Full Disclosure

by Beverley McLachlin

  Jilly Truitt, the lines say. Stop digging.

  CHAPTER 30

  I FALL SICK. THE YOUNG doctor who orders me to the hospital says it’s the latest strain of Asian bird flu, but I know better. I have fallen sick of mind, of spirit, of the enigma of what I do and who I am. I drift in and out of consciousness. I wake and dream, dream again. My dreams are stories—the stories I want, the stories I have made myself believe, the stories of my life. Of innocence, of abuse, of neglect. Never stories of guilt; no, never guilt. The people in my dreams are deprived perhaps, confused maybe, but never guilty. I will prove it. I lie back on my pillow. So many stories. The past mingles nonsensically with the present—Edith, Vincent, Raquella, Laura alive, Damon reprieved. Now both are dead.

  They come to see me, those few who, against all good sense, have loved me—shapes drifting in and out of my dreams. Martha and Brock, tall forms with masks over their mouths; my brothers, too; and Richard for a few minutes. Each evening—it is always evening in my dreams—an old friend named Diane reads me poems as she did when we were young and too fresh to fall asleep. She reads a poem of a tree that changes colors with the seasons, from green to yellow to deep red.

  “Where did you find it?” I murmur.

  “In the New Yorker,” she replies.

  “It’s about death,” I say, and see her eyes grow wide with fear. “It’s all right. It’s lovely.” I fall back into my dreams.

  Michael St. John does not come.

  On what they later tell me is the eighth day, I wake and sense a presence in the room.

  “Ms. Truitt,” a voice says. A voice I know. Used to know.

  I look up. Not a real voice, a dream.

  A figure is standing in the doorway. The light glints on a thick shock of yellow hair. I struggle for words, hear them, thin, far away. “You’re dead, dead in a Dumpster.”

  The figure moves slowly toward the end of the bed, and the dream becomes reality. Damon’s face. I hear my cry. I’m alive, awake. “Damon? You—here? You’re—”

  “Jeff said you were sick.”

  “But you—you’re dead. The body in the Dumpster.”

  “Somebody else.”

  My drugged and addled mind races. “Kellen.”

  “Jilly. It’s over.”

  “How do you know?”

  The muscle in his throat quivers. “I don’t want to lie to you, Jilly. Don’t make me.” He moves to my side, finds the chair by the bed.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Get my life back.”

  “What?” My hands feel for the bed, find the railing. I look around the room. How long have I been here?

  He looks down. “I’ll understand if you don’t want me at the office.”

  “Damon,” I say. “You disappeared. The undertow, the street, it’s pulling you back, pulling you under.”

  His jaw clenches. “It’s over, Jilly.”

  “It’s never over.” I feel weak. My arm slips from the sheet and falls.

  I feel his hand on my forehead, feel him lift my hand and slip it back under the sheet.

  I sink into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER 31

  IT TAKES ME TWO WEEKS to recover.

  “What did you expect?” asks Dr. Khan when he comes to call at my condo. He watches me force myself from my bed, struggle to walk a little farther than the day before. “A less healthy person would have died.”

  My little family welcomes me to the office with looks and lectures and much tut-tutting. In my absence, they’ve made it through. A few cases adjourned, others handled thanks to double duty by Jeff and Alicia.

  “Alicia’s coming along,” Jeff says. “Picked up some difficult stuff, pulled it off with aplomb. Every cloud has a silver lining, or at least some of them.”

  We’re back to normal. Qualification—the new normal. Damon and I have developed an understanding. We don’t speak of the body found in the Dumpster. We don’t speak of that night at the Trussardi home. Who knows, I might need to call him to develop the boy defense or to take the gloss off Laura’s virtue by showing she bought drugs, although the possibility of Cy cross-examining Damon on the safe and the gun sends shivers up my spine.

  I’ve resumed driving, although occasionally I still think I see a dark van behind me. So far, no other warnings have appeared on my windshield. I’ve decided to keep digging—to hell with the consequences.

