“Whose phone is this?”
“Jenna Greaves.”
“Your partner, right?”
He ducked his head with shame. “Yes.”
“Tell me exactly how this has happened.”
Noah gave it to her in careful stages. Jenna watched him in her singular fashion, wide-eyed, fully alert, very still.
A few moments later, Lorna replied, “It’s entirely possible that I’m being overly cautious. But until this situation is resolved, any further contact between us needs to be done with great care.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“If the situation escalates, if this is about more than just a boat, you need to assume legal niceties will not stop these people from doing whatever they feel is in their best interests. Including tapping phones. Breaching attorney-client privilege. And so on.”
“Okay, now I’m worried.”
“Perhaps you should be. Several of my clients are independent producers. Among this group, Lane Pritchard is known as a lender of last resort. As in, only go to him when all other options are exhausted. And even then, it’s probably best to let the project go. Bankruptcy might actually be a better alternative. Nothing has ever managed to stick, but Lane has been brought up three times before the California Bar for what amounts to illegalities. He’s known as a shadow figure. Everything else I say is conjecture. Are you sure you want to hear?”
“Absolutely.”
“There have been rumors that Hollywood has become a good option for laundering drug money. The producer’s accounts show a small investment from some fund that Pritchard represents. In return, they receive an overlarge percentage of the final product. This visible investment, the legal money, does not justify the size of their share in the project. You understand?”
“The rest is under the table.”
“Right. But problems arise when the films do not earn back. Producers find themselves handing over percentages of all future projects. In some cases, they lose their companies, their homes, the works. In other cases . . .”
“Tell us.”
“They just vanish. One of them was a client. I tried to find out where she had gone. That was the one time I met Lane. He just happened to be standing outside a courtroom when I finished a case. Lane said it would be best if I let the matter drop. Then he walked away.”
Jenna spoke for the first time. “He came with Wallace Myers, the boatyard owner we’ve been using for repairs. Apparently Wallace had told Lane the sale was a real possibility. When Noah said otherwise, Wallace became genuinely terrified. The look Lane gave him, it was like seeing an assassin’s blade.”
“There you go,” Lorna said. “If you want my opinion, Lane Pritchard is a stone-cold killer. He might not pull the trigger. But he’s good at his job. And what’s more, he enjoys it.”
CHAPTER32
Jenna left soon after. She asked Noah not to respond to Lane’s offer for a while, give her time to think. Invited him to stop by the next day for a coffee. They set the time, or rather, she suggested ten and he responded with a beggar’s gratitude.
She went through the motions of just another day. Wondering at herself and this distance she felt was now so necessary. He had done precisely what she wanted. And she responded with holding him at arm’s length. Jenna had no idea why, only that she needed to understand this internal state before taking any next step.
The next morning, half past nine, there he was. Seated on the same bench in the little park. Like he had been planted there. Like he would wait all day if necessary. For her.
Jenna took her time. She wasn’t waiting because she still needed to decide what she wanted to have happen. She was too long a realist to play games with her heart.
She loved this man. So much.
Just the same, she needed something to happen. That was all she had come up with during the night. A reassurance that they were moving beyond the situation that had fractured her world. A clear sense that this would not happen again. That Noah’s two-step was finished. That they could move forward into whatever came next. Together.
When she felt as ready as she was ever going to be, she left her apartment, crossed the parking area, walked through the gates, and watched him rise to his feet. Noah looked as nervous as she felt. Even more so.
She kissed his cheek and said, “Why don’t you come inside.”
Watching Noah enter her home and make a slow circuit, Jenna saw her apartment from a completely different perspective. The high-ceilinged rooms, the prints of favorite Impressionists on her walls, the neat and orderly manner in which she had shaped her haven from the world. Then, “This is so beautiful. It suits you.”
She brought him into the kitchen, put on a fresh pot of coffee, and waited.
