Garden of Lies (74 page)

Max recognized him. The same face he’d seen in magazines, talk show interviews, and later on

the dust jacket of his book. And there was Rupert Everest’s party in London. How could he ever

forget Brian McClanahan?

The man Rose was in love with.

He felt short of breath. He needed to sit down.

Whatever Brian felt for Rose, he realized, would not affect his own fate. Not one iota. Rose

loved this man. And it hardly mattered that he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—love her back.

Brian, too, seemed torn; his arm was about his wife’s shoulders, but his eyes were on Rose,

beseeching her. Was it help he wanted, or understanding?

[457]
Time to move on,
Max told himself, feeling older, and so very sad.

At least in California the sun would be shining.

Max glanced at his Rolex. Quarter past already. He’d have to hustle.
Good luck, Rose. Good

luck and good-bye,
he wished her silently as he slipped out into the corridor. He felt as if he’d

come to the end of a long journey, glad in one way to put his feet up at last, and at the same time

profoundly sad that it was over.

Chapter 34

“He’s lying,” Rachel said.

Rose watched her light a cigarette, and slump back in her chair. She looked gray with

exhaustion, and so tense, as if a touch might shatter her. They were seated in the bailiffs room.

The judge had called for a ninety-minute lunch recess.

Rose, pacing, furious, stopped and glared at Rachel.

“Either that, or
you
are.”

What a damn idiot I’ve been,
she cursed herself.
Believing she’s told me everything. She

deliberately concealed that conversation with Sloane. God only knows what else she’s kept

hidden.

Rachel shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Rose brought her fist crashing down on the table, knocking over an empty Styrofoam coffee

cup, a flimsy metal ashtray. Ashes and lipstick-stained butts spilled over the wood surface.

Rachel flinched, but only slightly.

“You’re damn right it matters! Yours isn’t the only ass on the line. Imagine how I felt, sitting

there, listening to Sal Di Fazio’s hired gun fill me in on what my own client should have told me.

You purposely kept me in the dark!”

Rachel just sat there, staring at a large framed photograph of President Ford on the opposite

wall. Smoke drifted from her cigarette in an elongated question mark. Rose felt so helpless,

frustrated. If only Rachel would yell back.

But this strange new apathy of Rachel’s, how could she fight against it? Jesus, what was going

on with her?

Rose thought back over the past few months, the long sessions in her office, their countless

phone conversations, the endless cups of coffee they’d downed. And through it all, Rachel, with

her two-fisted energy, her anger, fueling them both. Rose had come, reluctantly, to admire this

woman she had considered her enemy. She had started wanting to help Rachel only as a way of

getting to Brian. [459] But now, surprising herself, she wanted to help Rachel for her own sake.

She sat down opposite Rachel, calmer now. She would
make
Rachel talk to her, tell her

everything about this creep Sloane and anything else she might have been concealing ... for both

their sakes.

Rose took a deep breath.

“All right. Let’s assume he
is
lying. Why? What’s in it for him?”

“I don’t know.” Rachel’s voice, flat, dead, might have been a recorded message over the

telephone.

But something in her face, a flicker of her eyelids, a muscle leaping in her clenched jaw, gave

her away.
She’s lying,
Rose thought.

Rose leaned forward, palms flat against the table.

“Okay. Let’s try it another way. Why don’t you give me your version. Did you ever discuss

Alma Saucedo with Dr. Sloane?”

“Yes.”

“Did he make a recommendation?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“He advised me to wait. He said there was probably more risk in inducing her labor

prematurely.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray with a jerky, impatient gesture. “I

didn’t bring it up because there didn’t seem to be any point.”

“Do you think he’s protecting himself?” Rose asked. “Is that why he lied ... to cover his own

ass?”

But Rose didn’t think so. Sloane was too smooth. Too deliberate.

“Maybe. How should I know? Look, is this really necessary? You know now. There isn’t

anything else to tell.”

“I think there is.”

Rachel turned, ever so slowly, swiveling her head toward Rose with the small careful

movements of an invalid. Her blue eyes squinted against the smoke that rose and spread in a hazy

stratus.

I can see now why Brian fell in love with her,
Rose thought.
She’s as stubborn as he is. I’ll bet

she fought like hell to save his life back in Vietnam.

“David Sloane would like to see me drawn and quartered,” Rachel said. “
That’s
why.”

“Any particular reason?”

[460] Rachel was silent.

Rose felt hot frustration welling up in her, spilling over.

“Dammit! Just what the hell kind of game are you playing here? How do you think it’s going to

look when we go back in there and I make a fool of myself during cross-examination?”

“That’s the thing you really care about, isn’t it?” Rachel said, her voice rising. “Your

reputation,
how you’re
going to look. What does it matter what happens to me?” Her eyes

glittered with anger. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. I knew what I was getting into. Maybe

that’s why I agreed to hire you. Tired of secrets. Tired of bumping around in the dark. I guess

maybe what this really is about is—Brian.”

“I guess maybe it is,” Rose acknowledged softly, feeling strangely elated. Maybe now it would

all come out. Was that what they’d both been after from the beginning? “I’ve always needed to

know. Why he married you instead of me. Why he stopped loving me.”

“Are you so sure of that?” One side of Rachel’s mouth twisted down in a bitter smile.

“I’ve done my best on this case,” Rose said. “I want you to know that. Whatever I felt about

you, I’ve done my best.”

“I know that. But now, tell me one thing. Are you still in love with Brian?”

Okay. She had asked it, finally. And with those words Rose felt some of the bitterness that had

been acting on her like a slow poison all these years drain away.

“Yes,” she said.

Rachel blinked hard.

