I GET HOME LATE. I turn on the TV, turn it off. A novel—a slight thing on the bestseller lists called The Rosie Project—lies on the coffee table in front of me, its spine cracked at page three. I flick on CBC Radio 2 hoping for something soothing—a pianist plays “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair,” and I think of Mike. Numbly, I stare at my Jack Bush. I’m in full letdown mode. I hate it when I lose, hate it more when I lose and the client’s innocent.
The phone rings—Vincent Trussardi, out on his last night of freedom.
“What can I do for you?” I ask coldly. I have no time for this man, even if he didn’t kill his wife.
“I need to talk to you, Miss Truitt.”
“It is my professional opinion that you do not need to talk to me and that I do not need to talk to you.”
“Mr. Trussardi, the die is cast. We have done our best. The evidence is in. You should know that things don’t look good for you.”
“I am aware of that. But there are things that you should know.”
“Mr. Trussardi, it’s late and—”
“Go to your window,” he says, “look out.”
Something is different about his voice. It makes me cross to the window.
“Do you see a limo?”
“Yes.”
“I would not detain you if it were not important.” A long silence. “Please.”
I tap the screen to end the call, consider my Jack Bush—the broad vertical strokes, so clear; the swirls of pink and gray, planted erratically, shades of doubt. Five minutes later I’m outside.
A liveried chauffeur steps smartly round and pulls the back door open for me. I slide in. Trussardi does not acknowledge my presence. The dim light of the street shadows his profile, the high forehead, the aquiline nose, the grim set of mouth. I have seen him sad; I have seen him angry; I have witnessed his ineffable charm. Tonight he is all business.
“Where are we going, Mr. Trussardi?”
“For a cruise.”
“I don’t think so.” I reach for the door, but before I can get out, the car is moving.
I sit back in my seat, face to the window. We cross the lagoon into the park, neither of us talking, and glide down the slope to the yacht club. Ahead, vessels rock against the night. The chauffeur opens the limo door and extends a hand. We walk along a pier, Trussardi and me, passing boat after boat after boat before he halts.
Above us, the hull of a yacht looms, broad and capacious. I catch her name, black letters on her starboard, La Trilla. Two white-jacketed men on the upper deck peer down. Trussardi waves me up the gangway and into the boat. A girl in jeans arrives with a tray laden with smoked salmon and long-stemmed glasses filled with pale nectar. I decline both, but Trussardi takes a glass, raises his drink to me. “At last, Jilly,” he says. “I have waited too long for this moment.”
My stomach clenches. What’s going on?
“Mr. Trussardi.” I’m angry; I’m wary. “What’s this about?”