Indefensible (14 page)

“Did you go to sleep?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to your mother at all that night?”

He swallowed. He had heard his mother leave her room to say good-night to Lucy. He had heard her footsteps hesitate outside his room. She wanted to talk to him. He'd sensed her need through the door. But he'd done nothing. “No.”

“Was your room next to your mother's?”

“Yes.”

“Did you go to sleep after that?”

“No.”

“So you were awake the whole time?”

“Yes.”

The detective and the babe exchanged glances. “Did you hear or see anything before your mother's fall?”

He stared at his fingers. “I heard a thump.”

Ethan glanced at his notes. “From outside?”

“No. Inside her room.”

“And where were you?”

“In my room. On my iPhone,” he added.

“What time was this?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. It was after midnight.”

“How big a thump was it? Was it like someone jumping to their feet, or someone falling off a bed?”

“I guess it was like someone bumping into something.”

The detective wrote that down.

“Then what happened?”

“I thought my mother was going to the bathroom.” He couldn't admit he thought his mother was coming to talk to him and he'd held his breath in the dark, praying she wouldn't. Because he'd give anything to have acted differently.

“Did you hear a toilet flush or the taps run?” the detective asked.

“No. Then I heard the sliding door open.”

“How many minutes later?”

“One, maybe two.” Nick shrugged. The detective's eyes narrowed. He hadn't liked the casualness of the gesture.

“You could hear it from your room? Weren't your earbuds plugged in?”

“I wasn't listening to any music then.”

“Why did you think you could hear the door slide open? Was it squeaky?”

“No. It sounded like it hit the stop at the end of the runners really hard. Sort of like it bounced against something.”

“Then what happened?”

Nick breathed in deeply. This was the crucial time. They were closing in for the kill.

Saturday, 12:34 p.m.

“I
heard my mother moan,” Nick said.

“Why did she do that?” The detective's eyes did not leave Nick's face.

Sweat pricked the back of his neck. “I don't know.”

“What did you do?”

“I jumped off my bed and ran to the door in my bedroom.”

“The sliding door?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened when you got to the deck?”

Nick looked away. “I tripped.”

“You tripped?” The detective stared at him. As if he was trying to figure out if he was lying or not.

Nick met his gaze. “Yeah. There was this pot by the end of the door and I didn't see it, it was dark and I ran right into it…”

When he raised his head, he'd seen a man ten feet away. His back was to Nick. He had a stocking over his head.

Nick's hands clenched. Then he realized he'd made fists. He unlocked his fingers, smoothing them over his shorts.

“Did you fall?” Tabitha asked, her eyes sym pathetic.

“Yeah.”

“Did you hurt yourself?” The detective did a quick once-over of Nick's exposed skin. Checking for proof of his fall.

“Nah.”

The sweat on the back of Nick's neck turned icy. He knew what the detective was after—he'd seen enough
CSI.
They were hoping he'd cut himself and left some DNA somewhere.

“Okay, Nick, I want you to pretend that your eyes are like a video camera. Tell us what the video saw after you fell on the deck.”

Nick had stared, frozen with shock.

The man had his back to Nick. But he could see something white fluttering from the man's arm. It looked like a sheet. The man raised his arm. He held a small club. It was black, heavy.

He smashed his arm down. Nick heard a whimper. His heart stopped at the sound.
It was his mother.
What he'd thought was a white sheet was his mother's nightgown.

And the man who'd struck his mother with a club was his father. Nick recognized his shoulders. A stocking covered his father's head, but he could see his telltale blond hair crushed against his skull.

Nick swallowed. “I looked up. I heard a noise at the railing.”

“What kind of noise?” the detective asked.

“Like someone climbing over the rail.”

“
Climbing
over the rail?” The detective's eyes narrowed.

Nick nodded.

His father lifted his mother over the rail as though he was dumping a sack of potatoes.

“No!” Nick tried to shout but his voice had been paralyzed with horror. He lunged toward his father. Toward his mother.

“Are you sure, Nick?” Tabitha asked.

“Yeah.”

“And what did the video capture?” the detective asked.

“My mother. She had her leg over the rail. About to jump.”

“Jump or fall?”

