Indefensible (21 page)

Monday, 6:03 p.m.

H
is mother greeted Randall with her usual hug, but only their arms embraced; their bodies did not touch. Penelope had never been a physically demonstrative woman, although Randall never doubted her love for her family, for her art, for her little Cape Cod perched on the edge of the ocean or for her dog, Scrubby.

He stepped back and studied his mother's face.

Lines of fatigue were etched around her eyes and mouth, deepened over the past few days by sorrow and confusion. But not suspicion. Her gaze was level. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His mother did not think he'd killed Elise; he could see it in her eyes.

He wanted to hug her. Tight this time. He wanted her to tell him that the kids were okay, that he was okay, that life was okay.

He stepped back. “How are things?” he asked in a low voice.

“David called. About Elise's funeral.” Randall's
shoulders tightened. He dreaded seeing Elise's parents, even more so now, with his face branded by Nick's accusations. Penelope hesitated. “Randall, David told me they want custody of Nick and Lucy.”

His chest tightened. “I'm the legal guardian.”

“They think you were responsible for Elise's death.” Randall noted his mother couldn't bring herself to say he killed his ex-wife. She was trying to protect his feelings, but her choice of words made him feel worse. “They want to fight for custody.”

He crossed his arms. “My children belong with me. I'm their father.”

Penelope looked at him with such profound sadness that fear curled through him. “What do you think the children want to do?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Lucy will want to live with me.”

“And Nick?”

He looked away. “He'll come around.”

“Maybe.”

He cleared his throat. “When are they planning the service?”

She bit her lip. “They were told by the police that the homicide team is still waiting for toxicology reports. Since it's a long weekend and some of the lab staff are out on summer vacation, they think it could be over a week before the police will release her body.”

“That long.” Though it would give him some time to sort things out here.

“Yes.”

“We'd better get our flights booked. Could I ask you to do that?”

Penelope put a hand on his arm. “They don't want
you to come, Randall. They asked if I could chaperone the children on the airplane.”

Rage burst through his hurt. “Goddamn them!”

There was an uncustomary sheen of tears in her eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“She was my wife. My
wife
. The mother of my children. I want to mourn her, too.”

“I know.” Penelope's voice was husky. “I understand. But they lost their only child, Randall. To a violent death. And their own grandson thinks his father did it.” She blinked. For a moment, she looked frail. Old.

He didn't know why he was arguing with her. It was Elise's parents—not his own mother, who had stood by him—who needed to hear his frustration. He cleared his throat. “How is Lucy doing today?”

Penny shook her head. “She won't come out of her room. She's barely eaten anything. I'm worried about her.”

“I'll go up and see her.”

But he made no move to go. There was one more member of the family he had not inquired about. “What about Nick?”

Penelope's eyes welled. “He won't come out of his room, either.” She looked past him, at the ocean. The metallic-gray water heaved against the shore. “I'm scared, Randall,” she said in a low voice. “He's completely changed.”

“Has he threatened you?”

After Nick had attacked him, the police had taken them into custody but no charges were laid, so they were both let go.

Nick, deflated and sullen, had returned to Penelope's
house. Randall had assumed that his son's rage had only one target: him. But now he cursed his lack of judgment. How could he have left his mother with Nick? She was vulnerable. So was Lucy.

The thought snaked into his mind again: Had Nick killed his own mother?

God, how had his family turned on itself?

“I'll deal with it.”

“No. Wait.” Penelope grabbed Randall's arm. “I don't think you should speak to Nick. He'll just explode again.” Her eyes, so like his own, so like his son's, forced him to acknowledge the truth of what she was saying. “He needs help, Randall. Professional help. I think Lucy should have some, too.”

“We're fine.” He tugged his arm, but she would not let go.

“No. You can't deal with this yourself, Randall. Neither can I. These kids are in shock. You need to get them some help.”

He swiped a hand through his hair. What was wrong with him? He'd always been so sure of his decisions, but now he doubted himself. His kids were shell-shocked.
For God's sake, his son had tried to kill him.
And he'd just told his mother they were fine.

His mother watched him.

“Maybe we should call a psychologist.” His words dragged, reluctant to face the light of day.

Penelope's hand relaxed on his arm. “I think that would be a good idea.” Remorse stabbed Randall. He was putting his mother through something she did not deserve. He was making her bear the cost of his mistakes. “In fact—” She stopped abruptly.

“What?”

Penelope exhaled. “Lucy spoke to me a little about Nick. About his behavior. I think she blamed herself for what happened on Sunday night. Apparently, after Nick stole that money, Elise asked Lucy to come to a few of her therapy sessions to talk about Nick. The therapist was hoping that Lucy might know more about what was going on at school, et cetera.”

“And…”

“Now Lucy's worried she missed something. Something terrible about her brother that might have prevented what happened. She feels guilty, Randall.”

He couldn't speak. Lucy shouldn't have to carry this burden.