“I guess I knew that, too,” Rachel said quietly, her face frozen. “All right then. You’ve been

honest with me. I’ll tell you about David Sloane. You might as well know. There’s a kind of

justice in it, I can see that now. Because if I hadn’t lied to Brian in the first place, he might very

well have married you instead.”

“I don’t understand.”

Rose felt as if the room had suddenly been tilted off balance.
Dear God in heaven, what is she

saying?

Rachel appeared calm, only her eyes glowed with a light so intense, so naked, it hurt to look

into them. Rose felt slightly sick, shivery, as if she were coming down with a fever.

[461] “You will,” Rachel said softly. “When I explain. When I tell you how David Sloane and I

murdered our child.”

Brian, she saw, was waiting. Rose spotted him in a banquette near the back, where the coats

were hung. The bar was crowded, smoky. From a back room drifted the low, velvet lament of a

saxophone. She waved to him, but he didn’t see her. He was staring into space, a nearly empty

glass of beer on the table in front of him.

She inched past the noisy hedge of people crammed along the bar. The dense sour odor of beer

hovered like a mist, and the faces reflected in the long mirror above the bar shimmered in the

smoky air.

She felt guilty, almost like a criminal, as if everyone here knew, and they were staring at her,

accusing her. And what if, in the end, Brian didn’t really want her after all? Each step sent a hot

glassy sheet of terror through her. Her heart was thundering, drowning out the bar sounds.

Rose tossed her head back, clenching her jaw, reminding herself,
I’m only taking what’s mine,

what was always mine. Brian belongs to me.

So close now. After waiting so long.

Almost within reach.

It was the moment she’d been waiting for, praying for, dreaming of, for seven long years. And

now it was here.

We’ll be together,
she thought,
just like we planned all those years ago. We’ll buy a house in

some quiet neighborhood, maybe on Long Island or in Westchester. I know what he needs, a wife

who will put him first, him ahead of everything and everyone. Then, in a year or two, a baby.

Brian’s baby. Something
I
could give him.

The hazy bar, the raincoat she was wearing, and now the ripple of piano keys joining the

crooning saxophone reminded her of her favorite old movie,
Casablanca.
Except for the ending

—she had always hated the ending, the part where Bogie walks off into the mist, leaving Ingrid

behind. No matter how many times she saw it, she always yearned for Bogie to take Bergman in

his arms and tell her that nothing mattered more than their being together.

Well, now she would rewrite that ending, have it her way.

Rose took her coat off, and slid in across from him. Her throat [462] was so thick with

emotion, she was afraid for a moment she wouldn’t be able to speak.

Then Brian looked up from his beer, his deep-gray eyes expectant.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t be here,” she said.

He looked surprised. “I told you I would.” He smiled. “Would you like something to drink? A

beer? I’m afraid that’s about all this place has to offer. Their idea of a mixed drink is a

boilermaker. I only chose it because it’s right around the corner.”

“It really doesn’t matter.” She felt a tiny stab of impatience. Did he think she
cared
where they

were? “I don’t want anything to drink.”

He shrugged, finishing his beer in one swallow. She saw the long stubbled slide of his throat as

he threw his head back. She wanted to touch him, hold him, kiss every part of him. How sad he

seemed, older somehow than the last time she’d sat across from him at a table like this one, lines

fanning out from the corners of his eyes.

“Brian ...” She reached out, felt his long fingers curl about hers, warm and slightly moist.

What will you say when I tell you? That your wife has been lying to you all these years? That

she’ll never have your child? Will you come to me then?

“... I’m glad you’re here,” she finished. “I wanted to talk to you ... about something. About

Rachel.”

Brian’s shoulders sagged, and the light seemed to go out in his eyes.

“You know then.”

“What?”

He was silent a moment. Then, “She’s left me.”

Rose felt a wild joy filling her, expanding her. Brian was free,
free.
It was all so easy. Rachel

had done it all for them.

“
She
left you? Did she say why?”

“She didn’t have to. It’s been coming a long time now. We ...” His throat worked, and tears

stood in his eyes. “Look, I don’t want to dump all this on you. It’s got nothing to do with the trial.

It started a while back ... I don’t know when or how. God, I wish I did.”

[463] Seeing the hopeless despair on Brian’s face, Rose felt her elation drain away.

She felt as if she were sinking. He’s upset because of the shock, she reassured herself. He’ll get

over it. Someday, he’ll look back on this and see it as good fortune in disguise.

Especially once she told him the truth about Rachel.

“Brian, there’s something you should know ...” Rose broke off, suddenly unsure.

She was remembering the bravery of Rachel’s confession. If she’d cried, moaned in self-pity,

telling Brian now would be easier. But all Rachel had asked was that she listen, not judge. With

those naked blazing eyes of hers, she’d asked for understanding, not forgiveness.

Rose grew annoyed with herself.

Tell him now. This is your chance. Their marriage is over anyway. You didn’t have anything to

do with that. You’re only taking what was yours in the first place.

But Brian wasn’t even paying attention, she realized. He was staring into space again, far away

from anything she had to say. She wanted to snatch him by the collar, shake him,
make
him see

her, be with her.

Then she sat back, a little shocked at herself. She had imagined drumrolls and violins, lightning

bolts, glorious fireworks. And here they were ... in a crummy bar on Third Avenue ... drinking

beer ... lost in their separate thoughts. Brian wanting consolation. She wanting promises of love.

We’re like
—oh God, it hurt her just to
think
a thing like that might be possible—
strangers.

Can it be? Is it possible I’ve changed so much, that we’ve become such different people from

those we were before the war?

Suddenly, as the music changed, she found herself thinking about Max. How empty the