“Jump.”

Then his father dropped her.

He saw the white floating beyond the black wrought-iron rail. Then his mother's long smooth legs…her feet…her pale pink polished toes…

His father spun on his heel and ran through the sliding door back into his mother's bedroom.

Nick closed his eyes.
I'm sorry, Mum. It's only for a few days. Then the real truth will come out.
He exhaled heavily.

“So the video filmed your mother jumping over the rail?”

“Let's just cut the video shit, okay?” It cut too close to home. The scene replayed itself in his head endlessly. He couldn't get it to stop. And the coffee that son-of-
a-bitch detective had made him roiled in his stomach, churning his anger. “I saw my mother jump over the fucking balcony.” He glared at the detective. “Make sure you write that down on your fucking notepad.” He jumped to his feet. “I'm done.” He stalked toward the door.

The detective pushed back his chair and blocked his path. “Just a sec, Nick.”

“Nick,” Tabitha said. “I know how hard this is.”

You have no fucking idea.
Telling the cops that his mother had killed herself had almost killed
him
. But it was the only thing he could think of to get the cops off his father's trail. He needed to keep them away from his father until Nick was done with him.

I'll make you pay, Dad.

I'll make you pay for this.

“Nick, please sit down.”

“I'm done,” Nick said again. He wasn't going to let this guy tell him what to do.

“Nick, we are trying to solve the questions around your mother's death. We need your help.” Tabitha's eyes searched his. “Can you help us, please?”

He stared at her, his brain flying. He didn't want to answer any more questions; he was scared they'd trap him. But it was obvious they weren't going to let him be.

He lowered himself to the chair. “How much longer?”

“We just need to make sure you understand what you told us.”

“I know what I said.”

“You told us your mother jumped over the rail.”

“Yes.”

“Was she awake?”

That question startled him. Weren't most people awake when they killed themselves?

Then he answered his own question. Not if they took pills…

And his mother had sleeping pills.

He hadn't thought of it, but maybe it would be even better if it seemed she was strung out on pills…but could they figure out she hadn't been?

He pressed his palms into his shorts. He didn't know what to say. Should he say she was awake? Or asleep?

He felt their eyes on him.

He knew it was important he got it right.

His heart hammered.

No. Don't psych yourself out.

It was just like writing a test. When he thought too hard about the answer it made him clumsy.

He always got the answer wrong.

They were waiting for him to crack.

“I don't know.” That was safe. That was a good answer.

The detective wrote something on his pad.

“Did she moan again?”

“No.” His mother
had
moaned. Whimpered.

He would never forget the sound.

She'd sounded so defenseless.

And he hadn't been able to save her.

He felt sweat bead his brow.

He glanced at the detective. The cop was watching him closely.

Too closely.

He was sure he saw Nick sweating.

“Did she see you?”

Oh, God.
The question stabbed him. It was a physical pain. Through the numbness. Through the deadness of his flesh.

He had seen her eyes through the railing.

In a flash.

A split second.

Had she actually seen him?

He didn't know.

He hoped not.

Then her last thought would have been of how her son hadn't saved her.

His throat tightened. His heart pounded.

He could barely breathe.

“Nick…” Tabitha Christos' voice was a soft murmur in his ear. She was leaning over him. “Nick. Just breathe slowly. In.” She breathed in. “Out.” She exhaled.

He let her guide him. He needed to control his emotions.

He couldn't let himself be at the mercy of his feelings anymore.

“No,” he whispered, his voice unrecognizable. “No. She didn't.”

“Did she say anything? Was she mumbling or talking in her sleep?”

“I don't know. It happened so fast.”

It was true. It did happen so fast. A blur of pain, rage, loss.

“So after your mother jumped over the rail,” Tabitha said quietly, “what did you do?”

Nick chased his father out of his mother's bedroom.
His father ran into the hallway and leaped down the stairs. But Nick was gaining ground. He could almost grasp his shirt.

Then Lucy shouted, “Nick! Nick!” And in that split second of hesitation, his father ran through the front door.

Nick yelled over his shoulder for Lucy to call 911. He lunged through the door. His father ran into Point Pleasant Park. Nick hesitated. Should he follow him? Or look after his mother?

