Indefensible (16 page)

A fly buzzed through the broken glass. It darted around Kate's head, then back out the window. “Goodbye.” She pushed away from the counter.

“I was on my yacht.” His voice was low.

“The whole time?” This was the test.

A muscle ticked beneath one corner of his eye. “No. First I got drunk.”

“Where?”

“Here. Then at a bar. I drank more than I've drunk in years.”

Some of the tension in Kate's shoulders eased. “How did you get to your yacht?”

He shook his head. “I think I drove. I don't remember.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I'm lucky I didn't kill someone.”

Kate stared at him. “You mean you were so drunk you had a blackout.”

He looked away. “Yes.” Then his gaze swung back to her. “This is the first time it's ever happened, I swear it.”

“Why couldn't your children reach you?”

He jerked back. “How do you know they tried to call me?”

The Toronto phone numbers on Randall's call list flashed through Kate's mind. She hoped her flush of guilt didn't show through her tan. “Your kids found her, didn't they? It stands to reason they'd try to call their father.”

“Yes. It stands to reason. I failed them, Kate. I was so drunk I didn't even think about whether they could reach me.” Pain, remorse, guilt. It was in his eyes, his voice. He gave a derisive laugh. “I discovered my phone was
turned off this morning. I must have turned it off last night. I obviously forgot what it was like to be a parent. Elise did all the day-to-day stuff. I forgot the cardinal rule—you never turn off your phone. Ever.” He crossed his arms. “I failed them.”

She didn't know what to say. He
had
failed them. Gone off, gotten drunk, wallowed in whatever had upset him and not been there at the most traumatic moment of his kids' lives.

“You didn't know what would happen.”

“It doesn't matter. The kids won't rationalize that part. All they know is that their dad wasn't there when their mother died.”

The self-loathing had returned in his eyes. Kate wondered if her own father had been so consumed with recriminations after he pulled them under and then left them. She doubted it.

But what she did know was how it felt to be twelve years old and have your world irrevocably destroyed. And to realize that your father was not there to help you when you needed him the most.

“Dad.” Lucy stood in the doorway. Her face was swollen from sleep, her hair tangled. Kate gave her a tentative smile. Would she remember Kate from when she patted Alaska yesterday? The girl's gaze swept over her. A flicker of recognition was all Kate got. Her animation, her impish smile were gone. In its stead was apathy. “Where's Charlie?”

At the sound of Lucy's voice, Charlie bounded from her bed, throwing herself against Lucy with enthusiastic kisses. Lucy sank to her knees and buried her face in Charlie's fur.

It took Kate a moment to realize that the girl's shoulders were heaving. Randall hurried over to his weeping daughter and put his hand on her shoulder. She shook it off.

“I'll see you later.” Kate edged around them, wishing she'd left the first time she'd said goodbye.

Randall caught up with her as she walked through the front doorway. He gripped the door frame with bloodless fingers. “How can I make it up to her, Kate?”

It was the one question today that Kate could answer with confidence. Her own past gave her that authority. “You can never make it up to her, Randall.”

His fingers tightened. It was not the answer he expected to hear. Or wanted to hear. It never was. She placed a hand on his wrist. “But you can start over. Just take it one step at a time.”

She walked away, down the elegant stone walkway. For a man like Randall, the hardest part of her advice would be the last part. He lived life in the fast lane. Now he would have to slow down. And not make the assumption that taking things bit by bit would be easy.

The pitfalls for the impatient on the road to redemption were many.

Only a few succeeded.

For the sake of his daughter, Kate hoped he would be one of those few.

But at some point, the law of probabilities dictated that a man who had won so many times would inevitably lose.

Kate wondered if Randall's luck had run out.

Sunday, 11:02 a.m.

“I
don't think Elise Vanderzell killed herself,” Ethan said.

Detective Sergeant Deb Ferguson did not look impressed. In fact, she looked for all the world like a scornful, big-boned milkmaid. Except she sat behind a large desk instead of a reluctant cow. Plaques awarded for outstanding police work and volunteerism dotted the wall behind her. “So you think this is a homicide investigation?”

“Yes. Right now, I'm working on two theories. The first theory is that she was killed by a random intruder. The whole area around Point Pleasant Park was being targeted for break-ins. And we know that Dr. Feldman's house had not been occupied prior to Elise Vanderzell's arrival. She might have surprised someone.”

