“I think Trussardi’s making it up,” Jeff persists. “Like the putative pregnancy. We need to find a way to convince Cy to take a plea to second degree. It’s the only option.”
“All right.” I straighten in my chair. “I know I take chances from time to time, but I’m not suicidal.” I look around the table. “Here’s the plan. We continue the investigation. If we’re still empty after we’ve overturned every stone, then we sit Mr. Trussardi down and tell him it’s our considered advice that he should plead guilty to second degree, assuming we can cut a deal. If he refuses to accept our advice, I’ll let him shop for some other lawyer who’ll take his money and make a fool of himself in front of the jury. But we’re not at that point. Not yet. Besides, getting a deal on a high-profile case like this may depend on coming up with something—anything—that makes a conviction less than an absolute certainty.”
“Jilly’s right,” Richard says. “Something about the Crown’s case is just too pat. We should investigate further. Then reassess.”
I thumb the pathology report, start scanning the pages. “If we don’t come up with something, we have a heart-to-heart with the client. Moment of truth.”
“I just wish I could believe he was coming clean with us.”
“I know—” I start to say, but stop. There, on page two, is the evidence staring me in the face.
Jeff spins his chair. “Got to get to court.”
“Wait a sec.” I shove the report across the table to him and watch his expression fall. Pregnant, estimated time of gestation, nine weeks.
CHAPTER 17
TREVOR SHORE FINDS ME BETWEEN the fruits and the salads, a half-laden basket over my arm. Much as I resent the intrusion of shopping on my billable hours, a girl has to eat.
“Ms. Truitt, may I have a word?”
I recognize him right away, his brown tam and Oxford scarf. He’s tall and gaunt, but it’s his eyes that hold me—thin rings of blue encircling enormous pupils that skitter as he tries to meet mine.
“Mr. Shore,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you, Ms. Truitt.”
There are ethical rules about this sort of thing. I should tell him it’s a bad idea for us to be speaking alone, but I don’t.
“There’s a Starbucks next door,” I say. I look at my shopping, set it down, and follow him out the door.
At the crowded coffee bar, I stand awkwardly beside him. “Go get a seat,” he says. “What can I bring you?”
“Tall black,” I reply and head to the plush chairs at the back.
A moment later he places two paper cups on the table between us and sinks into his chair. He looks like an origami doll—sweater hanging from angular shoulders, jeans falling in folds over his boots. He’s lost weight since he bought these clothes. A lot. Laura’s death has taken its toll, but if this is my one shot at Trevor Shore, I need to ask the tough questions.
I launch in. “Who killed Laura, Trevor?”
“Not me, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I’d say you’re a prime candidate. You slept with her, then beat her when she wanted to go back to her husband. She’s lucky she got away with just a black eye.” I lean in. “You were jealous, weren’t you? Furious that she’d leave you. You knew the house, knew where the gun was. Doesn’t look good for you, Trevor.”
“I loved her,” he whispers hoarsely. “You have to believe me.”
The ancient Othello theme, I loved her so much she had to die.
He’s talking again. “She broke it off with me months ago. She and Vincent were reconciling, going to give it another go.”
“She broke it off months ago,” I repeat flatly. “Then explain why you went to the Stay-A-While Motel with her the day before she was killed.”
He blanches. “I never—”
“Don’t bullshit me, Trevor.”
“We never—it was over. I just wanted to talk to her, warn her.”
“Warn her?” My heart sinks. “About Vincent?”
“No, no.”
“Then who, Trevor?”
He shrugs.
“I get it. You wanted to warn her about yourself. Is that why you’re here? To alleviate your guilt about Vincent taking the rap, Trevor?” I press on. “You were upset, not thinking straight. She told you she was back with her husband, pregnant by him, and you lost it. Part of you loved her, part of you hated her. You couldn’t take it anymore. So you killed her.”
“You’ve got it all wrong. I’m the one in danger now.” His eyes dart wildly into the corners of the crowded room.
“Why?”