His mother lay on the ground. Injured. She needed his help.

“I ran outside to help her. But I was too late.” He shook his head. “I was too fucking late.”

Tabitha put her hand over his. “Nick, you can't blame yourself.”

Oh, yeah?

Yeah. I can.

The detective said nothing. Just looked at him.

“Then the ambulance came—Lucy had woken up when she heard me running down the stairs and I got her to call them.” He stood. “You guys know the rest.”

Tabitha rose, as well. The detective just watched him.

“Can I go now?”

Tabitha and the detective exchanged glances. She seemed to be urging him to let Nick go. He glanced at his notes, then looked up at Nick. “We're done for today. But we may have more questions.”

Nick was sure they'd have more questions.

He wasn't sure how long the suicide story would stand up.

O
ver the past hour and a half, Randall's initial shock, pain and humiliation at the rejection by his children had flattened into a heavy numbness in his chest.

Randall knew the police would start with the kids first. They had been on the scene. But he also knew that whatever his kids told them, they would try to use against him. Unless, of course, Elise's death was ruled accidental. Or suicide.

He rubbed his face. He couldn't believe she was dead.

His beautiful, fucked-up ex-wife.

Guilt and sorrow pulled his heart, one way, then the next. A tug-of-war that could not be won. Minute by minute his heart was being shredded into long, ragged strips of remorse.

 

Ethan pulled his cell out of his pocket. Time to check in with the twilight zone, aka the path lab. “Lamond, anything interesting so far?”

“Just the usual. They've completed the pictures, done the Lumalight—”

“That show any trace?”

“Nothing so far. She's clean as a whistle. No sex, no blood and no rock 'n' roll.”

“So she wasn't a drug user?”

“No signs of needle tracks or cocaine residue.”

“How about her fingernails?”

“The M.E. has done the swabs but there wasn't anything obvious.”

“Any signs of struggle?”

“A few bruises and a scrape on her thigh, but that could have been from the fall.”

Interesting. So if someone had killed her, she had either been completely taken by surprise or she had trusted her killer.

“Okay, here's something to get the M.E. to check out. Her daughter says that the victim had some kind of procedure done a few weeks ago that made her feel sick. I'm thinking it was either cosmetic or something relating to female problems. You know, an OB/GYN-type of thing.”

“Okay, I'll pass that on.”

“I'm interviewing the ex-husband next, if anything else comes up.”

“Roger.”

“And Lamond…? I'd skip lunch if I were you. Remember what happened the last time you looked in someone's stomach.”

Ethan popped three Tums into his mouth and chewed, then stretched. He needed to be calm, relaxed, despite the adrenaline that surged through him.

He glanced over at Brown. She was giving the faxed report from the harbor patrol a final once-over. Tabby
sat at the other end of the boardroom table, analyzing their notes.

“You ready?” he asked Brown, grabbing his portfolio. Ethan wouldn't be in the interview room. He would be in the room next to it, watching the video playback and listening to Randall's statement through headphones.

Brown stood, her six-one frame always eye catching, especially since it was crowned with coppery shoulder-length hair. Her freckled features were lightly tanned, bringing out the green in her hazel eyes. All in all, Liv “Copper” Brown was a striking woman. That wasn't why Ethan asked her to do the interview. He doubted Randall Barrett would be distracted by Brown's looks. He wanted Brown because her no-nonsense manner would help defuse the animosity that Randall harbored toward him.

She nodded. “Let's do it.”

He walked into the small room off to the side of the main interview rooms, and sat down behind a desk with a monitor, placing his notepad next to it. He put the headphones on.

Brown walked into the interview room with Barrett. He sat down behind the table. He stared right into the camera at Ethan. Even though he was unshaven, his face drawn with exhaustion, his eyes were sharp. Focused.

Ethan leaned forward.

“Where are my kids?” Barrett demanded. His eyes drilled into Ethan's through the camera lens.
You fucker,
they screamed at him.

“Having lunch,” Brown said, her voice calm. Cheerful, even. “They'll be waiting for you to finish up in
here.” A clear message that it was Barrett, not the police, who was keeping him from his kids.