Deb nodded. “And what's your second theory?”

Ethan shifted in his chair. He knew Deb wouldn't like it. “It was Barrett. He had every opportunity to kill Elise Vanderzell.”

“But neither the scene nor the autopsy have given us a damn thing.”

“But Barrett also had motive, Deb.”

She raised a brow.

“The autopsy revealed she'd had an abortion.”

“Was the baby his?”

Now came the hard part. “The clinic says it doesn't ask who the father is. But Elise Vanderzell put down Randall Barrett's name as next of kin.

“Dr. Guthro told me that the clinic might have tissue samples. We could run the DNA—”

“It still doesn't give us motive, Ethan. Randall Barrett might have been very happy to not have a third Barrett from his
ex
-wife.”

Ethan looked away. He knew the evidence was flimsy. But his gut was telling him that there was more to this than met the eye.

“I believe she was murdered, Deb.”

She crossed her arms. “By Randall Barrett?”

He shrugged. “Possibly.”

“Are you sure you don't have blinkers on? You two have some nasty business between you.”

He stiffened at her reference to the Clarkson file. “That's not the reason. Give me some credit, Deb.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What about the son? He was present at the scene.”

“I know.”

“He could have killed her and lied about seeing her jump.”

Ethan's skin prickled. Deb had just pointed out what his mind whispered every time he zeroed in on Barrett. “I know. But I don't think he did it.”

“Could he be protecting someone?”

“It wouldn't be his father. He hates him.”

“What about someone else?”

“Who else would he know? He just arrived in Halifax.”

“So maybe he killed his mother.” The mildness of Deb's tone belied the hardness in her eyes. “But right now, there is no proof this is a homicide. FIS has come up with nothing, the M.E. isn't giving us anything. In fact, the only eyewitness we have is Vanderzell's son, and he says that she jumped.”

“Come on, Deb. An innocent woman is dead. Her death is suspicious. We can't just ignore it. Think of what the media will say if some other woman ends up killed.” He raised his brows. They both knew what he was referring to. The Lisa MacAdam case. The Major Crimes Unit had thought she was the first victim of a serial killer. Turned out there had been many before her. And no one in the Major Crimes Unit had made the connection.

Deb exhaled. Loudly.

“Okay. But keep Barrett under wraps for now. The shit will hit the fan if we begin filling out warrants on Randall Barrett with what we've got so far. The JP will stop answering his phone.” She leaned toward Ethan. Her eyes locked onto his. “Not to mention the field day the media will have with this. Do you really want all that bad blood between you and Barrett printed in black and white on the front page of the
Post?
”

She was throwing the media card back in his face, he knew that. It still didn't stop his gut from clenching.

“We are maxed out as it is on the Robichaud file.” She
twisted her mouth to the side, a sure sign she was going to tell him something he didn't want to hear. “In fact, I wanted you to be the file coordinator on Robichaud.”

“Okay. Just give me a week. I've got a couple of leads. One of Elise Vanderzell's final phone calls was to a Dr. Jamie Gainsford. I think he might be her therapist. He could help us establish her state of mind. And the toxicology report hasn't come in yet.”

She waved him toward the door. “You have five days. If you haven't come up with anything, you're on Robichaud.”

Sunday, 3:13 p.m.

A
isle number eleven was where Nick Barrett found his murder weapon.

He hadn't thought it would be so easy. So…well, normal.

This morning, his grandmother told him that she was going into town to see Lucy. It had been a perfect opportunity to take the first step of his plan. He told her he'd come with her. And that he wanted to spend the night at his father's.

Surprise, pleasure, hope—each of those emotions flickered through his grandmother's eyes. He knew she was thinking that her ex-daughter-in-law's death might have one unexpected silver lining: that her grandson might reconcile with her son.

They left his grandmother's house in Prospect after lunch. It was all Nick could do to hide his anger. His hate.

He stared out the window. He loved his grandmother, but she was blinded by the golden glow of his father.
Everyone was.
Grandma Penny, you are so wrong. You are so wrong about your own son. He's evil.

His father greeted them at the door of his house, weary hope in his gaze when he saw Nick's duffel bag. Nick had challenged him with his eyes.
Just admit you killed her, you bastard. You know I saw you. Stop fucking pretending.

