“Do you believe that your wife is still in love with Charles Delauney?” He had wanted to say “involved,” but his investigators had been able to turn up absolutely nothing to support the fact that she was sleeping with him, and he decided to play it safe and not use anything that could be disproven.

“Yes, I do. I understand from my driver that two days before the kidnapping, they met in a church and she kissed him repeatedly. I suppose she's always been in love with him, during the entire time she was married to me. Perhaps that's why she's been so ill.” They made her sound like an invalid, instead of a young woman with a troubled life, who suffered from headaches, a woman who had suffered tragedy and still managed to survive it.

“Do you think it's your wife's fault that your son was kidnapped?” He asked the question as though he expected a verdict, and Malcolm waited just long enough to answer so that everyone thought he was giving one.

“I think it is her fault that Charles Delauney kidnapped him. It is her fault that he holds her responsible for his own son's death, and wanted revenge with mine. It is her fault for bringing him into our lives.” He looked woefully into the courtroom, and at her, but she did not look at him.

“Mr. Patterson, although you feel that to some degree Mrs. Patterson is responsible for…this tragedy, could you ever imagine yourself taking revenge on her in any way? Punishing her, or hurting someone she loved? Hurting her?” He already had, Marielle knew too well. With everything he had done in the past few days, and the way he'd behaved since Teddy was taken, and what he had just said on the stand. It was bad enough to lose her child, but then to be attacked by her husband could have destroyed her as well, but for the moment she was still struggling not to let it. “Could you ever see yourself taking revenge on her, or anyone?” William Palmer repeated, and Malcolm said a single word, as he sat there sounding like God, as his voice rang out in the courtroom.

“Never.”

“Thank you, Mr. Patterson.” He turned to Tom. “Mr. Armour, your witness.”

Tom stood up and said not a word for an interminable moment, and then slowly he began to walk around the courtroom. He walked in front of the jury, and smiled at some of them, almost as though to relax them. And then, finally, he went to stand in front of Malcolm, but he was no longer smiling.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Patterson.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Armour.” Malcolm looked unusually solemn, but Tom Armour seemed extremely relaxed, as the world watched him. It was an intriguing tactic.

“Would you say…” He seemed to draw the words out. “That your marriage to Mrs. Patterson has been a happy one?”

“I'd say so, yes.”

“In spite of her illness…her unreliability…her headaches?”

For a moment, Malcolm wasn't quite sure what to say, but he regained his energy quickly. “They certainly didn't make it easy, but I think I've been happy.”

“Very happy?”

“Very happy.” Malcolm looked annoyed, he couldn't see where the defense attorney was going.

“Have you been married before?”

Malcolm growled and stuck out his chin almost visibly. “Yes. Twice. It's well known.”

“Is Mrs. Patterson aware of that?”

“Of course.”

“Would you say it's hindered your current marriage in any way?”

“Of course not.”

“Would it have bothered you, had you known that Mrs. Patterson was previously married?”

This time he hesitated. “Probably not. But I would have preferred it if she had been honest with me.”

“Of course.” Tom readily agreed with him. “Mr. Patterson, have you ever had any other children?”

“No. Theodore is…was…my only child.”

“You say…was…you no longer believe him to be alive?” Tom looked surprised, as though that seemed unlikely.

“No… I no longer believe him to be alive. I think Mr. Delauney killed him.” He said it to inflame Tom, but it didn't.

“I understand that. But if he is dead…and all of us here certainly hope that's not the case…but if he is…how would you describe that event in your life?”

“Excuse me… I don't understand.”

Tom Armour moved closer to him and looked him straight in the eye. “If your son is dead, Mr. Patterson, how will you feel? What will it do to your life?” The tone of Tom's voice was relentless.

But without hesitation, Malcolm looked back at Tom and answered, “It will finish me…my life will never be the same again.”

“Mr. Patterson, would you say it would destroy you?”

Malcolm hung his head, and nodded before he looked at Tom again. “Of course…he's my only son…”

Tom nodded sympathetically and then moved in a little closer. “It would destroy you, wouldn't it…then why are you so shocked that Mrs. Patterson was almost destroyed by the death of her previous children? Would you expect that to be any different?”

“No, I…” He looked uncomfortable for a moment and John Taylor tightened his lips, but Marielle was forcing herself not to listen. “I imagine that must have been very difficult.'

“She was twenty-one at the time…and five months pregnant…her little boy dies…her father dies a few months later…her own mother commits suicide six months after that…her husband has turned on her, distraught with his own pain over the child's death. What would you do, Mr. Patterson? How would you feel? How well would you hold up?”

“I…I…” He couldn't answer, and the jury looked interested in what Tom was saying.

“Is Mrs. Patterson in the courtroom today?”

“Yes…of course…”

“Would you point her out to me?”

“Your Honor,” William Palmer got to his feet, ready to object to the question, “is this charade necessary?”

“Be patient, Counsellor. Mr. Armour, proceed, but not too much nonsense please, we have a great deal of testimony to hear, and our friends on the jury don't want to stay at a hotel at the taxpayers' expense forever.” There was a titter of laughter in the courtroom and Tom Armour smiled. Compared to what Marielle had seen of him before, he suddenly looked surprisingly easygoing. But that appearance was deceptive. Inside him was a coil of incredibly well controlled tension.

“Mr. Patterson, will you please point out your wife to us.” Malcolm did so. “She is here today, and yesterday certainly could not have been easy for her, talking about the death of her children, and the kidnapping of your son, or her time in the clinic in Switzerland… or her marriage to Mr. Delauney… But she's here. She looks sane to me and in good control of herself.” Marielle looked calm as she sat beside John Taylor. Malcolm was furious but he was trying hard to conceal it. “Would you agree with me, sir? She looks quite normal to me, and probably to everyone else here. Would you say she's holding up, in spite of everything?”

“I suppose so,” he conceded halfheartedly.

“Would you say her previous problems are a thing of the past?”

“I don't know,” he snapped. “I'm not a doctor.”

“How long have you been married?”

“More than six years.”

“Has she ever been in a hospital, for mental problems, during that time?”

“No, she hasn't.”

“Would you say that she has ever done anything to endanger your child?”

“Yes.” He almost shouted at Tom, and this time the defense attorney looked startled, and he wanted to clear it up quickly now, before he damaged her further. But Malcolm's answer had surprised him.

“What did she do that endangered your child?”

“She consorted with Charles Delauney. She even took him to the park and exposed him to that man! And then he took Teddy!” He was shouting and waving a hand, and Tom was relieved.

“Mrs. Patterson says the meeting was unplanned, that she ran into Mr. Delauney by accident.”

“I don't believe her.”

“Has she ever lied to you before?”

“Yes, about her mental history and her marriage to Delauney.” Tom knew that was a lie but chose not to challenge him at this moment.

“If that's true, Mr. Patterson, has she lied to you at any other time?”

“I don't know.”

“All right, other than that meeting in the park the day before Teddy was kidnapped, has she ever done anything to endanger the child? Taken him somewhere dangerous…left him somewhere unattended…even alone in the bathtub?”

“I don't know.”

“Wouldn't you remember it if she endangered your child?”

“Of course!” Malcolm was slowly burying himself and John Taylor loved it.

“Do you believe your wife was faithful to you, sir?”

“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.