Danielle Steel - Vanished

“I don't know.”

“Did you ever have reason to suspect her of infidelity?”

“Not really.” He shrugged, almost as though he didn't care.

“You travel a great deal, don't you, sir?”

“I have to. For business.”

“Of course. And what does Mrs. Patterson do when you travel?”

“She stays at home.” He blazed. “With a headache.” A few people in the courtroom laughed, but the jury looked serious. They were trying to follow everything he was saying.

“Does she ever travel with you, Mr. Patterson?”

“Rarely.”

“And why is that? Did you prefer not to have her along?”

“No. She preferred to stay at home with our son.”

“I see.” The bad-mother portrait was slowly crumbling at Tom's hands and in spite of the fact that as an FBI agent he was part of the prosecution, John Taylor was relieved, for her sake. “And you, sir, do you travel alone?”

“Of course.”

“You take no one with you?”

“Of course not.” He looked highly irritated at the impertinence.

“Not even a secretary?”

“Of course I take a secretary. I can't do my work alone.”

“I see. Do you take the same one, or different ones?”

“Sometimes I take both of my secretaries.”

“And if you only take one, is there a preference?”

“I frequently take Miss Sanders. She has been with me for many years.” Something about the way he said it suggested that she was a hundred years old, but Tom Armour had done his homework and he knew better.

“How long has she been with you, sir?”

“For six and a half years.”

“And are you involved with her, Mr. Patterson?”

“Of course not!” he roared. “I never get involved with my secretaries!”

“And who was your last secretary before Miss Sanders?” He was done for and he knew it.

“My wife.”

“Mrs. Patterson was your secretary?” Tom Armour's eyes grew wide in surprise, as though he hadn't known, and the judge looked amused by the question.

“Only for a few months until we were married.”

“Is that how you met her?”

“I suppose so, although I vaguely knew her father.”

“Do you know Miss Sanders's father too, Mr. Patterson?”

“Hardly.” He looked superciliously at Tom Armour. “He's a baker in Frankfurt.”

“I see. And where does Miss Sanders live?”

“I have no idea.” But even Marielle was intrigued now.

“You've never been to her home?”

“Perhaps a few times …for meetings …”

“And you can't remember where she lives?”

“All right, all right. I remember. On Fifty-fourth and Park.”

“That sounds like a very nice neighborhood. Is it a nice apartment?”

“Very pleasant.”

“Is it large?”

“It's big enough.”

“Is it eight rooms, with a dining room, an office for you, two bedrooms, two dressing rooms, two baths, a very large living room, and a terrace?”

“Probably. I don't know.” But his face was bright red now, to Marielle's amazement.

“Do you pay the rent for Miss Sanders's apartment, Mr. Patterson?” Marielle was staring at him in disbelief. Fool that she was she had never suspected. Brigitte had always been so pleasant to her, and so kind, and so generous with Teddy. And now, finally, Marielle understood it, and deep inside she felt angry. Brigitte and Malcolm had both taken her for a fool, and indeed she had been.

“I do not pay for Miss Sanders's apartment,” Malcolm said sternly.

“How much salary does Miss Sanders make?”

“Forty dollars a week.”

“That's a reasonable wage. But not very adequate to pay for an apartment that costs six hundred dollars a month. How do you suppose she pays the rent, Mr. Patterson?”

“That's none of my affair.”

“You mentioned that her father is a baker.”

“Your Honor.” William Palmer stood up, feigning boredom. “Where is all this going?”

“This is all going,” Tom Armour said, no longer amused, “to show that despite Mr. Patterson's poor memory, his bank statements, his checks, and his records show that he pays for that apartment.” Tom's investigators had done well for him.

“And even if he does, so what?”

“Seamus O'Flannerty, the doorman there, will take the stand to tell us that Mr. Patterson goes there after the office every evening, and frequently spends the night there. When they travel, they frequently share the same bedroom. Miss Sanders wears a mink coat to the office, and this Christmas, two weeks after the kidnapping of his son, he gave Brigitte Sanders a diamond necklace from Cartier. It is clear to me, Your Honor, that Mr. Patterson has been lying.”

“Objection overruled, Mr. Palmer,” the judge said gently, all too aware of who Malcolm was. “I'd like to remind you again, Mr. Patterson, that you are under oath. Perhaps Mr. Armour would like to rephrase the question.”

“Certainly, Your Honor.” Tom was happy to oblige him. “Mr. Patterson, allow me to ask you again, are you, or are you not, having an affair with Brigitte Sanders?” For a moment, there seemed to be no sound in the courtroom.

But before he could answer, the prosecutor was on his feet again. “That's immaterial to this case, Your Honor.”

“I don't think so,” Tom Armour stated coolly. “The prosecution has totally discredited Mrs. Patterson as a witness, and claimed that she was having an affair with my client, which is not the case. My client has been out of the country for the past eighteen years until just before the kidnapping. But the presumption is that as a rejected lover, or wounded ex-husband, Mr. Delauney would seek revenge. If, indeed, Mr. Patterson is having a long-standing affair with Miss Sanders, it is equally possible that she might seek revenge.”

“Revenge for a diamond necklace?” Palmer asked, and this time the whole courtroom roared with laughter.

“Answer the question, Mr. Patterson,” the judge said regretfully. “Are you having an affair with Miss Sanders?”

“Perhaps I am,” he said softly.

“Could you please speak a little louder,” Tom asked politely.

“Yes, yes …I am …but she did not kidnap my son.” Brigitte was looking pale in her seat, and Marielle was staring at her.

“How do you know that?” Tom Armour asked Malcolm.

“She wouldn't do such a thing.” He looked outraged.

“Neither would my client. Do you intend to marry Miss Sanders, sir?”

“Of course not.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Do you give all your secretaries mink coats and diamond necklaces?”

“Certainly not.”

“Does she wish to marry you?”

“I have no idea. That has never been in question.”

“Thank you, Mr. Patterson. You may step down now.” But Bill Palmer wanted to ask him another question.

“Mr. Patterson, has Miss Sanders ever threatened you, or threatened to harm your son, or take him away from you?”

“Certainly not.” He looked horrified. “She's a very polite, kind young woman.” With fabulous legs, and some skills Marielle had never dreamt of.

“Thank you. No further questions.”

Malcolm went back to his seat looking florid. And a moment later, Brigitte left the courtroom. She was mobbed by the press the minute she left, and her dress was torn when she finally climbed into a taxi, crying.

After that, the prosecution called a series of forensic experts to establish the fact that the bear and the pajamas were in fact Teddy's. And the last witness of the day was a man who said he had gone to school with Charles Delauney, and Charles had threatened him once when they were fourteen. The witness, a nervous young lawyer from Boston, who had volunteered to testify in order to be helpful, said that he'd always thought Charles was a little crazy. Tom Armour objected, and it was sustained, and the jury was beginning to look bored. It had been a long day, and then finally, it was over, and everyone was relieved to leave the courtroom. John and Marielle exchanged a long glance on the way out, and Malcolm said not a word on the drive home. He went straight to the library when they got home, closed the door, and made several phone calls. And without a word to Marielle, he slammed out the front door half an hour later, as John Taylor and a handful of FBI men pretended not to watch him. They all knew what had happened that day in the courtroom.