  Any doubt that it’s not business as usual is dispelled by Debbie’s shout down the hall, “Cy Kenge for you, Jilly. Line 2.” No ifs, buts, or would-you-like-to-take-the-calls, just you’re on.

  I pick up the phone. “Cy, what can I do for you?”

  “Heard you were away, Jilly.” Something in Cy’s tone puts me on edge.

  “If you think I went off for a tummy tuck, Cy, you’ve got the wrong girl. Just a mundane case of H7N9, I’m afraid. Now that we’re through the gracious preliminaries, what’s your book of business?”

  “Two things,” he says. “One business, one pleasure.”

  “Let’s start with the pleasure.”

  “No way, Jilly.”

  I sigh. “Okay, Cy, the business.”

  “I’m prepared to accept a plea to second degree in Trussardi, release on parole after ten years if he behaves himself. Against my better judgment, might I add. It seems someone upstairs has your guy’s back.”

  No preamble, no negotiation, just the offer, one I would have jumped at a month ago.

  “Sorry, Cy,” I reply. “To be frank, I discussed this possibility with my client, but he refuses to plead to anything. I’ll convey your offer, of course.”

  “No accounting for stupidity.” He moves on to the pleasure part of the call. “Lois and I still hope you can come to our party. This Saturday.”

  “Thanks. How’s Lois recovering?”

  “Splendidly, Jilly. She’s got her new liver, has been out of the hospital for a week now and feeling better every day. You’ll see on Saturday.”

  “I’ll try to make it.” I’m about to hang up when I hear his voice again.

  “Jilly, while I have you, there’s something I should tell you. On Trussardi.”

  Now we’re getting down to the real business.

  “Yes?”

  “News about Trevor Shore.”

  My stomach clenches.

  “He’s been killed in a little town near São Paulo. Shot. Looks like gang violence—a case of being in the wrong place at the right time. Although you never know: it could have been targeted. Maybe he knew too much. Maybe your man fingered him.”

  Stupid me, assuming the cops didn’t know where Trevor Shore was, when all along they were watching him. A game has been playing out, a game I do not understand. Why is Cy offering me a plea if he thinks Trevor Shore’s disappearance is my problem? Was it his plan to get Trevor back and have him testify? Viewed objectively, the Crown’s case is thin—the gun, the bed, a wisp of a motive that I hope to blow out of the water. Trevor on the stand would have strengthened the motive, maybe provided some juicy detail that would have clinched the conviction.

  “I’ll send you the police reports as we get them,” Cy says crisply. “See you at the party.” The line goes dead.

  I look up. Jeff is hovering in the doorway. “So?”

  “Eavesdropping?”

  He slides into the chair across my desk.

  “Trevor Shore’s been shot dead. Brazilian police are investigating. Cy’s hinting that Trussardi is behind it.”

  “Crazy.”

  “What’s with this man we call our client, Jeff? Do you think he could have hired someone to kill Shore? Why would he do that?”

  “Who knows what goes through his head? He just sits there brooding over the photo of the dark lady.”

  “And at the same time he’s conspiring how to take out Trevor Shore? Doesn’t figure. Maybe our police told the Brazilian cops to keep Shore away so they could convict Trussardi, and the Brazil boys went overboard.”

&nbs
p; Jeff raises an eyebrow.

  “Or maybe somebody we don’t know about yet killed him.” I change tacks. “Cy just offered to reduce the charge to second degree. Ten years to parole. Our duty to tell the client.”

  Jeff’s up, pacing to the window. “Our duty, Jilly, our duty? It’s our lifeline. We’re going down, and you talk like you’d rather not throw it to the client? It’s a case, not the bloody Holy Grail. You’ve lost perspective on this one, Jilly.”

  “Calm down, Jeff. The Crown’s case isn’t all that strong.”

  He laughs. “If you forget the matrimonial bed and the gun. Trussardi’s crazy if he doesn’t accept this offer. This isn’t like Damon’s case—good kid scared out of his wits—where we had a real chance at second, maybe manslaughter. The person who committed this crime meant it.” He leans toward me over the paper-strewn table. “Please tell me you’re going to tell him to take it, Jilly.”