But his father just ushered them in, offering them a drink. Nick hoisted his duffel onto his shoulder and stomped upstairs. His room had been redone since he was last here: there was a new Mac in the corner, an iPod stereo system on the bureau and a guitar leaning against the wall.

It sickened him. His father was trying to buy his affection, trying to assuage his conscience by tricking out his room.

He dumped his bag on the floor and left.

He went back downstairs and asked his father if he could buy a baseball bat. His father had seemed startled, but then said, “Yes, of course. It would do us both good to get outside.”

Typical of him to expect that Nick would want to play ball with him.

Nick had barely been able to swallow the putdown he longed to throw in his father's face. His father had offered to bring Lucy shopping, but she'd refused. She wanted to read a book, she said. Nick bet she was writing in her journal.

He could just imagine the entry she would make tomorrow.
“Nick killed Daddy.”
She'd probably underline it down the whole page.

But Luce,
he wanted to tell her,
you didn't see what he did to Mum.

You didn't hear how she moaned. You didn't see how he lifted her right over the rail.

And then let go.

When you know the real story, you'll understand.

And you'll thank me.

They drove to the store in silence. The parking lot was busy; the sun was shining and people were buying things for their barbecues, their trip to the beach, their water sports. Nick scanned the signs hung over the aisles.

Aisle 11—Baseball and Racquet Sports.
He headed straight to it. The baseball bats were lined up by price. Nick stopped, studying them, breathing hard. He wanted something with heft.

His father turned in to the aisle and walked up behind him. Nick stiffened. He tried to ignore his father as he examined the bats, the hair on the back of his neck quivering, but his father reached over and picked one with Slugger written in extravagant letters across the side, then weighed it in his palm. “How about this one?”

Nick grimaced. Typical of his father to choose something, instead of letting Nick pick it for himself. But in this case, having his father pick the bat that would kill him had a certain poetic justice.

“Let me see.” Nick took it from his father, being careful not to make contact. His hands curled around the handle. He backed away, swinging the bat in a small arc. It would do. “Okay.”

His father smiled. “Let's get some balls. We'll go to the field after this. I'll pitch.”

Nick shook his head. “I'm tired. Maybe later.”

He saw disappointment flare in his father's eyes. Nick turned and walked toward the checkout.

His father followed, grabbing a package of balls on his way.

Sunday, 4:19 p.m.

E
than sat at his desk, the file with Elise Vanderzell's crime scene photos and phone records spread out in front of him. He dialed Dr. Jamie Gainsford's phone number. He used the one from Elise's cell phone records, not the business number that was listed on the Ontario Yellow Pages website, hoping that Dr. Gainsford would answer this number on a Sunday.

“Hello?” The man's voice was calm, crisp. Slight accent. Australian, Ethan guessed.

“Dr. Jamie Gainsford?” he asked.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Detective Ethan Drake, Halifax Major Crimes Unit.” Ethan let that sink in. “I'm calling regarding Elise Vanderzell. One of your patients.”

Dr. Gainsford hesitated. “She is one of my clients. Is she all right?”

“I regret to inform you that Elise Vanderzell died early yesterday morning.”

“Oh, my God.” Dr. Gainsford paused, cleared his
throat. “What happened? I'd only just spoken to her on Friday night.”

Ethan's gaze fell on the crime scene photos. “She fell over a balcony at the house she was visiting.”

“Dear God. When did that happen?”

“On Friday night.”

“Good Lord. What time?”

“Just after one in the morning. What time did you speak to her?”

“She phoned me around eight. Eight-thirty. I don't know.” He spoke quickly.

“Why did she call you?” Ethan hoped the doctor's shock might keep him talking.

No such luck. “Detective, she was my client. I am bound to keep those conversations confidential.”

Damn.
Ethan stared at the photo of bloody concrete where Elise Vanderzell had landed. “We are trying to establish her state of mind. We aren't sure if she fell, jumped or was murdered.” He added, “You were the last person to speak to her before she phoned her husband. You aren't betraying a confidence by telling us what might have led to her death.”

Dr. Gainsford swallowed. “I can hardly believe she's dead.” He cleared his throat again. “I can't give you specifics of our sessions, but in my opinion, she wasn't suicidal. The reason she called was that she'd had an argument with her ex-husband. She wanted some advice.”

Ethan's neck prickled. “What advice did you give her?”

“I advised that she call her ex-husband and tell him they needed to behave like caring parents.”

