Full Disclosure

by Beverley McLachlin

  “Like who?”

  “Like Edith Hole, my social worker.”

  Jeff’s left eyebrow spikes up. “What the hell’s your social worker got to do with the case?”

  “That’s just it. Nothing.”

  “Have you asked Edith why?”

  “I tried to, but she ran away. Literally.” I spread my hands. “She also said something about Trussardi’s sister. I need to bear down on that.”

  “Good,” Jeff says. “One more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The picture.”

  “What picture?”

  “The photo Trussardi stares at in his condo. The dark-haired woman in a white dress. Pretty, young. The photo’s faded, looks old.”

  “An old flame? Or old regrets stirred up by the prospect of prison?”

  “That’s what Richard thought. But something tells me it could be important. I’ll circle back to Richard on his progress.”

  A seaplane takes off, interrupting our conversation. We follow its arc as it curves to the west.

  “So we have a plan,” I say, as the plane recedes from view. “I talk to Edith, maybe Hildegard. Richard gets more info on the photo. And we keep our eye on Damon.”

  “ ‘Ring out the false, ring in the true,’ ” Jeff says, downing the last of his drink.

  CHAPTER 27

  I RETURN TO MY CONDO, throw tuna and lettuce on a plate. Fine dining and the single girl. My evening looms bleakly before me. I consider TV, debate checking out Facebook. I’m coiled like a spring. I finish eating, then go down to start my car. This is as good a time as any to accost Edith. Find out why she warned me off the case. Find out why Vital Statistics says I don’t exist and why the only living person who knows where I came from won’t talk.

  I park across from Edith’s townhouse. The street is empty, except for a dark van that sits at the corner. The wall of windows behind the screen of cherry trees is black. Maybe she’s out. I jog up to the door, push the bell, wait, push again.

  The door opens on the chain. Through the chink, Edith peers at me.

  “Edith, I need to talk to you.”

  “Go away, Jilly.”

  Go away? She’s never spoken to me like this before. “Edith, what’s wrong? Let me in?”

  She slams the door shut in my face.

  I should walk away, but I can’t. I go round the house to the glass door in the dining area, give it a push. It slides open and I step inside. I find her standing near the front door, body rigid against the wall. “Edith, tell me what’s going on.”

  “I can’t,” she whispers.

  “Are you sick?”

  A fat tear slips down her pale cheek. “Jilly, please, you need to go.”

  I take her shoulders in my hands. “This is about Trussardi, isn’t it?”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “What’s your connection with him?” I persist. “His sister told me you did something for him—‘rendered him certain services’ was how she put it.” She sinks into the sofa and I take a seat next to her. “Edith, you can’t hide from me.”

  “If you must know, I came into contact with him in the course of my work. I did my job. That was it.”

  “If that’s it, why did you tell me not to take his case, Edith?”

  “Because he didn’t do the right thing.” The bitterness in her tone rocks me. “A long time ago, I had a file. Vincent Trussardi was the father involved. I didn’t like how he behaved. In fact, I developed a deep dislike for him. I haven’t seen him in years, but I’ll never forget how he treated his child. That’s why I begged you not to act for him.”

  Trussardi had a child? What other secrets does he keep stashed in his past?

  Edith goes on. “But now, someone’s sent me a warning. Not Vincent Trussardi. I’ve worked with a lot of lost kids and families, poor and rich, and I’ve come to know things. Someone doesn’t want me to reveal the details of their case. Of course, I never would, but they don’t understand that. They’re unreasonable.” She looks at me, fear in her eyes. “This has nothing to do with Laura Trussardi’s murder. Believe me.”

  I do. I’ve seen how ugly child protection cases can get, and not just in the courtroom.

  “You should contact the police, get protection.”

  “Perhaps. But maybe I’m exaggerating this thing, this threat, if that’s what it is.” She manages a laugh. “Chalk it up to middle age. Menopausal moods.” New tears well up. “I tried to live my life in a way that helped others, Jilly. But sometimes I feel it’s all been for nothing.”

  I reach out my arm, and she falls limply against my shoulder.