  “I’ll recommend it.”

  Jeff slumps into his chair. “Thank god. This case is a high-speed train about to go off the tracks. Whoever said speedy justice was good was a fool.”

  CHAPTER 32

  VINCENT TRUSSARDI SITS ON THE white leather bench in the stern of the boat. We’ll take the sloop, he said when I called to ask to have a one-on-one. I wonder how many boats he owns.

  His binoculars train the horizon where orcas cavort. The late sun shadows his profile, and I understand why so many women have fallen for him. He lowers the binoculars and offers me a regretful smile. “Gone.”

  I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “We need to talk.” I failed with Edith and Hildegard, I think. Today, with luck, I’ll figure things out. Or at least get closer.

  I decide to open with the plea. I may be floundering on this case, but you can’t fault my due diligence. If Vincent says okay, we can clink our glasses and head back to harbor.

  “Mr. Trussardi, the prosecution is offering a plea bargain. You plead guilty to second degree, and you’re out on parole in ten years. First degree, which is what you’re facing, is a life sentence with no possibility of parole for twenty-five years. Our case isn’t looking great. It’s my considered opinion you should accept the offer.”

  He gives me a kindly look. “I respect your opinion, Miss Truitt. But as I told you before, I will not plead guilty to any charge involving the death of my wife.”

  I could tell him I’m quitting, but I’d be lying. Despite all the secrets, at the back of my mind the voice of Trevor Shore lurks: Put the real killer behind bars, so I can stop running.

  “I’m sorry I asked again,” I say, and I mean it.

  “I have a question for you, Miss Truitt.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you—how shall I put this—are you entirely well?”

  I bristle. “Of course I’m well. I had a bout with the flu a few weeks back, but I’m better now.”

  “You’ve lost weight.”

  “Are you worried I won’t have the strength to win your case, Mr. Trussardi? If so, I would be happy to find you another lawyer.”

  “No, I’m not worried about that. Not in the least. And you will do quite well as my lawyer.”

  “Then what’s this about, Mr. Trussardi?”

  He faces the wind, turns back with a shrug. “I’ve come to care about you, Miss Truitt.”

  I stiffen. “You shouldn’t. I’m your lawyer; you’re my client. In another world we might have been friends. But we can’t be friends in this one. It gets in the way.”

  “I understand, Miss Truitt. But life is complicated. More complicated than you can imagine.” He clears his throat. “Never mind. Let’s get down to business. Lawyer. Client.”

  “Shall we start with Raquella? I know you haven’t always gotten along. And I know that Laura was close to her.”

  “Why do you need to get into the mess of my family affairs, Miss Truitt?” he asks defensively. “It’s painful for me and has nothing to do with the case.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” I say, steering him back on track.

  “If you insist,” he replies, his voice tight. “Laura was good to Raquella. Too good.”

  “Did Raquella try to undermine your relationship with Laura? Did you feel left out? Jealous perhaps?”

  He looks out to sea.

  “Mr. Trussardi.”

  He whirls back. “What can it matter, how I felt?”

  It might matter a lot, I want to say.

  “Raquella was lonely. Laura befriended her, helped her out of her depression. Raquella became dependent on her, infatuated with her,” he says bitterly. “But it passed. Laura and I were back together, expecting a child.”

  “Raquella can’t have liked that.”

  “No, she didn’t like that, but she wouldn’t kill Laura for it.”

  “She was jealous of you running the family business,” I persist. “It might have suited her to have you in prison.”

  “I know you’ve talked to Hildegard about the business. But if you’re thinking Raquella killed Laura, for this or any other reason, you’re wrong. She adored Laura and had long reconciled with the idea that she had no place in the business.”

  I try to put the pieces together. Even if he knew, he wouldn’t say anything against Raquella. Some ancient code of family loyalty. I regroup. “We’ve confirmed that Laura was, in fact, buying drugs. If not for herself, then for whom?”

