UNAWARE: A Suspense Novel

by Susan P. Baker

  “Yes, but that was many, many years ago.”

  “I understand that, Ma’am, but don’t you think in light of the improvements, fully paid for, to your separate property home that Mr. Tyler should be entitled to a seventy-five thousand dollar rental property house that only has twenty-thousand dollars equity?”

  “Not after what he did, Mrs. Armstrong.”

  Mrs. Armstrong stood again. “Pass the witness, Judge. I’d like to argue if you think it’s necessary.”

  “Mrs. Warren, any more questions?”

  “No, Your Honor, we rest.”

  Relieved to hear her actually score some points, Martin listened to the judge’s rendition and waited while Mrs. Armstrong packed her roller bag. She approached the back of the courtroom, followed by her client.

  Her eyes sparkled, the edges crinkling up into tiny smile wrinkles when she saw him. He thought his being there pleased her. He knew it was probably all in his mind, but he felt good about it anyway. As she walked closer to him, she turned and shook hands with her client.

  “‘Bye, Mr. Tyler. I’ll call you when I get the decree from Ms. Warren.” Her client stepped past them, and Mrs. Armstrong turned her attention to Martin. “How long were you back there?”

  “Long enough to hear that the judge shafted Mr. Tyler,” Martin replied.

  Mrs. Armstrong laughed and, in a confidential tone, said, “Not really. She only gave the wife sixty percent. The evidence showed the husband had been screwing around on her, spending money on girlfriends, and he makes twice as much money as she does. He’s lucky the judge didn’t give the wife what she asked for, but the house was hers before marriage, and they have no children.”

  Martin chuckled. “Oh. I guess I should have come in earlier.”

  Mrs. Armstrong inched toward the exit. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Martin hurried around her and opened the door. “I just thought we could visit a minute. I have some questions. Want to get some coffee downstairs?”

  “Yuck, out of those machines? God, no. But I’m going back to my office if you want to stop in at the coffee house down the way from it. And please call me Dena.”

  “All right, Dena.” He liked the way her name sounded rolling off his tongue. Hey. What was wrong with him? She was a married woman. Still… “Let me take that stack of files from you.”

  “Okay.” Her eyes crinkled again. He couldn’t decide whether they were green or hazel or blue or a bit of each. He looked through her lenses, which were every bit as thick as her eyelashes. “‘Bye, Marie,” she called to the other attorney, who was still in deep conversation with the wife.

  “‘Bye. I’ll try to get that decree to you by the end of next week, and I’ll expect the Quadro from you around the same time.”

  “Quadro? What’s that?” Martin glanced from one attorney to the other.

  “Qualified Domestic Relations Order,” Dena said. “To divide retirement. She got a chunk of that.”

  They rode the elevator down and walked past the metal detectors and out the front doors. The minute they hit the sidewalk that led around to the parking lots, the August heat enveloped them like a cloud. “Hang on a minute,” he said. Slipping off his blazer, he draped it over one arm and loosened his tie.

  “I hate the summers here,” Dena said when they started walking again.

  “Fall and spring are the best, though.” He realized he was walking ahead of her and slowed down. She’d never be able to keep up with his normal pace.

  “I like it when that first cold front blows in. Not that it makes it cold.” She smiled up at him.

  “But the air smells different. And the temperature does drop a few degrees.” He stared down at the top of her head. The hot summer breeze blew her hair away from her face, and he could just make out her perfume. Vanilla and orange. She didn’t seem so small when they talked. He liked her. She was really easy to talk to.

  He handed her the files when they reached her car. She put them in the front seat and her roller bag on the floor in the back. They agreed to meet at Mod Coffee Shop on Postoffice Street.

  When he arrived, she was standing at the counter, placing her order. He got in line behind her. She ordered a chai tea and a slice of carrot cake. She looked over her shoulder. “I know I shouldn’t, but what the heck?” She smiled like she knew she was being a wicked little girl.

  She’s a married woman. A married woman. He stepped away from her, giving himself some space and ordered a black coffee.

