Chapter 4 - The Scent of Panic
At eight-thirty that morning, Julian woke up in the master bedroom of the Highland Park house with a pounding headache and a dry, sticky tongue that tasted of oxidized Cabernet.
The house was dead quiet.
He rolled over onto his side, expecting to see the clean, pressed linen of his gym shirt laid out on the cedar bench by the closet, with his morning dose of blood pressure medication and a tall glass of ice water sitting on the marble nightstand.
There was only an empty water glass with a dead fruit fly floating in the bottom.
"Elena?" he called out, his voice hoarse, scraping against his throat.
No answer.
Only the low, rhythmic hum of the central heating unit circulating the cold air through the brass vents.
He pushed himself up, his bare feet hitting the cold travertine. The silver dress I had worn the night before was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor of the hallway, right where I had dropped it before changing into my dark wool trousers. Beside it, on the polished stone, was a tiny, faint drop of dried blood from my scalp.
He stepped over the dress without looking down.
In the guest suite across the gallery, the door stood open.
Vanessa was sitting on the edge of the horsehair mattress, wearing a silk robe she had pulled from my closet, her face pale, without her foundation or her false lashes. She looked thirty-five instead of thirty-two, the sharp, hungry lines of her face unsoftened by the golden light of the living room chandeliers.
"Julian," she said, her voice tight, vibrating with an irritating, high-pitched urgency. "My company debit card was declined."
Julian paused in the doorway, his hand resting against the painted molding. "What are you talking about? The Westover operating account has forty thousand dollars in liquid reserves."
"I just tried to pay the deposit for the marble slabs from the quarry in Marble Falls," she said, holding up her rose-gold iPhone. "The terminal came back Transaction Not Permitted - Card Status: Restrained. I called the bank's automated line. The representative told me the account has been placed under a administrative hold pursuant to a court order."
"A court order?" Julian’s hand dropped from the doorframe. "That’s impossible. We haven't even broken ground on the foundation footings yet. It’s an administrative error. Some idiot clerk in the commercial credit department forgot to flag the transfer from the framing company."
He turned on his heel and marched down the grand curved staircase into his wood-paneled study.
The room smelled of old cigars, leather polish, and the faint, sweet scent of the pine logs he had burned in the hearth during his Sunday afternoon meetings with the subcontractors.
He sat down in his heavy, leather swivel chair—the seven-thousand-dollar chair he had purchased with a check drawn on Commerce Street Equipment Leasing—and opened his laptop.
His primary email client had forty-two unread messages.
The first was from Greg Barnes, the site superintendent for the Westover development:
JULIAN. WE HAVE A PROBLEM. TWO UNMARKED SUBURBANS AND FOUR DEPUTIES FROM THE TARRANT COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT JUST ROLLED UP TO THE MAIN GATE ON HIGHWAY 183. THEY PADLOCKED THE CHAINS WITH A COMMERCIAL HARDENED STEEL SHACKLE. THEY POSTED A LEGAL NOTICE ON THE PLYWOOD SIGN SAYING THE PARCEL IS SUBJECT TO AN INJUNCTION OF LIS PENDENS FILED BY MERCER & KIM ON BEHALF OF THE VANCE DYNASTY TRUST. THEY TOOK THE KEYS TO THE EXCAVATORS. MY GUYS ARE SITTING ON THEIR TAILGATES IN THE RAIN. WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?
The second message was from his mother, Beatrice:
JULIAN, DARLING. I JUST RECEIVED A STRANGE CALL FROM THE TREASURER OF THE DALLAS SYMPHONY AUXILIARY. SHE SAID OUR SUBSCRIPTION FOR THE WINTER GALA TABLE WAS REVERSED FOR INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. I TOLD HER IT WAS OBVIOUSLY A GLITCH WITH FROST BANK, BUT WHEN I TRIED TO USE MY CITIBANK CARD AT NEIMAN’S THIS MORNING, THE CLERK CONFISCATED THE PLASTIC WITH A PAIR OF SCISSORS. CALL ME IMMEDIATELY. I AM AT THE SALON AT THE CRESCENT AND THEY ARE ASKING ME FOR A CASH DEPOSIT BEFORE THEY WILL TOUCH MY ROOTS.
Julian didn't open the third message.
His breath was coming in short, jagged gasps that made his silk pajamas pull tight across his chest. He reached for his desk phone, his thumb slamming into the speed-dial for my cell.
“The subscriber you are trying to reach has restricted incoming calls. If you are calling regarding a legal matter involving Elena Vance Enterprises, please contact the offices of Mercer & Kim, Attorneys at Law, at five-five-five...”
He threw the handset against the paneled wall.
It struck the oil portrait of his father, bouncing off the varnished canvas and crashing onto the parquet floor, the plastic housing cracking along the seam.
"Elena!" he screamed into the empty house, his voice echoing off the high ceilings like a gunshot in an empty barn. "You crazy, vindictive bitch! Where are you?!"
From the doorway of the study, Vanessa stood clutching the silk robe around her throat, her eyes wide, staring at the shattered telephone on the floor.
"Julian," she whispered, her lower lip beginning to tremble with genuine terror. "My name is on the Westover incorporation papers. If the bank freezes the loan... am I personally liable for the land acquisition costs?"
Julian slowly turned his head to look at her.
May you like
For the first time in eight months, he didn't see the sleek, stylish interior designer who made him feel like a titan of the Dallas real estate scene. He saw an expensive, decorative liability who had just cost him his entire line of credit.
"Shut up, Vanessa," he snarled, his eyes bloodshot, his hands shaking as he reached for his boots. "Just shut your damn mouth while I figure out how to stop her."