  “I don’t know, but thousands of people buy drugs. They don’t get killed for it—at least, not the way she was killed.”

  “What about Carmelina?” I ask. “You and she were intimate. Perhaps she was jealous, wanted Laura out of the way.”

  His face colors. “Carmelina and I were not intimate,” he spits out. “Yes, we were together the night of the murder. It was a desperate, stupid act of confused sorrow. Carmelina worshiped Laura. As did I.”

  If everybody loved Laura, I want to yell, then who the hell killed her?

  Instead, I step toward him, locking my eyes on his. “Trevor Shore is dead,” I say. “Shot in the head in Rio.”

  I see the shock on his face. So he did not know.

  “Do you think Trevor could have killed Laura?” I ask.

  “Maybe. Perhaps she had told him about the pregnancy, that the baby was mine, and he lost his mind and killed her.” He breaks off. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  I read the pain and exhaustion in his face. He’s not a bad man; he may well be innocent of the crime they have pinned on him. I steel myself to carry on.

  “There’s a photo of a woman in your condo, Mr. Trussardi. Can you tell me about her?”

  “You pry too much, Miss Truitt.” The line of his brows belies his even tone. “The woman in the photo was someone I loved deeply, someone I betrayed. Lately, I’ve taken to reflecting on my life. Perhaps the bleakness of my future allows me to look back on the past now and realize I wronged her terribly.”

  “Who was she?” I say, as softly as I can.

  He looks away to the ocean. “She was my first love. Let it go.”

  “Does she have anything to do with a woman named Edith Hole?”

  “I know no one by that name.”

  “I know you had a child. Edith Hole looked after the adoption.”

  His voice is hoarse when he next speaks. “Yes, I did have a child. Her mother and I agreed on adoption. And yes, Edith Hole was the social worker they assigned to the file.” He swallows. “If I could live my life again, I would keep the child, cherish it, hold it to me forever. But I was young and foolish and weak.”

  No man who feels so deeply about having lost one child would kill the woman carrying his second.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, coughing and collecting himself. He sinks back to the bench, head bowed. A profound sense of sadness sweeps over me.

  “He said you lived an inauthentic life.”

  He lifts his head. “Who said that?”

  “Brock Mayne,” I say. “My father. Foster father.”

  “I heard he
and Martha took on a foster child.”

  Took on, such cold words. I stare out over the western sea. The lowering sun streaks the horizon with red and gold. His eye follows mine.

  “Beauty,” he says. “Sic transit gloria mundi. Thus passes the glory of the world.”

  “Tempus fugit,” I reply. Time slips away.

  “Whatever happens, Miss Truitt, I want you to know this. I admire you. It has been a pleasure—a great pleasure—to have spent this time with you.”

  I could say I don’t think he’s come clean with me. I could say I still don’t trust him, but for once I skip the scolding. “Thank you, Mr. Trussardi.”

  “Thank you, Miss Truitt. You cannot know how much this means to me.”

  He starts the motor and we head back to harbor.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I’M BACK at Trussardi’s house. Today’s episode of my never-ending drug trial broke off early, and there are things I need to check out before we go to court with Trussardi—a looming date. My resolution to de-obsess myself has fallen flat. Face it, you’re out of control, I tell myself as I compulsively pull at every tangled thread this case spins off.

  The furniture is still there—the long glass table where Damon dined and the white banquette where he sat—but the room is empty of life. No people, no paintings, no bentwood boxes. A barren abandoned stage. I sit on the banquette and cast my eye to the fireplace and beyond. I see what Damon saw: walls of ash. I move toward them.

  I find myself in a study with nothing more than a desk, a sofa, and pale wood panels. I push on one, and it slides back to reveal the safe. The door is ajar, so I peer inside, but it’s empty. I slide my hand into a crack that opens between the shelves beneath. No paper, the code is gone. The house, Ms. Truitt. You’ll find the truth; it’s all there, Trevor said. Is this what he meant?