Ethan scanned the phone record. Six minutes after Elise Vanderzell ended her conversation with her therapist, she phoned Randall Barrett. “Do you know what they said to each other?”

Dr. Gainsford exhaled. “No. I'm afraid I don't. I wish I did…”

You and me both, Doctor.
“At present, we are still determining whether Ms. Vanderzell's death was accidental or an act of homicide. If she was killed, we will need to trace her movements and talk to people who knew her. Including you, Doctor.”

“As I said before, our communications were confidential.” He paused. “However, if it appears that Ms. Vanderzell was a victim of homicide, I have provided evidence in domestic homicide situations with the approval of the College of Psychologists of Ontario.”

He absorbed the implications of what Elise Vanderzell's therapist was telling him: the psychologist thought if his client had been murdered, her husband could have killed her. He wouldn't push Dr. Gainsford for more information. Yet. He'd wait until they got the toxicology reports. “Thank you, Doctor.” Ethan hung up.

He ran through what information he knew. Elise had called her ex-husband. But it was a brief conversation.

Then Barrett got drunk.

And she fell off the balcony.

Her therapist, one of the last people to speak to her and probably the person most privy to her mental state, did not think she was suicidal.

And yet her son said he saw her jump.

Who was right?

Had her son killed her?

Or had Barrett killed her—and Nick was protecting him?

Ethan scratched the last possibility off his list. He could not believe Nick would protect his father.

So, if the therapist was right and Elise wasn't suicidal—then why did Nick say he saw his mother jump?

He stared at that bloody patch of concrete in the photo. It had told the FIS team everything it could.

But he didn't think Elise's family had done the same. He needed to bring Nick in again. He'd ask Tabby to conduct another interview tomorrow. The kid was not playing straight with them.

Then he'd bring in Nick's father. He wasn't playing straight with them, either.

Like father, like son.

 

Who knew that there was so much psychology in color? Kate thought, swiping her hair off her face with the back of a paint-splattered hand. Paint cascaded down the front of her T-shirt in a trail of yellowy cream puffs.

It was disturbing to think how her mood could be manipulated by the hue surrounding her. Was she really so suggestible?

Hell, yes. And she needed a dose of bright, mood-lifting color right now. Too many things had upset her equilibrium this weekend. First the unpleasant Naugler discovery on Friday afternoon; then her chilly encounter with Randall in the elevator; then the disastrous one-night stand with Curtis; and finally, and most disturbingly, the death of Randall's ex-wife.

She still didn't know why Randall had called her.
She sensed he was asking for more from her than just looking after his dog. And she sure as hell didn't know what she was willing to give him.

For the tenth time today, she pushed the thought of him out of her mind. She slapped the paintbrush on the wall, adding more cream puffs to her shirt. Despite her lack of skill, the freshly gleaming walls of her kitchen looked pretty damn good.

Although it would look so much better with white cupboards, like Randall's.

Stop it. When you make partner, you can afford your dream kitchen. Just be grateful the paint was on sale. Now you can get new blinds.

“Almost done the closet,” Finn said, backing out from the pantry with a roller, pan and two brushes in his hands. Finn Scott, dog walker extraordinaire, had adopted her house like a mangy dog in need of a good grooming. Since he'd begun walking Alaska in May, he'd put dead bolts in her bedroom, fixed her screen door, replaced the rotting boards in her back porch and replaced leaky faucets. Twice.

“It'll take a couple of days to dry in this heat,” Finn said. Sweat dampened his still-pristine Green Day T-shirt to his back.

He knelt down, placing the pan on a drop sheet, and poured more paint into it. Not a drop spilled. How did he do that? It was like the guy had been born with a Mr. Fix-It gene that had an extra shot of neat added to it.

Finn picked up the roller, then balanced the paint pan on his forearm as he straightened. Kate rolled her eyes. “How do you do that?”

“It's all in the wrist.” He grinned.

“I owe you a nice dinner. Big time,” Kate said. “Too bad I can't cook.”

Finn's eyes lit up with mischievous excitement. She should have guessed what was coming, knowing there was one thing Finn wanted from her that she had so far refused to give.

“Instead of dinner,” Finn said, “let me look around that secret staircase of yours.”