  “You helped me, Edith. You got me through. I was headed straight for the correction center, maybe worse, but you found me a home. You found me the Maynes.”

  “No, I didn’t—”

  “Hush, Edith.” I hold her at arm’s length, survey her face. “I don’t want to get you into trouble, so I’ll go. But I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “No, Jilly, don’t call me. Don’t come to visit me. If they see me with a lawyer, they might—” She breaks off. “Please.”

  Something’s not right here, but I can’t help her if she won’t let me. “Okay, Edith, but I’m here if you need me.” I turn and go.

  Not much, but at least it’s something, I think, as I rev my car into gear. I still don’t know anything about my own parentage, but I now understand why Edith didn’t want me to act for Trussardi. He’s a man with a past he’s hiding, a man who did wrong and left the detritus of suffering in his wake. But that doesn’t make him a murderer.

  As I round the corner to Burrard, I glance into my rearview mirror. The traffic is steady. Three cars back a break opens, and a dark van glides into the space behind me. It follows me all the way home.

  CHAPTER 28

  I CAB IT TO HILDEGARD. I would have taken my Mercedes, but my current go-to mode is caution. Since my visit with Edith, paranoia has moved out of my dreams and into my days. Get real, Jilly, you’re losing it, I tell myself, but my self isn’t listening.

  The tower looms over me as I step out of the cab—not the tallest building on the block, but the most beautiful, as befits my aesthete client. Officially it’s the TEC Tower—Trussardi Enterprises Corp.—but locals simply call it the Trussardi Tower. I cast my eye to the top, glimpse terraces and trees—the penthouse where my client broods on a photo of a dark lady.

  “Waste of a sunny Thursday morning,” Jeff opined as I headed out. “I tried to pry something out of Hildegard when I saw her about the bail. No chance. Consiglieri to the godfather, mouth welded permanently shut.”

  But I have questions, and I’m determined to at least try to get some answers.

  The waiting room on the twenty-ninth floor is modestly elegant. A Tom Thompson and an A. Y. Jackson grace the wall where a young woman in a tailored suit and black pumps waits behind a Louis XIV desk. She lifts her groomed head as I enter. “Miss Truitt, I presume.” There is neither warmth nor chill in her manner. She leads me down a short hall, opens a door, and steps inside. “Miss Bremner, Miss Truitt has arrived.” She retreats and shuts the door softly behind her.

  It’s not an office, but a sitting room, filled with pieces straight from the antique catalogues Martha Mayne used to keep on her coffee table—Aubusson carpet, damask drapery, silken fauteuils flanking a marble fireplace. Hildegard Bremner looks up from a delicate escritoire, puts down her Montblanc pen, and rises to greet me. Her face is blandly regal—powdered skin, bright lips, delicate nose—surmounted by a halo of gleaming white hair. Her piercing blue eyes record all there is to see about me in a single glance as she extends her pale hand. A simple dress of pale blue skims her matronly figure, and a diamond brooch worth half my condo glimmers discreetly on her left shoulder. The Queen, I think. Or at least Helen Mirren.

  “Miss Truitt, we meet at last. Do sit down.” Her voice is high and clear, with just a suggestion of a Germanic accent. She motions to one of the fauteuils by the fir
eplace, perches on the other. I park my battered briefcase, forlornly out of place in this elegant room, beside my chair. “Thank you for agreeing to see me—”

  “This is a terrible business,” Hildegard cuts in, shaking her head at me like I’m part of the problem. “Of course, Vincent is innocent of this crime. I fear, however, that I can be of little help in furthering his defense.”

  The door opens, and the young lady from the front desk enters. She places a silver tray on the small table between us, stoops to pour tea into Meissen cups. I shake my head as she proffers milk and sugar, and she leaves us once more. I spent the better part of last night pondering how to put my question on the future of Trussardi Enterprises Corp. to this woman, but to my surprise, she preempts me.

  “What are the chances of Mr. Trussardi being convicted?” she asks.

  “I can’t give you a precise figure. At this point, it could go either way.” I pick up my tea and take a delicate sip. “Why do you ask, Miss Bremner?”

