new, private email address. Just in case.

In case of what, I had no idea.

The days were punctuated with texts and emails to David Proctor. I had decided to paper him to death — i.e., I was updating him with all of the work I’d done, sending in frequent status memos and synopses of the documents I’d reviewed. I was probably being annoying. I didn’t care: he needed to know how hard I was working.

He didn’t need to know how much I was enjoying myself.

Walker texted Adrian every day, too. He was careful with what he wrote. He didn’t give away anything, in case his cell phone was being monitored. But he made sure she didn’t come home. I texted Richie on a regular basis, too, letting him know that I was okay, just busy with a case. I told him to hug my brothers for me, and that I’d come home when I could.

Mike texted me twice, and I sent back quick notes saying
I’m fine, just busy
and
Hope things are good at work
. They were about as impersonal as you could get. He didn’t respond, and that was fine with me.

Lester Max came over the day before we were supposed to go to Proctor. Walker prepared me first. “Lester is a lovely man,” Walker said, “unless you happen to be one of his ex-wives. Then you probably think a little less of him.” He laughed.

“How long has he worked for you?” I asked.

“Fourteen years. He’s a Harvard MBA. Very sharp. Loves to count money. Loves to make money. Loves to hide money from his ex-wives.”

“He sounds charming,” I said. “He does your books in-house?”

“Yes. But like I told you, we hire independent auditors and outside tax professionals, too. So we have checks and balances.” He shrugged. “When your biggest client is the United States government, you kind of need to run an above board-business.” He shook his head and snorted. “And I did, for years, but apparently that wasn’t good enough.”

It was then that Lester Max knocked on the door. “Hello, Lester,” Walker said, shaking his hand and welcoming him in. Lester was short, plump, and balding, not what I would have expected for an alleged ladies’ man. His appearance didn’t stop him from completely ignoring Walker and smiling at me appraisingly. “You must be Nicole,” he said, and held out his soft, damp hand for me to shake. I smiled at him and Walker interrupted the exchange by sticking his face in front of Lester’s, officially ending our tete-a-tete.

“Long time, no see, Lester,” he said. “And hands off the lawyer. She works for me exclusively.”

“It’s true. He takes up a lot of time. And space,” I said, sticking my head around Walker’s hulking form to smile at Lester Max. He was giving Walker a long look, but then he turned his round, shiny face back to me.

“It’s still my pleasure, Nicole,” he said, his tone less ribald. “I heard you have some questions for me.”

“Just some run of the mill stuff,” I said. I’d decided that I didn’t want to go into too much detail with Lester Max today; first of all because we thought the house was bugged, second of all, because I’d never met him and wanted to form my own opinion before trusting him.

“It’s just about some of your balance sheets. They show these subsidiary structures and I had some questions about that,” I said, rifling through my files. I pulled out a document and handed it to Lester. As I looked up, I saw a large silver van drive by on the street very slowly. Too slowly.

My stomach dropped and my heart thudded nervously in my chest. “We have several sub-corporations set up,” Lester Max said, while he reviewed the things I’d highlighted. “We use them for various purposes. Some handle production, others distribution; it’s easier to deal with it in smaller pieces. Better for tax purposes, too, and some other related business expenses.”

“Okay,” I said, agreeably. Walker raised his eyebrows at me; I was not usually so easily satisfied. “Also, there are a few reports I needed summarized, in English.” I handed him a file of reports that I understood perfectly. I needed to have some sort of question for him. What I’d asked him here for was questions about the Miami sub-corporation, but I didn’t feel comfortable now. Not with that van out there. Not with Lester Max’s shiny face, bright like a new copper penny, inspecting me.

“We’ll come by to pick them up,” Walker said. “Does that work for you?”

“Sure,” Lester said, easily, and I left the two of them in the kitchen to catch up about what was going on in the Blue offices. Walker had been in touch with his assistant, and he’d spoken with Lester several times, but I was sure they had more than a few things to talk about. I went out to the street, to get some fresh air, and to watch for that van. I didn’t see it. The street was quiet, except for a man on the other side, tall and lanky, walking a small fluffy dog.

“He’s all yours,” Lester Max said, suddenly popping out of the front door, making me jump almost out of my skin.

I put my hand over my heart, just to keep it in my chest. “That was quick,” I said.

“Jumpy, aren’t you?” he asked, and smiled a leering smile at me. “Yes, it was quick. But Walker and I’ve been in touch. I’ll take care of these,” he said, waving the file I’d given him. “But I have to say, I’m surprised you don’t understand them. They’re pretty straightforward.” He looked at me quizzically.

“I’m not a tax lawyer,” I said, shrugging, hoping he thought I was just sort of dumb and letting it go at that. “And I think I do understand them, but I want to be sure. And I need a summary so I can explain them succinctly to my boss.”

“Your boss has already seen them,” Lester Max said, smoothly. “But Walker says I have to do what you ask. So I shall. Goodbye, Nicole. I hope you and Walker keep having fun.”

I nodded at him curtly, not loving his tone. “House arrest is hardly fun, Mr. Max,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.

“It’s always better in a mansion. With a sexy billionaire,” he said.

I raised my eyebrows at him.

“Just saying, Ms. Reynolds. Just saying.” He trotted down the street and got into an enormous Infiniti
SUV; I wondered if he had to sit in a booster seat to see over the wheel.

I sighed. It didn’t matter. The fact that he thought that I was a ditz and that I was banging my client didn’t matter.

I wasn’t a ditz and I only desperately
wanted
to bang my client. Big difference. Huge.

I went back inside to find Walker pacing in the kitchen. “How’d that go?” I asked, deciding not to share Lester Max’s tone or insinuation with him.

