The Groaning Board

moving the Rubenstein file a
fraction she was able to see the label on the last folder. It said: Barron-Moore. She set the other folders aside and opened this one. A contract of some sort
faced up at her. Her eyes flicked over it.
    The aura in the office suddenly began
to vibrate. She heard Bill’s voice in the hall outside his office talking to
Jonathon Nazario, his associate. Quickly, she slapped the Barron-Moore file
shut and set the others on top of it. When he came through the door, she was
sitting on the sofa drinking her iced tea.
    He looked so good in his dark blue
pinstripe, crisp blue striped shirt. Just his presence gave her a rush, made
her smile.
    “Jury went out and came right back
with an acquittal,” he told her. He was jubilant. “We’ll celebrate
tonight—after we deal with this Cameron business.” He removed a clean shirt
from a closet shelf, took off his jacket, the gun and harness, his gold cuff
links, and his shirt. She watched him unbutton the clean shirt and slip it on.
    “Would you like me to do the
buttons?”
    “Why not?” He stood waiting for her
in the middle of the room.
    She did them extra slowly, starting
at the bottom, taking her time, making sure her fingers brushed his skin. When
she did the last one, he grabbed her hands. “You’re a tease,” he said.
    “But I pay off.”
    “We’ll see about that.” He attached
his cufflinks, tucked his shirttails in, and slipped on his harness again, then
his jacket. “I’ll be right back with the Camerons. Are you ready?”
    “Yup.”
    “I want you to sit over there next to
my desk. Don’t say anything unless I ask you.”
    “Don’t say anything?”
    “I know it’s going to be hard,” he
said, “because you have so many opinions—”
    “Enough. I won’t say anything.” Well,
she would try not to say anything unless... Well, she would try.
    After the door closed, she let
herself think about what she’d seen in the manila folder marked Barron-Moore. A formal adoption agreement pertaining to the unborn child of Ellen Moore.

Chapter Fifty-Six

     
     
     
    Tilghman
Cameron was a thin, nervous woman with gold hoops in her lobes and graying blond hair.
Her shoulders were a wire hanger for her peach linen dress. She was half a head
taller than her husband, surrogate court judge Douglas Cameron. She winked at
Wetzon.
    The judge himself was carrying around
at least twenty pounds more than he should. His hair, which he combed over his
bald spot, was a shade too brown and a shade too long. The heels on his wing
tips were a smidgen higher than normal.
    “Toddie will be along in a minute,”
Tilghman said. Wetzon saw that the tic in Tilghman’s eyelid was what had made
Wetzon think Tilghman winked at her.
    Toddie, Wetzon thought. He’ll be
along in a minute, she says, as if he was just parking the car.
    Bill made the introductions,
exchanging a barely discernible conspiratorial gesture—hand on the elbow—with
the judge. What the hell was the subtext here?
    Wetzon rose and shook hands, trying
to dismiss the intense stare Douglas Cameron focused on her. She returned to her
chair while Tilghman sat on the leather sofa and Douglas chose the other
straight-backed chair.
    “As Doug and I discussed over lunch
the other day, we want to keep—” Bill sat down at his desk. He didn’t look at
Wetzon.
    Lunch? Was that it? Why hadn’t Bill
said anything to her about his having had lunch with the judge? That would mean
they had discussed the incident... and had come to some conclusion. So what was this meeting for?
    The door opened and a sullen Todd
Cameron sauntered in. Immediately, the atmosphere in the room changed, and
Wetzon was not the only one who felt it.
    Gaunt to the point of emaciation,
Todd wore tight black jeans and a brocade vest. His right biceps showed a
death’s-head tattoo and, under it, a swastika. He wore a dangling cross earring
in one lobe. A Band-Aid covered the other lobe.
    “Sit here, Toddie.” Tilghman Cameron
patted the spot beside her on the sofa. “Toddie dear, this is Mr. Veeder and
Ms. Wilson. Mr. Veeder had lunch with Daddy and they’re going to tell us—”
    “Shut up, Till,” the judge said,
slicing the air with his hand. “You see what you’re doing? This is exactly why
I wanted you here. Todd is not eight years old. Let’s get to it, Bill. I’ve got
to be up in Albany tonight.”
    Todd took a bent cigarette from a
pocket in his vest and lit it. The sweet smell of pot