“I know too much.”
“About?”
“The family, the business, the whole damned lot.” He fixes his eyes on me. “And I know I’m being followed, Ms. Truitt. I can’t stay long. Unless I get out of here, I’m dead.”
“Who would want you dead? And why?” Our coffees cool on the table, untouched. “I’m getting tired of this, Trevor. Why are you here?”
“I loved Laura. I want to see her death avenged. And I want you to put the real killer behind bars so I can stop running.”
“Then tell me who did it.”
“If I tell you, I’m dead, no matter where I go. If I say nothing and leave town, they’ll let me be. You have to figure it out yourself.”
“Why can’t you just tell me? Seriously, how would killing you help them, whoever they are?”
“Omertà,” he whispers.
“Revenge?”
He nods.
“Revenge for you killing her?”
“No, Ms. Truitt. Revenge for telling.”
My mind reels. Who has that kind of power? “You’re afraid that if you tell me what you know, Vincent Trussardi will have you killed?”
He shakes his head. “No, no.”
“Then who?”
Trevor’s babbling. He can’t talk sense, but he can’t stop talking—it’s irrational, but I’ve seen it before. A lot of things can drive a man crazy. Including guilt. I need to get back to what matters to my case.
“Have the police talked to you?”
“No, I’ve been hiding out. But they’ll find me if I stay here any longer. I’m leaving the country.”
I sit very still. I can’t have anything to do with this. If Cy finds out, I’ll be charged with obstructing justice—maybe worse.
“You shouldn’t have come to me.” I start to rise, but Shore’s voice pulls me back down.
“I know what you’re thinking: ‘If he didn’t kill her, why is he running?’ Let’s just leave it at this—if they find me or if the police talk to me, I’m done for.”
“The police will give you protective custody. You need to talk to them.”
“Protective custody can’t save me.”
“Then why did you come to me, Mr. Shore?”
“You’re the only one who can set things right. For Laura, for myself.”
“And how does that help my client?”
“If you figure it out—” He breaks off, gets to his feet. “I’ve told you this in confidence. A lawyer is bound to keep confidences—I read that somewhere. What I’ve said is between you and me. You must never tell anyone about this conversation.”
If I wanted, I could give him a lecture on solicitor-client privilege, tell him you need a lawyer-client relationship for it to apply, tell him it can’t be used to obstruct justice. But there’s no point.
“The house, Ms. Truitt. You’ll find the truth; it’s all there.” He swallows. “I’ve said too much. Goodbye.”
He disappears into the crush of backpacks milling at the door.
CHAPTER 18
TREVOR SHORE’S VISIT GNAWS THROUGH my dreams, eats at my sleep. Of all the questions I put to him, there was one I forgot. Who was the father of Laura’s baby? Was it Vincent, as he professes to believe? Trevor? Or someone else?
The next morning, bleary-eyed, coffee in hand, I settle into my office chair and fish out my phone. I scroll throug
h the contacts and hit the call button. With luck, Christine, head pathologist at the downtown Vancouver morgue, can help with what I need to know about the baby. I’m just finishing my call when Debbie enters my office carrying an armload of files.
“Legal aids.” She slaps the top of a hefty pile. “Only one you need to look at—that killing in a Gastown pub last week.”
Used to live on legal aid, I think. We’re selective now.
“Some telephone calls, one or two requests for appointments.”
“Anything interesting?” I ask.
“Not really, but I never know what will interest you.” Debbie sniffs and shifts through the documents. “A girl, Keltey’s her name, was in here looking for a missing person. Apparently, this person once mentioned you.” She peers at her notes. “Trulla James or something. Ring a bell?”
“Nope.”
“Anyway, Keltey thinks Pickton and the pig farm may have got her. No money in it for us.” Debbie makes a face.
I think back to the inquiry into the Robert Pickton killings, see the pain in the eyes of the families whose mothers and sisters and daughters were plucked from Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside to be slaughtered at Pickton’s pig farm. Worst serial killer in history, the newspapers said.