Barrett gave a final glare into the camera, then turned his gaze to Brown. “Let's move this along.”

Brown ran through the routine statements about the interview being recorded, then said, “Mr. Barrett, I'm very sorry about your wife's death. As you know, we are trying to determine what caused it.”

Barrett had not missed Brown's deliberate slip of the tongue. His voice crisp, he said, “Elise was my ex-wife. We'd been divorced for three years.”

“Can you tell me why she came to Halifax?”

“She was bringing my children. We were going to spend several weeks together.”

“All of you?”

Barrett shifted. “No.” Then he added, “Elise was going to rent a cottage on the south shore and spend the month there.”

“And what were you going to do with your kids?” Brown's voice remained sympathetic throughout. Ethan knew her hazel eyes would be concerned, empathetic. Not revealing that they knew Barrett's plans had been thwarted by Nick at the outset.

“Lucy was going to a riding camp the first week. Nick and I were going on a cruise.”

“On your yacht?”

“Yes.”

“When were you planning to go?”

“Today.”

“Did you see your family before your wife's accident?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“I stopped by after I left work yesterday.”

“How did you know they had arrived?”

He shrugged. “I guessed.”

“And what was your ex-wife's state of mind?”

He gave a wry look. “She wasn't overjoyed to see me, if that's what you were wondering.”

Brown gave a little chuckle. “I hear ya. My ex never greets me with open arms, either.”

Ethan felt himself relax. Brown was doing a good job warming up Barrett.

“So what happened?”

“I hugged my daughter, Lucy. Then Elise told me that Nick wanted to go to a camp.”

“How did you feel about that?”

He shrugged. “I was disappointed. I was looking forward to spending some time with him.”

“So what did you do?”

Would he admit to the arguments?
Ethan almost hoped he wouldn't. But he knew Barrett was too smart to make such an obvious mistake.

Barrett's eyes met Brown's. “I spoke harshly to my son. And my ex-wife.”

“What did they do?”

“Nick went into the house. I decided it was time to leave. But Elise was upset and stopped my car.” He looked away. “We argued for a bit more and then she went into the house.”

“So you argued the whole time about Nick's decision to go to a camp?”

Randall's mouth twisted. “You know what it's like
with ex-spouses, Detective. A little issue can be debated for a very long time.”

“Did she seem more upset than usual to you, Mr. Barrett?”

“Elise was an extremely warm person. A very devoted mother. But she had problems with anxiety.” He crossed his arms. “It was difficult to discuss things with her.”

“So, how was she yesterday?”

He looked at a point just to the right of the camera. His gaze was inward, thoughtful.

Was it an act? Was he trying to appear that he was reflecting on Elise's condition? Would he try to make her seem unbalanced to deflect attention from him?

When he spoke, his voice was soft, and Ethan strained to hear. “She was distraught. Upset. I think the drive to Halifax might have taken a toll on her.”

“Why, was she a nervous driver?”

“A little. But she also relied on sleeping pills. She wouldn't take them if she was driving for a length of time. She was worried it would affect her reflexes.”

So far, everything he said was consistent with what they'd found.

“Do you think she was overtired?”

His gaze flickered. It was almost imperceptible. But it was there. “Yes.”

“Do you think there was more to it than sleep deprivation?”

“I don't know.”

“Did Elise ever have problems with depression?”

“She had postpartum depression. With both our kids.”

“And your youngest is twelve?”

He nodded.

“Any depression since then?”

“I know she found the divorce difficult.”

“Did she seek any medical treatment?”

“She saw a therapist.”

“And what about now? Was she seeing one?”

“I don't know. We didn't share that kind of information with each other.” He rubbed his jaw.

Brown's voice was very quiet in the room. “Do you think your ex-wife might have chosen to take her own life, Mr. Barrett?”

Barrett jerked back in his chair. “No. I mean, I don't know.” He fell silent. A minute ticked by. “It's a possibility.”

“But one you hadn't considered?”

“It crossed my mind, but Elise was a devoted mother.” He stopped abruptly. Cleared his throat. “I hadn't thought she'd leave her children.”

Brown leaned closer. “What do
you
think happened, Mr. Barrett? How did Elise fall?”

