“In what way?”
“Not having to contend with her.”
“Of course not.” He shrugged. “Still, I’m sorry to hear that it upset her. Nobody wanted that. Me least of all. Anything else?”
“I read your CV,” I said. “Impressive.”
A beat.
“Thank you,” he said.
His focus sharpening, sensing danger.
“Law review,” I said. “You clerked on the Second Circuit.”
“I’m grateful for the ego boost, Mr. Edison. Did you have an actual question?”
“Second Circuit is New York, correct?”
“And Connecticut and Vermont.”
“What made you decide to go back east?”
“That’s how a federal clerkship works,” he said. “You get what you get and you’re grateful.”
“How was it working with Judge Polonsky?”
“She was brilliant. Now—”
“What sort of caseload did you have?”
“Why do you care?”
“With respect,” I said, “I’m not seeing a ton of experience with criminal law.”
“With respect, you’re not an attorney.”
“Why didn’t you refer Rick and Liz out?”
“There was no time to waste,” he said. “This was a profound family tragedy, they were on a transatlantic flight. Besides, it wasn’t a criminal case.”
“It became one.”
His natural ruddiness had darkened to beet red. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” he said, standing, “but it’s offensive, and frankly, you can go to hell.”
I said, “The Second Circuit courthouse is in Lower Manhattan. The year you were there, ’14 to ’15, you overlapped with Kirsten at NYU and Adam at Sarah Lawrence. You lived in the Financial District. Six Exchange Place. I’m thinking you walked to work. Which subway line did you take to Sarah Lawrence?”
All that color drained from his face.
He sat down — delicately, as if he might trigger an earthquake — and spoke in a low drone:
“Item one. You signed a non-disclosure agreement. I’ll remind you that such agreement is perpetual and covers the entirety of the present conversation as well as any conversations past and future, prohibiting you from sharing any information obtained therein with any third party. If you violate it, you’ll suffer consequences that will alter your life permanently.”
Not true. I could tell Rick and Liz; I’d made sure of that. But I let Fuller barrel on.
“Item two,” he said, picking up volume and bravado. “With respect to your employment by the Valoises, I exercise power of attorney and can terminate such employment at my discretion, effective immediately. Item three, I draw your attention to the fact that California is a two-party consent state.”
Iwweeeeegal.
“I’m not recording,” I said.
“For your sake, I hope that’s true. One phone call and your license is trash. Don’t get cute.”
“I’m not. And I’ll remind you, Mr. Fuller, that criminal liability trumps civil.”
“I have no criminal liability,” he said. “None.”
“I’d like to take you at your word.”
“My word,” Shelby Fuller IV said, “is and has always been sterling.”
“So’s mine. Maybe you and Adam had a loving relationship. But I don’t know what I don’t know.”
The anger faded to a blank stare. His reached for his iced tea but changed his mind, pressing on his eyes, breathing through his teeth.
The two of us sat there for a long time.
When he looked up, he’d grown younger. Vulnerability will do that.
“This conversation is not taking place,” he said. “You may hear things and believe that you heard me say them. You’d be mistaken. This room — me, you? None of it exists.”
I said, “What room?”
A tired laugh. “In answer to your rather flip question: I didn’t take the subway to Sarah Lawrence. I took a cab. Infrequently.”
“Adam came to you.”
“I’m not going to sleep in a dorm,” he said. “I have my dignity.”
“When did it start?”
“That year.”
“Not before.”
Fuller rubbed his thumb against the glass. Condensation wept. “I think we always sensed something. But I had questions of my own to work out.”
“How’d you connect?”
“He was downtown to have dinner with Kirsten. I ran into them in Union Square and they invited me to join them.” He dried his hand on a napkin. “Afterward he texted.”
“How long did it go on?”
“Till he left for California.”
“Till he was hospitalized,” I said. “What happened?”
“I told him we had to stop.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said evenly, “we had to stop.”
“Did he threaten to out you?”
“He said a lot of things that night.”
“He cut himself up pretty badly.”
“Adam had a flair for the dramatic. I was justly concerned about how far he would take it. Thank God he decided to see reason.”
“When did you resume your relationship?”
“About four years ago.”
“He was already dating Olivia.”
“Yes.”
“Was it hard for you? Seeing him with her?”
He took a swig of tea. “Not any harder than it was for him to see me with Nina, I suppose.”
“The second go-round, how frequently did you and Adam meet?”
“Not often. Probably fewer than ten times in total.”
“Ten times in four years.”
“About.”
“Where did you meet?”
“Wherever we could.”
“His place?”
“Of course not.”
“Hotels?”
“Is this truly necessary?”
I said nothing.
“We’d just...” His voice was thick. He picked up his used napkin and swabbed his eyes. “Drive around, look for privacy. Parking garages. Dead-end roads. I can’t tell you every single spot.”
“When did it stop?”
“The summer before he died. I called it off.”
“You did.”
“Yes. Although Adam agreed with me. We were both more mature.”
“After that, what kind of relationship did you maintain?”
“I saw him here and there.” Weak smile. “We were cordial.”
“Did you talk, text, write?”
“We both felt it’d be easier not to.”
“That Christmas, you gave him a watch.”
He blinked. “Yes.”
“Even though you’d called things off.”
“I didn’t need it,” he said. “I’d had it for years. It was sitting in a box. A gift from my father. I don’t wear a watch. That didn’t seem to matter to him.”
“What kind?”
“Patek Philippe.”
“Nice watch.”
“Oh, you’ve heard of it.”
“Why’d you give it to Adam?”
“I enjoy giving gifts. It’s my love language. Now stop asking stupid questions.”
“Were you aware that Adam was also meeting other men for sex?”
I’d startled him again. He said, “Where’d you hear that?”
“An eyewitness spotted him out with someone the night before he disappeared.”
“What someone.”
I showed him Damian Roby’s photo.
“Who is this?”
“He’s a mechanic.”
“What’s his connection to Adam?”
I shook my head. “Uncertain.”
“Why didn’t the police inform us?”
“The police don’t know about it,” I said.
“We need to tell them,” Fuller said. “You do.”
“In good time.”
“Why not now?”
“They’re not receptive,” I said. “I’m trying to get them receptive, so my strong advice is you don’t tell them, yet. But I can’t stop you. You want to open up a ten-gallon can of worms, go right ahead.”