“Once in a while, we do one for charity, Debbie. Tell her we can’t do anything without DNA.”
“She knows. She left this.” She sets a locket on a gold chain on my desk. “Open it.”
I pry the locket open and see a lock of dark hair, then snap it shut. It lies in the palm of my hand, a gold oval set round with small rubies.
“This is exquisite,” I murmur. “Old, valuable. I’ll give Richard a call and ask him to take the sample to the investigatory team to see if the DNA matches any found on site.”
“You’re busy. I’ll call for you.” Debbie offers, scooping up the locket.
“No, there’s something else I need to discuss with him.”
She gives me a look, like I’m holding out, but I brush it off. This is personal. Maybe it’s losing Mike, but all I know is that for the first time in thirty-four years, I need to know the truth.
“You can call Vincent Trussardi for me, though. We need him to come in. Today, if possible.”
Debbie nods.
An hour later, Vincent Trussardi sits across from Jeff and me in our boardroom.
“We need to raise something with you,” I start. “This may be difficult.”
“Go ahead, I’m waiting.”
“It’s about your child. The coroner has preserved the fetus your late wife was carrying.”
Vincent sits silent for a long moment. “What has that got to do with the case?”
“Not sure. She might be able to do a paternity test, find out if you’re the father. If you’re the dad, it supports your story and buttresses your case. The jury will have a hard time believing that a man could kill a woman pregnant with his only and long-awaited child.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then it would cut the other way,” says Jeff.
“You think the baby wasn’t mine.” He looks at Jeff, then me.
“I think we need to weigh the risk of how an unfavorable result would play with a jury.”
“I told you. I loved my wife, and we were making things work. Do the test.”
“Mr. Trussardi, you should know that the prosecution has a witness whose testimony could be problematic.”
Jeff continues. “A North Van motel clerk claims that a woman who looked like Laura Trussardi checked into the Stay-a-While Motel with Trevor Shore the afternoon before the murder.”
Vincent’s eyes widen briefly. Shock? Anger? Fear at what the police have found?
“We should still do it,” he says, a gravelly certainty in his voice.
“Good.” I give him an encouraging smile. “You need to visit Dr. Moyer at the City Morgue at ten a.m. tomorrow. Debbie will give you the address. Not much to it, just a mouth swab. I’ll let you know when the results come in.”
“And then?”
“We get you in for a war room chat. We have other questions arising from disclosure. And our detective has been digging. He’ll have some questions, too.” I fix my eyes on him. “Then at some point you and I will need to have a frank one-on-one, Mr. Trussardi.”
I have questions of my own. Questions about his sister, about his marriage, about Trevor Shore and Edith Hole and the services she rendered him.
“What’s wrong with now?” he asks. “Despite our visit at the house, I feel I hardly know you, Miss Truitt.”
You don’t need to know me, I think. I’m your lawyer, not your confidante.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much time. I’m having lunch with my foster mother.” I look at my watch. “In half an hour.”
“So you have family, Miss Truitt?”
“A foster family. But yes, I have family.”
Vincent clears his throat. “I’m moving out of the house,” he says, apropos of nothing. “But we should have that one-on-one. Soon.” He offers me his hand. “We’ll find a day when the weather’s right, take my boat out.”
He makes it sound like a pleasure jaunt. His wife was unfaithful, his child—maybe—is in a jar in the morgue, and all he can think of is boating on a sunny day.
CHAPTER 19
MARTHA MAYNE, MY FOSTER MOTHER and friend, smiles as she weaves her way through the crowd of oyster chuggers milling around the bar at Earls on Hornby. I wave back. An hour ago, I was deep in Trussardi’s case; now our meeting is just stored memory. Compartmentalize—the criminal lawyer’s key to sanity.
“Happy belated birthday.” I rise to offer a hug. Martha lets me go, and I motion to an icy glass opposite. “I ordered.” Martha likes her drinks cold, dry, and preferably ready when she arrives.