The blood drained from Kate's cheeks. Finn didn't know what he was asking, she knew that. Just a few months before, Kate's elderly neighbor Muriel Richardson had pried away an old bookcase in the closet and revealed a half-door to a “secret” staircase. She and her sister, Enid, had played in the staircase as children.

Every night, when Kate woke up drenched with sweat, her mind filled with Craig Peters and his bloody hands, it was the staircase next door to her bedroom that fueled her insomnia.

“Come on, Kate, you've never even looked up there.”

His eyes beseeched her. On the wall behind him, the fresh paint gave the kitchen a radiance and warmth that made her nighttime fear of the staircase seem remote. Silly, even.

“We'll go together,” Finn added, sensing her indecision.

Maybe going up there, seeing the plaster and feeling the wood under her feet, would dispel her aversion. After all, wasn't it fear of the unknown that made it all seem so much worse at two in the morning?

He put down his painting gear and rummaged through his toolbox for a hammer. Kate followed him into the
closet. Despite the fan that spun with a low hum, the small area was stifling.

Finn had painted all the walls except the back wall. It loomed, muddy brown and gloomy, over the half-door, like an entrance to a troll's cave.

Hooking the hammer's claw into the nail heads, Finn's back muscles strained with the effort of pulling out the nails he had so thoroughly hammered only months before. With a grunt, he removed the final nail. He yanked the board off the wall and pried the small door from the wall.

“Ta-da!” He opened the door with a flourish, turning to grin at her.

Sweat, which had until now been a light dampness on Kate's skin, erupted in a stream under her arms. “You go first.”

He knelt in front of the half-door and poked his head inside. “We need a flashlight.” He backed up, wiping his hands on his shorts.

It took only two strides for Kate to return to the kitchen, but the contrast hit her immediately. Light. Air. Safety. She found a flashlight, pushing the switch to check it worked. But in reality, she was working up her courage.

Shake it off, Kate. Shake it off. Dr. Kazowski will be proud of you. She'll think you're making progress. That would be a change.

Kate spun on her heel and strode into the closet before her courage left her.

“Here.” She shoved the flashlight into Finn's hand.

He dropped to his knees and shone the light up into the stairwell. He gave a low whistle. “Very fancy.” He
crawled through the doorway. Kate watched his ankles, then feet, disappear into the black hole.

Taking a deep breath, she lowered herself through the doorway. And inhaled a large dust bunny. She coughed, swiping at a cobweb by her hair, and crawled into the stairwell.

The temperature was at least ten degrees hotter than the kitchen. Sweat matted Kate's hair to the back of her neck. She straightened, conscious of the ceiling just above her head. There was maybe two inches' clearance. Finn had to keep his neck bent. He shone the light on the steps between them. “How are you doing?” he asked.

“Fine.” She forced a smile on her face. It was just as dark and unpleasant as she thought it would be. She wondered at the young children who had thought this was a fun place to play. They were made of stronger stuff back then, she supposed. Or just had fewer options.

Finn stood one step above her. “Cool, isn't it?”

“Uh-huh.”

He ran his fingers over the wall. “You know, I think I should paint these walls. I could install a light in here. It would really brighten it up.”

And stop me from being scared.
She rubbed her arms. “I'm not sure, Finn…”

“Choose the brightest, funkiest color you like and we'll transform this space.”

“This isn't a home reno show, Finn.”

He grinned. “Not yet. But this old house has good bones, Kate. She deserves some TLC.”

“She's getting it.”

Finn crossed his arms. “Come on, Kate. It's just a staircase.”

Kate pushed a wisp of hair off her face. “Exactly. It's a staircase I don't use and will never use. Why waste our time on it? I've got a ton of work to do tomorrow.” She grabbed his elbow. “I don't have time to take on another project for something I plan on locking up.”

She dropped to her knees and crawled out of the half-door before he could say any more.

It was true. All of it. She would never use the staircase—over her dead body, which had a strangely prophetic ring. And she had that load of case reports sitting on a chair in her spare bedroom upstairs. Tomorrow was a holiday. She needed to buckle down and get work done before Tuesday's discovery.

Oh, man, and wasn't that something to look forward to. Discovery with Curtis Carey.

She definitely needed to be prepared. She didn't want to look like more of a fool than she already did.

After dinner, she'd put a bolt on the half-door that led to the secret staircase. That should end any further debates about giving her house extra TLC.

It was getting lots of TLC. Way more than she was.