But that wasn’t the correct answer, and you can’t build on lies.

The correct answer, the truth, actually, was something far different than Susan’s stated motives for killing her lover. In fact, I have to take some blame for that, or some credit, if you look at it differently.

We continued to stare at each other, and I thought back to my visit to Frank Bellarosa at Alhambra, where he was lying in bed, sick with the flu, not to mention recovering from the after-effects of the shotgun blasts he’d taken some months before at Giulio’s restaurant.

This had not been my first visit, but it was to be my last, and a few days later, he’d be dead. He’d said to me, then, apropos of his offer on another occasion to do me any favor I wanted in exchange for me saving his life at Giulio’s, “Well, you got me wondering about that favor I owe you.”

I had thought long and hard about that favor, so I said to him, “Okay, Frank, I’d like you to tell my wife it’s over between you two and that you’re not taking her to Italy, which is what I think she believes, and I want you to tell her that you only used her to get to me.”

He thought about that, then said, “Done.” But added, “I’ll tell her I used her, if you want, but that wasn’t it. You gotta know that.”

I did know that. I knew that, as impossible as it was to believe, Frank and Susan were in love, and she was ready to leave me for him. Lust, I understand, from firsthand experience. But the only woman I’ve ever loved, Susan Stanhope Sutter, who actually still loved me, was madly in love with Frank Bellarosa – and Frank, apparently, was in love with her. That was why he’d sold out to the Feds – so he and Susan could be together in Italy, or wherever, and start a new life together. It would probably have lasted a year or two, but people who are obsessed and in high heat don’t think that far into the future.

In any case, true to his word, he’d obviously told her what I’d asked him to tell her, on the phone or in person prior to that night, and Susan apparently snapped. Hell hath no fury and all that. Ironically, a few weeks before, he’d given her the gun that killed him, to keep the FBI from finding it. The rest is history, and tragedy, and maybe a little comedy, if you weren’t personally involved.

The question, of course, was this: Why did I ask Frank to tell Susan it was over, and that he was not taking her to Italy with him, and that he’d used her to recruit me as his attorney? Obviously, I did that to get Susan back – or to get back at Susan. And, of course, I had no idea that she’d snap and shoot him. Or did I?

I always thought that Frank Bellarosa, who was a great admirer of Niccolò Machiavelli, would have appreciated my… well, Machiavellian solution to this problem. And I still wonder if Frank grasped what he’d done to himself in those last few seconds between him telling Susan it was over and her pulling the gun. If he had any last words, or thoughts, I hoped they were, “John, you son of a bitch!”

Susan and I continued to face each other, and I returned to the present and looked into her eyes. She held my stare, then dropped her eyes and said to me, “I saw him earlier that day, and he told me that he was through with me, and he never loved me, and that his only interest in me was… fucking a society bitch… and… to make me convince you to work for him.” She took a breath and continued, “Then he told me to leave and not come back and not call him. But I went back that night… and we made love… and I thought it was all right again… but afterwards, he told me to leave, and I said I wouldn’t, so he said he’d call for the FBI to throw me out. I… couldn’t believe it, and I… became angry.”

I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t take my eyes off her. She seemed very calm, the way she is when she’s on the verge of an emotional breakdown, or a blow-up. I could never tell which it was going to be. Apparently, neither could Frank, or he’d have been on his guard. He should have at least remembered the gun.

She continued in a barely audible voice, “I told him I loved him, and that I’d given up my life for him. And he told me… he said, ‘Go back to John. He loves you, and I don’t.’ He said I’d be lucky if you took me back, and I should thank God if you did. And he called me… names… and told me to get out…”

I stood there, unable to say anything. I did, though, think about Frank Bellarosa, and I wondered how much he had loved her, and how hard it was for him to say what he’d said to her, which, I just discovered, was more than I’d asked of him. But he owed me a very big favor for saving his life at Giulio’s, and he wanted to be able to say to me, “We are even on favors, Counselor. Nobody owes anybody anything now.” But he didn’t live long enough to tell me we were even.

Susan moved a step closer to me, and we were only inches apart. She said, “And that’s why I killed him.” She asked me, “All right?”

I half expected to see tears running down her cheeks, but Susan is not much of a crier, though I did see her lower lip quiver. I said to her, “All right. He’s dead.”

We both turned and began our walk back to the house. One of us could have said something, but there was nothing left to say.

We walked through the rose garden to the patio. Somewhere along the way, Susan had dropped the rose stem, but the other roses sat on the table and she stared at them.

I was certain that after her confession, she expected me to leave, which I wanted to do, but I still needed to speak to her about Amir Nasim and Anthony Bellarosa, and I wanted to do that now in person, so I said to her, “I have something important to tell you.”

She looked at me, but didn’t respond.

I continued, “I’m sure you’d rather be alone now, but if you can sit and listen to me for about ten minutes…”

She replied, “If it’s important.”

“It is.” I suggested, “Why don’t we sit?”

“I need a few minutes. Would you like something?”

“Water.”

She went into the house, and I stood at the wicker table and opened the box she’d given me. Inside, as she said, were copies of letters from Edward and Carolyn, and also a stack of family photographs. I flipped through them and noticed a few group shots that included my parents and hers.

I recalled an advertisement I’d once seen for a company that did photo retouching; basically, this Orwellian enterprise could make unwanted people disappear from photographs, then fill in the background where they’d been. I made a mental note to contact these clever people to vaporize William and Charlotte. Unfortunately, altering a photograph does not alter a memory or history.

I shuffled through the remaining photographs, and I noted that she had not included any risqué photographs of us. This made me think that despite Emily Post’s advice, I should not have put those nude shots of us in her envelope. I looked at the envelope on the table and was about to slip out those photos and put them into my jacket, but the screen door opened, and she came out to the patio carrying a tray with a liter of sparkling water and two glasses.

Susan looked more composed now – and maybe relieved that her belated confession that her adultery wasn’t just lust, but also love, hadn’t made me walk away. She nodded toward the photos she’d given me and said, “Those are wonderful shots.” She added, “I have stacks of them if you’d like to go through them someday.”

“Thank you.”

She set the tray on the table, sat, and I sat opposite her. She poured water for me and said, “Please get right to the point.”

“I will.” I drank my water and began, “First, I had tea with Amir Nasim, and he told me that the reason he wants to buy your house is because he wants total privacy. I believe he has issues with the concept of cultural diversity, meaning he doesn’t want an attractive unmarried woman living in the middle of his property.” I paused, then continued, “But then he told me that he had some security concerns.”