“About how you’d expect. He told me the tone at the office is uncertain. Productivity is way down — probably everyone’s looking for a new job. Because, who knows if I’ll be back? Who knows what will happen with the viability of the company?”

I went over and rubbed his back. It was wrong, but the physical barrier between us was breaking down by small increments. We sat next to each other when we reviewed files at night, and when we watched the news. He looked down at me now and tucked my hair behind my ear; this was the one thing that I’d told him, by not flinching and moving away, was okay.

It was just a hair tuck. You couldn’t get disbarred for that.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “Trials can seem like they’re never going to end, but they always do. Unless you appeal.”

“Please, tell me I won’t have to appeal,” Walker said.

“I hope not,” I said, and then I realized that he was no longer paying attention. He was staring out the window, a sour look on his face.

“Nic, I really feel like I need to go to that bakery on the corner,” he said in his fake-normal voice, apropos of nothing.

I frowned and looked at him, searching his face for a clue of what was going on. “Per your court order, you’re allowed trips out of the house for grocery shopping and related errands,” I said. “So if you really want to go pick something up, we can. But we should come right back — we already went shopping earlier this week,” I said, raising my eyebrows at him, as if to say,
Remember? Remember how crazy that was?
But he was still looking out the window. “And we’re going to meet with David. All of that counts against your allotted time.”

“Right,” he said, absentmindedly. He grabbed my hand and pulled me out through the garage. “Keep your eyes open,” he mouthed.

“I saw a van drive by when Lester was here,” I mouthed back, and he nodded at me, tightly.

“And the guy with the dog?” He asked. I nodded,
yes.

We went through the garage and Walker closed the automatic door behind us with the keypad. “They probably already have the code,” he mumbled at me, so low I almost couldn't hear it, as he carefully closed the cover. Then he grabbed my hand again, and I tried not to worry about the people following us — the fact that there might be people following us, to begin with, and that they were going to see me holding hands with my hot client — while simultaneously trying to ignore the fact that I was absolutely thrilled to be holding my hot client’s hand.

Keep your eye on the ball,
I told myself,
or at least your eye on anyone who’s trying to keep an eye on you.
I needed to get my priorities straight.

Walker pulled me down the street. I had to take two steps to match one of his. We both looked straight ahead. “Talk to me,” he said, sounding tense. “What kind of dessert do you want?”

I saw some movement in my peripheral vision, but I made myself focus on the sidewalk in front of me. “Chocolate always works for me,” I said. I saw him look briefly to the left, where I also thought I saw someone; then he turned his focus ahead. He pulled me forward, our arms entwined; I could feel his bicep bulging against my arm.

“Chocolate it is,” he said, but he sounded tense. I looked to my left. There was no one there. I sighed in relief and squeezed his hand.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, but then he squeezed my hand so hard it hurt. He just stared ahead, but he shook his head at me, almost imperceptibly:
Not safe.
I looked around, but all I saw were dozens of luxury vehicles and then, the tall man I’d seen before, in white tennis shoes, walking his puffy dog. I looked back at Walker, but he still stared straight ahead.

I decided to keep my mouth shut and enjoy holding his hand. For better or for worse.

We made it to the bakery, a cute little space with light blue walls, gingham curtains and organic coffee. The guy behind the counter was young with dreadlocks; there were two other people sitting inside, one gentleman wearing loafers and reading a battered
New York Times
, and a young woman with an enormous engagement ring who was scrolling listlessly through something on her smartphone.

“We’ll take four brownies, three blondies and half a dozen chocolate chip cookies,” Walker said distractedly, looking around. The guy rang us up and looked at Walker expectantly, but he was staring out the window with his brow furrowed, his hand still clutching mine in a death-like grip.

I pulled out my wallet and paid cash, all one-handed, while Walker seemed not to notice. His body was tense and poised beneath his tee-shirt and cargo shorts; I could see the outline of his enormous pectoral muscles through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was watching the street tensely. “Hey,” I said, softly, after I had the box of goodies firmly in hand. “We should go.”

He turned to me, his eyes burning. He looked up at the guy behind the counter with such ferocity that he stepped back, dreadlocks swinging, looking like he wanted to duck.

Walker scanned the room one more time, grunted, and then dragged me out.

“Walker?” I squeaked, afraid of the look on his face, afraid of what might be out there, and afraid of him crushing my hand. “You’re kind of hurting me.”

He turned to look at me and the angry, hunting look dropped for a second. He relaxed his grip on me. “I’m sorry, Nic,” he said, and gently rubbed his thumb along the back of my hand, never breaking our clasp. I knew better than to ask any questions. I just moved my five-foot-six body as fast as I could, next to his six-foot-two one.

No one else was on the street. As we got closer to his house, I saw that the gentleman who’d been walking his dog was sitting in a white Lexus SUV, talking on his cell phone and petting his dog. He looked totally normal. There was no sign of the van, no sign of the Range Rover, and no sign of the blonde we’d seen in the supermarket. I let out a huge sigh of relief.

Except that when we got over to Walker’s garage, the cover to the keypad was open.

And there was a large wet stain, which insidiously looked like the pee of a small, fluffy dog, on the stone of Walker’s foundation.

He stopped, looking at the pee, and paused for just a second.
Should we go in?
I wondered, my head pounding.
Was someone waiting in there?

I looked back at the white Lexus, where the man was still talking away on his cell phone, seemingly totally oblivious to us.

Were we both just totally crazy paranoid?

“Let’s go in,” I said. I sounded braver than I felt. Walker’s jaw was clenched as he punched in the code and the garage door opened.