He was sitting at a corner high-top table at an upscale wine bar near the central escalators, a glass of pinot noir resting beside his leather passport wallet. He had changed into the dark tailored blazer he usually wore to city council zoning presentations. His silver Rimowa carry-on was parked neatly against his shin, locked with a brass padlock. He looked relaxed, unburdened, like an executive who had just closed the most lucrative negotiation of his career.
As I approached, his phone sat face-up on the polished mahogany table. Even from ten feet away, I saw the messaging application open on his screen. At 3:45 PM, he had composed a draft to me: Still in Dallas, sweetheart. Battery at four percent. Call you when I get to the hotel.
He never got the chance to hit send.
I pulled out the high-backed barstool directly across from him, scraping its steel legs across the tile floor, and sat down.
David’s head snapped up. His hand hovered over the wine glass, fingers freezing an inch above the stem. The easy, civilized smile vanished from his lips, replaced by a sudden, violent draining of color from his skin. His throat moved, a dry swallow catching in his collar.
"Claire," he managed, his voice barely higher than a whisper.
"Hello, David," I said, leaning forward and placing both hands flat on the cool wood. "Dallas looks remarkably like the international departures level of O'Hare."
His eyes darted frantically past my shoulders, scanning the terminal concourse, looking for an exit, looking for an explanation, looking for whatever script he had spent weeks rehearsing. For two seconds, pure panic rattled in his eyes; then, with the practiced arrogance that had sustained him through years of hollow promises, he attempted to rebuild his composure.
He leaned across the table, lowering his voice into a patronizing, urgent hush. "Claire, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Denver. You've completely lost your mind."
"Arthur Keller wasn't in Denver, David. He's in Seattle. Because you canceled our pitch on Tuesday afternoon."
David tightened his jaw, leaning closer, his tone turning venomous. "You flew back here because of a canceled meeting? Do you have any idea what kind of scene you're making? You're hysterical. You’re under severe stress from the firm’s cash flow, and you’re acting entirely irrational. We have an international partnership meeting in Lisbon on Monday. I was going to call you from the plane and wire you the ticket once I landed."
"A partnership meeting?" I asked, keeping my voice terrifyingly calm. "Is that why you hired a liquidation crew to back up to South Grove Avenue at ten o'clock this morning?"
His left eyelid twitched. The lie caught in his throat for half a beat, but he pressed forward, trying to drown reality in corporate doublespeak. "The firm is insolvent, Claire! We were facing involuntary bankruptcy by Friday! I arranged an emergency asset consolidation. I sold the residential equity to private buyers to cover our corporate liabilities. I had the legal authority under our operating agreement to protect our remaining solvency. You don't understand the legal structure of what I did."
"I understand it perfectly," Arthur Vance said, stepping out from the shadow of the pillar and placing his heavy litigation bag on the adjacent chair.
David looked up, his face hardening as he recognized our counsel. "Arthur? What the hell is this? This is an internal partner dispute. You don't represent her against me. Our firm retains you jointly."
"Your firm ceased to exist as an operating partnership when you forged Claire’s name on a fraudulent conveyance," Arthur said calmly, unzipping the folder and sliding three color sheets onto the table between David’s wine glass and his passport.