  “Corporate succession planning. Don’t misunderstand me, Miss Truitt. I am utterly loyal to Vincent, and I very much hope he will be acquitted. But my duty is to ensure the continuance of the family business. In the event—”

  “In the event Vincent goes to prison you will need to make arrangements,” I finish. “Such as putting Raquella in charge?”

  “That would be an option.” Her eyes survey me with steely contempt. “I would have expected his lawyer to have been of greater assistance on the prospects of his case.”

  “Then help me,” I say. “I take it you have been associated with the Trussardi family for some time, Miss Bremner?”

  “Yes. I was born in Munich. My family had close business and family associations with the Trussardi family. My parents were killed in the war. When Vincent Trussardi Sr. immigrated to Canada in 1945, he brought me along. I was just a child. And I have been with the family ever since.”

  “You knew the children—Raquella, later Vincent?”

  “Of course.” She ripples the surface of her tea with a tiny silver spoon before settling it back on the saucer.

  “You know them well?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Then tell me, how was their marriage, Vincent and Laura’s?”

  “I did not pry into their private life. As far as I could tell, they were happy.”

  “Mrs. Trussardi had an affair,” I persist. “Did you know anything about that?”

  Hildegard sets her cup down, takes her time before answering. “Vincent discussed it with me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was distressed about it, as you might imagine. I advised him to be patient—suggested that she would tire of the man in question. As she did.”

  “Did you discuss the cost of a divorce with him, what the consequences might be for the family fortune?”

  “If you are implying that Vincent might have killed his wife to avoid an expensive divorce, Miss Truitt, you are wrong.”

  “I am implying nothing, Miss Bremner. I am merely exploring matters that the prosecution may wish to explore. We need to know everything. We cannot afford surprises. You know this family better than anyone else. That is why I am here. Are there any enemies of the family that I should know about?”

  “No, none.”

  I repress the impulse to tell this woman, who purports to care for my client, that she is proving perversely unhelpful. Jeff was right—questioning Hildegard is futile.

  “Tell me about Vincent,” I say, taking a flier. “His dalliances in love. There was someone from long ago whom he loved deeply.”

  Hildegard’s cup rattles in its saucer. “Why do you muck about in ancient history? Yes, he had relationships in his youth, with a variety of women. Nothing unusual in that or wrong by today’s standards. And there was nothing after his marriage. He was devoted to Laura.”

  “But there was someone special who stood out from all the rest,” I press. “A dark woman in a white dress. He keeps looking at her picture. Do you know who she was?” I don’t tell her that Richard snapped a photo of the picture, that I’ve propped it on my desk, that I keep looking at it like I should know who she is.

  “Ask him,” Hildegard spits out angrily. “I know nothing about a picture of a dark woman.”

  Was Hildegard this nasty with Jeff? Or does she just dislike me? I have a few more questions, none of which will help endear her to me.

  “Did Vincent have any children? I have information that Vincent had a child out of wedlock.”

  “Your audacity astounds me, Miss Truitt.” Hildegard stands, a tide of red creeping upward from her neck to her face. “You’re wasting your time and Vincent’s money prying into gossip, Miss Truitt. I must ask you to leave.”

  “What you call gossip may be vital to Mr. Trussardi’s case,” I say, rising. “My job is to provide him with the best defense the law allows. If you think of anything that might help, please let me know.” I pause. “This is about him, not me.”

  We stare at each other in cold defiance.

  “You should know that I advised him not to engage you. I told him it was a mistake. And you should also know that this encounter has done nothing to alter my view.”

  I take it in stride. It’s not the first time I’ve been told I’m not up to the job—it comes with being a woman.

  Hildegard moves to the door, opens it. “Goodbye, Miss Truitt.”

  CHAPTER 29

  EIGHT P.M., THURSDAY NIGHT. RICHARD is sitting in my living room, denim-clad leg propped on denim-clad knee. “It’s about Damon. Prepare yourself, Jilly.”