  They walked into the room next to the serving bar area. The chairs and tables were funky and battered, but it was easy to get comfortable. Dena pulled off her jacket and laid it over the back of a chair. Martin pulled his tie off and slung on the seat next to him. Several students were bent over computers, a couple mumbling to each other. Outside on Postoffice Street, people strolled by, most of them in shorts and short-sleeved or sleeveless shirts and sandals.

  Dena kicked off her shoes. “God, that feels better.”

  Martin remembered when he’d arrived unexpectedly at her office the week before. She’d been in her stocking feet then, too. She certainly didn’t stand on formality, and he didn’t mind. “I like this place,” he said, glancing around. “I don’t get to come here often ... have to suffer with the coffee at the station.”

  “Do you go to the Artwalks?”

  “Used to when I worked on the street. I had this beat years ago, but things have really changed since then. You?”

  “Used to, before the kids were born. Well, I went a couple of months ago when my husband was out of town. Took my son. He’s too little to understand most of the paintings, but he had a good time.” She forked a piece of carrot cake into her mouth and made eye contact.

  She had kids. Well, what did he expect? “I probably wouldn’t understand the paintings either.”

  She swallowed and said in a low voice, “Most of the time I don’t either. Once I commented to a friend about whether the so-called art was art, and the artist was standing within hearing distance. My bad. So I keep my mouth shut ... that is, if I ever get to attend Artwalks at all.”

  “So you have a kid.” It was more a statement than a question. The way her eyes lit up when she mentioned her son, he could tell she loved the boy.

  “Two. Paul is six. Melissa’s five. What about you?”

  “Nah. My wife left me before we had any.” He shrugged and took a swallow from his coffee.

  “Count yourself lucky. You could be stuck with child support and a wife that gives you nothing but trouble.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He forced himself to relax. Neither of them spoke for several moments. Martin remembered the implication Morales had made in the courthouse hallway. What would it be like to be married to someone like Dena Armstrong, a mother of two and a lawyer? She had good looks and a good sense of humor. Nice hair and she dressed well. If he couldn’t have her, maybe he could find someone like her. He forced himself to focus on the reason they were there. “You know, Mrs. Armstrong ... Dena, Ginny has decided to keep the baby.”

  “So that’s what this is about?”

  Smart, too, Martin thought. “I’ve been trying to talk to her about it. So has Mary. We were wondering—”

  “No way.” She shook her head.

  “It’s just that we thought if you were to suggest the abortion, she might listen.”

  She kept shaking her head. “I don’t get involved in people’s personal decisions. Nope. The most I’d ever do would be to give her Planned Parenthood’s phone number at her own request.”

  “But—”

  “No, Lieutenant Richardson.”

  “Martin.”

  “Okay. No, Martin. It’s not even open to discussion.”

  Stubborn, too. He picked up his coffee again and sipped. Well, that could be a good trait when it came to a person maintaining her convictions. He looked into her eyes and caught her watching him. Why was she doing that? Wha
t was wrong with him? It was like he had some schoolboy crush on his teacher. He had to quit fantasizing. Married women, especially with two kids, well…the words off-limits described them best. There must be someone else like her out there. “All right. I just thought…well, you know. You’re not angry, are you?”

  She shook her head. “I understand. I really do. But next time I’m going to make you buy my tea and cake.”

  “It would be an honor, Ma’am,” he said, ducking his head.

  “Thank you, Sir. Now is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Martin wanted very much to give her an honest answer but restrained himself. “You could spend a few minutes explaining those ten options you gave my sister.”

  “Now that I’ll be glad to do, Lieutenant ... Martin,” she said. She ate the last bit of cake and slapped the saucer and fork down on the table.

  Martin looked down into his coffee cup. Damn, she was just too good to be true.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DENA

  Wednesday afternoon, Dena had agreed to catch the telephone while Meredith worked on some discovery materials they had to get into the mail before the end of the day. Dena sat at her own desk with the speakerphone turned on so she could get some work done, too. Theirs being a so-called one-girl office, they all had to make compromises, however answering the telephone happened to be one area where Luke would not cooperate unless the call was on his cell phone. He would rather the phone lines not be answered than to lower himself to picking up for a secretary.