Barrett exhaled slowly. “I thought she'd taken one of those damn pills. They've made her sleepwalk before. Lucy told me.”

“So you think she sleepwalked?”

“Yes. She was in an unfamiliar house. I think she just walked out the door and fell over the balcony.”

“Were you there?” Brown asked very softly. “Had you gone back to smooth things over?” Her tone encouraged him to admit it.

He started. “No. I was on my yacht.”

“Why were you on your yacht?”

“I like being on it.”

Brown allowed a hint of disbelief in her voice. “What time did you go to your yacht?”

There
.
Just the slightest flicker of his eyelid.

Barrett shrugged. “I don't know. I wasn't paying attention to the time.”

“Where were you before you went to your yacht?”

“I was at a bar. Having a drink.”

Brown raised a brow. “How many drinks?”

Barrett shot her a look of disgust. “You've seen the harbor patrol's report. You know I had too many.” Ethan studied Barrett's face. He looked like crap. Circles under his eyes, skin pale, clammy.

“How many?”

Barrett gave her a level look. “Enough.”

They weren't going to get any more out of him. Brown shifted gears. “So what did you do when you got to your yacht?”

Again, a split second of hesitation. Then he said, “I took my boat out.”

“According to harbor patrol, you were under motor. And moving quickly.” Her tone was bland. “After you returned to shore—” no mention of the fact that harbor patrol escorted him back, Ethan noted with approval “—what did you do?”

“The harbor patrol had told me what had happened. I was worried about my kids. They told me they were at my mother's, so I took a cab to her house in Prospect.” He glanced up at the camera.
He knows I'm listening,
Ethan thought. “I'm exhausted, Detective Brown. I haven't had any sleep. Are you done?”

“Yes. Thank you for all your help, Mr. Barrett.”
Brown stood and held the door open for Barrett. Barrett strode to the door, his face marked by fatigue.

Ethan shut off the equipment and waited until they'd gone back into the waiting room before following. The kids were slumped in chairs. The food the police had ordered for them had been barely touched. “Your mother is just about finished, Mr. Barrett.” Ethan looked at the kids. “Thank you for your help during such a difficult time.”

Warren opened the door and brought in Penelope Barrett. For the first time, she looked her age.

Barrett stood and took his mother's arm. “Let's go.” The kids rose, suddenly energized with the knowledge they didn't have to sit in this windowless, airless room any longer. Ethan led the way to the front entrance. Everyone was silent. Spent. Numb.

Ethan held open the main doors. Beyond them, the sky stretched out, blue and more blue, like a Walt Disney World brochure. Sugary sweet and just an illusion.

 

“David called me,” Penelope told Randall as they walked to the car.

He glanced at his mother. David was Elise's father. “And? Are they able to come?”

She shook her head, sympathy softening her sharp blue gaze. “He's really distraught. He wants to come, but Jane just can't travel anymore. She's hooked up to oxygen now.” Jane, Elise's mother, had had a debilitating stroke two years ago.

“So what are they going to do?”

“They've asked me to keep them abreast of what's happening here. I, of course, said yes. David's going
to work on the funeral arrangements.” Her voice had dropped to a low murmur. The kids were just behind them.

Randall nodded.

“I think the children should stay with you,” his mother added. “I'll bring their suitcases over later today.”

“Good.” They reached Penelope's red Beetle. The kids had squished into it this morning for the drive into Halifax, although Randall had picked up his car from the yacht club early this morning. Their preference for driving with their grandmother was not lost on him.

Nick reached for the door handle on the car. “Nick,” Randall said. “You're coming with me.”

He had meant his words to sound casual, but even to his ears they sounded like a demand.

Nick flashed him an angry look. “I'm going with Grandma Penny.”

His mother put a hand on Nick's arm. “Why don't you stay with your father. I'll come over to see you all.”

Nick shook his head. “I'm not going with him.” He crossed his arms.

“Nick, be reasonable, please,” Penelope said in a low voice.

“I'm not staying with him!”

Penelope's face registered her dismay at Nick's vehemence. Randall just stared at his son.

He hates me.

I can feel it.

My own flesh and blood hates me.

His mother's eyes searched his.
What do we do now?