  Damon has been missing for six days. I know, I have counted each one. He’s just decided to move on, I’ve kept telling myself. Hopped a boat for Asia, headed east to Alberta. Now I know it’s not so. The lateness of the hour, the words—Prepare yourself, Jilly—tell me the worst.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Word on the street is Kellen put out a contract on Damon. The guy who killed his enforcer was out, free and clear. Sent a bad message to other guys eyeing his turf. Damon went underground for a while and was getting ready to head east, but he didn’t make it. Early this morning, a garbage truck operator emptying his Dumpster saw what he thought was meat, decided it might be human, and called the police. They found blond hair. No one else has been reported missing. No one with blond hair, at least. I saw the photo, Jilly. Same color, thick like Damon’s.”

  “No,” I whisper. I bow my head between my knees and slump toward the floor, sobbing. Don’t get too close to the client, they say. They’re right. I’ve broken the cardinal rule in the criminal defense lexicon—Do your job and move on. But I had to try and rescue him. Now he’s just another dead street kid, another statistic. Better I had lost his case, left him safe in his prison cell.

  Richard is beside me, arm around my shoulder. “You did your best, Jilly. You did what you could.”

  The bromides of sympathy should bring comfort, but instead they revolt me. “I did too much. I prolonged the agony.”

  We sit for a while in silence. A new guilt assails me. “Richard, can you believe I actually entertained the possibility that Damon killed Laura Trussardi? I feel sick.”

  Richard shrugs uncomfortably. “Just because Kellen got him doesn’t mean Damon didn’t kill Laura.”

  “No, I don’t buy it. Laura wasn’t part of the picture. He loved her.”

  Richard looks at me, his brow furrowed. “The coroner will confirm the identity of the body next week. If she can.”

  I can’t stand pity. I let out a deep breath, refocus on Trussardi.

  “I went to see Edith.”

  “And?”

  “It seems Trussardi had a love child in his youth. She says it’s irrelevant, but you might want to check it out. Cy might try to raise it in cross-exam. Forewarned is forearmed.”

  Richard gives me a small smile. “I’ll poke around. But don’t get your hopes up, Jilly. If the child was adopted out, the birth parents’ identities go into li
mbo. And so what? It’s a stretch that Cy would even have that information. What has it got to do with Laura’s death?”

  “You’ve got a point,” I say. “That’s what Hildegard said. Edith, too. Still, something in me tells me this matters.” To the case, to me.

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Another thing. Edith’s worried about an old child protection case of hers, says someone threatened her. I know your resources are finite, but could you look into it?”

  “Of course. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Thanks.” I think of Kellen’s revenge and decide I can’t keep the latest development to myself. “And that’s not all. Richard, I think someone followed me from Edith’s. A dark van. I’ve seen it a few times in my rearview mirror since.”

  “Jilly, why didn’t you tell me sooner? Did you get the license number?”

  “Never gets close enough. It could just be coincidence. Jeff tells me I’m getting paranoid.”

  I stand up, signaling it’s time for him to go. It’s almost nine, and I still need to swing by the office to check out details for tomorrow’s dangerous driving trial.

  “I’ll look into the van. Be careful, Jilly.”

  I nod. “Sometimes I wonder why I do it, Richard. Why I care.” I sigh. “Damn the presumption of innocence. They’re all bad; they’re all guilty. The odd acquittal is a miscarriage of justice.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Jilly.”

  I force a laugh. “Just how I feel sometimes. Goodnight, Richard. And thanks.”

  Richard leaves. I sit on my couch, my head in my hands. Visions of madness mingle in my mind. Damon in the Dumpster. Trussardi caressing his gun. Dark vans pursuing me. I lift my head, try to clear it. I’m in too deep. I’m losing the thread. I look at my watch. You can handle this, Jilly, I tell myself. All will be well in the morning. I shut the door behind me, find the elevator, and push the button marked P. A woman’s work is never done.

  It’s cold down here, and the freshness of the late-summer evening has coated the car windshields with condensation. I reach for the door of my car, step back for a second, look at what I see on the glass. Marks in the condensation, jagged, irregular blotches. They’re starting to run, and in the dim light of the parking garage I can barely make them out. Still, I see enough to send me reeling.