  Luke’s attitude was a constant source of irritation to Dena, who thought everyone ought to pitch in and do anything that needed doing. The fact that Lucas felt there was a line between attorney and secretary, that he would not deign to cross, annoyed Dena to no end. So, as usual, Dena already found herself in a foul mood when she picked up line one. “Barlow and Barlow. Dena Barlow Armstrong speaking.”

  “This is Alan Sellers.” Dena recoiled from the set like she’d seen a snake come out of it. Making an effort to calm her jittery hands and keep the surprise and disgust out of her voice, she said, “What can I do for you, Sir?”

  “I called her today, Mrs. Armstrong. I called her, but I didn’t mean to, really I didn’t. It just happened. I had a few drinks, so I called her, but I didn’t mean what I said. Please don’t put me in jail, Mrs. Armstrong.”

  Dena squinched up her face. A perfect end to a perfect day. She wished he had his own attorney. If he had his own attorney, she couldn’t talk to him. Ethically, it would be a violation. When pro se litigants called, though, since they were acting as their own attorneys, she had to speak to them. She hated pro se litigants with a passion she rarely felt for anything else in the world. “What did you say to her, Mr. Sellers?” Dena kept her tone as sweet as she could.

  “I can’t remember everything I said, Mrs. Armstrong. I had a few drinks and got carried away. But I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  He sounded like an adolescent boy, half soprano-half tenor. Odd for someone not much older than her—early thirties, if memory served.

  “What did you say, though, Mr. Sellers? Tell me what you said to her.”

  “I said some crazy things, Mrs. Armstrong. But I didn’t mean them. Honest. I didn’t mean to call. Won’t you believe me? I won’t do it again. I’m sorry. I won’t call her again. I promise. You know I wouldn’t really hurt her.”

  When she was first married, Dena thought she would never get tired of hearing herself called Mrs. Armstrong. Now it was a different story. She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. “Did you threaten her, Mr. Sellers?”

  “I don’t know. If I did, I didn’t mean it. I just wanted to talk to her. Please don’t put me in jail, Mrs. Armstrong. I don’t want to go to jail. I won’t do it again. I promise I won’t.”

  A tiny stabbing sensation began in her left temple. She rubbed it. “Mr. Sellers, calm down please.”

  “I’m calm. I’m calm. I just wanted you to know. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I just want a friendly divorce. I won’t do it again.”

  “Oh, so now you want a friendly divorce? Did you upset her?” She stabbed the pen she held into the deskpad and drew a stick figure with horns.

  “No, I don’t think so. I don’t know. I know I’m not supposed to call her, but I couldn’t help it. Will you tell her I’m sorry? Are you going to put me in jail, Mrs. Armstrong?”

  The pain in Dena’s temple pierced farther into her head, moving into her left eye, causing a tremor. She took a deep breath. “If you promise it won’t happen again, I won’t take you back to court, but you must stop calling her.”

  “Okay. I promise. I just got carried away. I just had a few drinks, that’s all. They just got to me, that’s all. I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “Okay, Mr. Sellers.” Dena rubbed her eyes. She could feel mascara come off on her fingers. “I’m going to call Ginny and tell her you won’t do it again. If you do, I will file on you. You’re under a protective order and can go to jail just for the act of calling her, not to mention contempt of court for violation of a protective order. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I won’t do it again. By the way, I haven’t gotten my copy of the papers yet from court. Are you going to send me the papers?”

  “I already have, Mr. Sellers. You sure you didn’t get them? You are a week past due on the temporary alimony.”

  “No, I swear. Did you mail them to my apartment?”

  “First of last week.” She knew he was lying, but she couldn’t do anything about it.

  “I’ll check the mail again today. Do they include what she wants to settle this case, Mrs. Armstrong?”

  “I haven’t received that information from Ginny yet. I’ll let you know when I do.” Would he ever shut up?