“Thank you, Jilly,” Martha says, her russet hair bobbing as we slide into our seats. “The boys came over to celebrate Sunday. You keep missing our weekend dinners.”
I accept the reproach. “I always seem to be preparing a case Sunday night. Last-minute scramble before court in the morning.”
“Either you’re disorganized or you’re working too hard.” Martha’s green eyes, only a few creases betraying her age, drill down into me. “And I know you’re not disorganized, Jilly.”
“You’re probably right, Martha. But I love my work.” I think of the long days I’m about to put in on a drug trial of stultifying tedium. “Most of the time.”
“I’m glad you have Mike. He seems to be the only one who can tear you away from your beloved criminals. Quite a picture of you two on the front page of the Sun a while back.”
“We’ll get to that.” I pick up my glass for a toast. “Meanwhile, here’s to you. To us.” Our glasses clink. “So, how are you?” I ask after we’ve both taken a sip.
“I’m great. Everybody’s busy, Brock’s immersed in the winery, Mathew’s buried in running his trawler fleet, Mark’s going gang-busters on his latest economic blog, Luke’s got his clinic. John and Tristan—well, John and Tristan are John and Tristan.” She lays her napkin over her lap. “They just bought a house together in Kitsilano. John’s career is taking off. He’s singing Figaro at Covent Garden next month.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ll have to wish him good luck.” My youngest foster brother is an opera singer. After years of struggle, he debuted at the Met last spring to respectable reviews.
“Just like your career, Jilly. You seem to be in the paper every second day with some win or other,” Martha muses. “Remember how you used to agonize in second-year law about whether you’d ever find a job? If you had only known—”
“I would have quit right then,” I laugh. “I wanted to save the world. That’s why I went to law school, right? This life I’ve ended up with would have shocked me—fighting to get guilty people off, not to mention the condo, the extravagant car.”
Martha smiles. “Let’s order, then we can chat.” She waves to the hovering waiter. “Sole and steamed spinach.�
� Martha is perpetually watching her weight. Hungry from an early-morning run, I order pasta.
“So.” Martha leans forward. “What are you wearing?”
“Wearing to what?”
“To the wedding. Ainsley Martin and Fred Telford. Remember, your old buddies in law school? I saw Ainsley’s mother at the club yesterday. She can’t believe it, after all this time.” Martha frowns. “You mean you haven’t been invited?”
It’s coming back to me now, Mike mentioning it over microgreens at Bishop’s a lifetime ago. Ainsley and Fred, big wedding in July—We’ll be invited, Jilly. They must know we’ve split.
“No, it appears I haven’t.” I take a breath. “You should know, Martha. Mike and I are no longer an item. Awkward to invite both of us in the circumstances. Evidently, they’ve chosen him.”
Martha looks at me with alarm. “Jilly.”
“It’s okay. I’ll survive.”
She covers my hand protectively. “Did Mike drop you? I can’t believe it—”
“No, no, it wasn’t like that,” I protest. “More like a mutual parting of ways. Whatever it is—it’s probably for the best for both of us.”
“ ‘Best for both of us.’ Surely you can do better than that, Jilly.”
“It’s the truth,” I say.
Martha puts her drink aside. “Tell me everything, Jilly.”
So I do. Everything, or almost, like I’ve been doing ever since the Maynes took me in two decades ago.
When I’m finished, Martha leans back in the booth. “That’s sad, so sad. I mean, you and Mike have been there for each other forever. You’ve seen each other through some terrible times. Remember when you quit law school?”
“How could I forget?”
“Brock and I tried to get you back, but it was Mike who did it. You were doing stuff, Jilly—stuff that was stupid and dangerous—and Mike brought you back.”
“I know,” I stare at my fork as it puddles the pasta in rings of pink sludge.
“And in third year, when Mike’s parents died in that car crash in Italy? He went crazy—sold all the furniture, refused to talk to anyone—just lay on the floor in that awful, empty house. It was you who helped him get back on track.”
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