Free Close Case by Alafair Burke

David Bever’s pop-in with Judge Wilson wasn’t going to derail the investigation. Jessica Walters was splayed generously in one of his office guest chairs, her Rockport loafers kicked off to expose obviously swollen feet, her suit jacket draped open around an enormous mass that was once a flat abdomen. I realized I was staring at the buttons that threatened to pop from the crisp white cotton stretched across her impressive girth.
    My gawking didn’t go unnoticed by Jessica. “Christ, Kincaid. Get a good enough look there?”
    “Sorry,” I said. I forced myself to lift my gaze from her belly to her eyes. “I guess I didn’t realize you were that far along.”
    “The magic of a black jacket,” she explained, momentarily holding her blazer closed in front of her. She was right; the move took off a good trimester. “Yep, I’ve only got one more month, and I’m not going to lie. I’ve gained fifty-two pounds.”
    Frist nearly spit up the water he was guzzling from a sports bottle. “Well, you better hope you’re giving birth to a four-year-old, because I’ve never heard of a fifty-pound newborn.”
    “Tell me about it. Julia’s been accusing me of using the pregnancy as an excuse to eat all the shit she normally keeps away from me. I keep telling her I’ll take it off breast-feeding, but she’s threatening to withhold sex if all this fat sticks around.” She grabbed her stomach for emphasis.
    “Uhh, I know you like fucking with my head, Walters,” Frist said, with his patented introductory gravel, “but that’s a little too much information.”
    I wasn’t sure if Frist was referring to the mammary activities or to Walters’s intimate mention of her longtime partner. Either way, his discomfort was ironic, because I had heard Frist and his buddies fantasize about both. Apparently, a big pregnancy bosom was sexy only if it wasn’t going to be used as intended, and the idea of Walters with her beautiful girlfriend was hot only when discussed among her male coworkers.
    “Deal with it,” Jessica retorted. “If your half of the species had to go through this shit, doctors would have invented an artificial womb fifty years ago. Anyway, Sam, this is what awaits if you too decide to enjoy the miracle that is human childbirth.”
    I silently added the physical discomforts of pregnancy to my long list of reasons for being squeamish about motherhood. Nine months of sobriety. The mall-hopping required for a whole new wardrobe of maternity clothes. No way could I swing a club past a belly like Jessica’s, so bye-bye to golf. Apparently indescribable physical pain. Stretch marks. Diapers and upchuck. Not to mention the idea of a little independent person who can’t talk, understand, or reason; who at the slightest sensation of discontent, could afford to pour every last drop of oceanic baby energy into a penetrating scream that convinces you—rationally or not—that you are an incompetent parent who fails to anticipate and satisfy your child’s most basic needs. No, thank you.
    “Not to change the subject, ladies, but what was the deal on that Dunn Simon thing?” Russ asked.
    I told him about David Bever’s motion to halt the search of Crenshaw’s office and Judge Wilson’s order.
    “You should’ve made Bever go through the City Attorney’s Office,” Russ suggested. “They’re the ones who represent the police, and the motion was aimed at the bureau, not us.”
    True enough, but I couldn’t see any advantage in involving Dennis Coakley’s office. “We’re lucky the judge called anyone at all, since Bever waltzed in to the ex parte docket. Besides,” I added, “most of the city attorneys don’t know anything about search and seizure anyway.”
    Jessica and Russ exchanged a knowing glance. Jessica was the one to speak the shared thought. “Not to mention the warm fuzzies between you and Dennis Coakley.”
    “And there’s that,” I said, with a sigh. I wondered how long it would take to heal