  “Okay, Mrs. Armstrong. And thanks. Thanks a lot. You have my promise that I won’t do it again. I don’t know what got into me. I knew I wasn’t supposed to call her. I knew it, but I couldn’t help it. You tell her I’m sorry, okay? You know, I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Dena no more than hit the button disconnecting them than the other line began ringing. She reached for it when what she really wanted to do was reach for her bottle of ibuprofen. “Barlow and Barlow.”

  “Mrs. Armstrong? It’s Ginny Richardson, er, Sellers.”

  “Oh, hey, I just got off the phone with your—with Alan. He apologized for calling you and promised he wouldn’t do it again if I promised not to put him in jail this time.” God, she had the worst headache. Where was the bottle of ibuprofen that was supposed to be on her desk?

  “I’m sorry,” Ginny said in a little girl voice. “Are you going to have him arrested?”

  “You want me to?”

  “I don’t know. He was pretty scary.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, man, like everything was all my fault. Like I was a…you know ... yucky words I don’t use. He cussed me. He called me all the ugly things he could think of.” Her tone of voice sounded dismissive.

  “You don’t sound very upset.”

  “Yeah, I was, but, you know, I guess I’m starting to get used to it. The funny thing is that when I didn’t let it creep me out, he sounded aggravated.”

  “That’s a great way to handle him, Ginny. I think he must get his kicks from the way you let it upset you in the past. Maybe he’ll quit now.”

  “Yeah. That’s what Mary said.”

  “I told him if he’d promise not to do it again, I wouldn’t file on him. I hope that’s okay with you. Actually, I’m not sure the judge would jail him for contempt over a couple of phone calls. And the D.A. has more things to worry about than filing misdemeanor charges over a phone call. But if I press it, I’m sure I could get them to.”

  “Let’s wait. I don’t want to go to court if it’s not going to do any good. We can hold this over his head, can’t we? Did he say anythin
g else?”

  “The check’s in the mail.” Dena grabbed her purse out of her lower desk drawer and dug around in it for her other bottle of painkillers.

  “Oh, sure. I’ll bet he never pays me that alimony.”

  “That the judge will put him in jail for.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “He also wanted to know if I had the list of things you wanted.”

  “I’m working on it, Mrs. Armstrong. I’ll send it as soon as possible. Now that I’m out of the apartment, it’s hard to remember everything that was there.”

  “I know,” Dena said. “But the sooner we get the list to him, the sooner we can get this thing over with. You know there’s a sixty-day waiting period on a divorce. This is already the sixth week.”

  “I forgot. I guess ‘cause it took so long to get him served for the first hearing. Shoot, I could be divorced in three weeks or less?”

  “If we get everything done. By the way, have you decided what to do about the baby?” She finally found the bottle and dropped her purse back into the drawer.

  “Oh, I don’t know. If I didn’t tell him, and he found out later that he had a kid, I’m scared what he might do.”

  “Uh-huh,” Dena muttered. Martin and Mary were really working on the girl, she could tell.

  “I’ll let you know about that soon, too. I’m going to a counselor tomorrow to talk it over.”

  “Okay. But get me that list. Right now it sounds like he might give you everything you want.”

  “I’ll let you go. There’s just one more thing I want to tell you. I wasn’t going to, but Mary and Martin said you should know.”

  “What’s that, Hon?”

  “The last few times Alan called threatening me? Well, uh, he said he’s going to kill you, too.”

  That evening, after dinner and after they had put the children to bed, Dena and Zack sat in front of the television, though Dena’s mind was elsewhere. She chewed her lower lip as she thought about what Ginny had said. Though a bit frightening, it didn’t compare to the time the previous winter when Zack had been out of town and a man had followed her home. At least now, if someone did come after her or her kids in her own home, she had protection. She had her thirty-eight. She had even gotten one of the assistant D.A.s to take her to the firing range for practice. He had shown her how to hold the grip of the gun with one hand supporting the other. Her aim was straight and steady. She’d hit the target every time. Not that she believed Sellers would really attempt to harm her. Silly thought.