“I was just thinking,” his mother said softly, her eyes searching his, “maybe we should call this therapist. His name is Dr. Gainsford. He knows the family dynamics. He met Lucy. She seemed to like him. It would be one less strange thing for her to have to deal with. We can ask him if he can recommend someone for Nick, too.”

Randall closed his eyes. He'd been so blind, so wrapped up in his own fucking problems he hadn't even seen what his young daughter was going through. “Call him. I'll fly him in from Toronto if need be.”

Penelope exhaled. “Thank you.” Exhaustion pulled at her features. “I'll make some tea.”

“I'll go see Lucy.” The narrow wooden staircase, warped by age and damp, creaked under Randall's weight. Nick's door was to the right. Closed tight and probably locked on the inside.

Lucy's was on the left. It was partly open. He knocked.

“Come in.”

Lucy gasped when she saw his face. He was able to control his own reaction to her appearance. Her normally peach-colored complexion was so sallow it looked almost yellow.

And her eyes…

His own eyes pricked with tears.

Her eyes were pools of loss. Despair. So deep, so still.

He swallowed, trying not to weep when Lucy wrapped her arms around her knees. Instead of wrapping her arms around him. “Daddy,” she whispered. “Where were you?”

“I told you, honey, I had to go to the hotel.”

“I meant the night Mummy died.”

The surf crashed against the rocks, elemental, unstoppable.

He reached out a hand and stroked her hair, no longer smooth and soft, but tangled and greasy.

She pulled back against the headboard. Her eyes were full of fear. She was scared what he would say. She was scared he would tell her that he killed her mother.

“I was on my boat, Lucy.” She needed to believe him. He needed to believe it, too. “I swear to you, I did not go back to the house.”

“But Nick says he saw you—”

Randall shook his head. “It wasn't me. I would never do that.”
Would I?

She looked away.

His heart broke.

She doesn't believe me.

My own daughter, the child I rocked to sleep and carried on my back, does not believe me.

“Lucy, I swear to you I did not—” He couldn't say “kill.” He could not use that word with his daughter. “I would never hurt your mother.”

And yet, wasn't that a lie? He'd hurt Elise in a thousand different ways.

As she'd hurt him.

Oh, God.

“I tried calling you.” Every child's unspoken reproach: Why weren't you there when I needed you?

“I'm sorry, Lucy. I'll never turn my phone off again.” He meant it. He was now the sole parent. He edged closer to her, needing to make contact, craving the reassurance that he still had a family. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

She closed her eyes. “Nothing. I don't want anything.” She curled sideways and rolled facedown into her pillow. “I just want to be left alone.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off.

“Leave me alone. Please.” It was her politeness that killed him. She spoke to him as though he were a stranger.

His mother was right. His children needed help.

He hoped Elise's therapist would know what to do.

He left Lucy's room. There was nowhere to go but back downstairs.

The wood creaked under his weight.

Tuesday, 8:15 a.m.

F
og had moved in during the night. It settled over Halifax, warm and damp. Kate glimpsed mist sparkling on her hair as she rode the elevator up to MB's offices, then turned her face so she could not see her reflection in the mirrored wall. No need to be reminded of the deep circles and bloodshot eyes that had greeted her this morning.

Even the sleeping pill she took last night couldn't erase those. What the pharmaceutical companies really needed to do, she thought as she hurried down the corridor to her office, was create a sleeping pill that made you
look
rested, even if you didn't feel rested. Profits would soar.

Because she wanted to look good this morning. Damn good. She did not want Curtis Carey to think she'd lost one iota of sleep over him.

Even now, seventy-two hours later, her cheeks burned at how she'd treated him. She flipped open the Great Life file, flopping behind her desk, frowning furiously
at the independent medical expert's report on plaintiff Mike Naugler's injuries. Thank goodness she'd already gone through it yesterday with a fine-tooth comb, because the words swam in front of her eyes. She wouldn't have much to do today, anyway. The questions would be asked by Curtis, who would be poking around the medical expert's opinion to check its watertightness.

She glanced at her clock. The old battered silver travel clock ticked toward twenty to nine.
Showtime.
She grabbed her notepad, stacking it on the thick file folders in her arms, and headed to the boardroom.

Besides the discovery reporter, she was the first to arrive. Just as she planned. She lined up her notepad and pen, spreading out her files with the multicolored tabs. Cupping a coffee mug in her hand, she stared through the window. Gray.

“Kate.” Rachel, the new receptionist, stood in the doorway. “Dr. Mercer is here.” Her client's medical expert pushed through the doorway. Impeccably attired, with a look of self-importance on his face, he did nothing to reduce Kate's contempt. This guy was a hired gun; a doctor who didn't actually have his own practice but instead flew all over the country giving “expert opinions” to his insurance company clients.

The receptionist added, “Tom Werther from Great Life called.” She glanced down at the message in her beautifully manicured hand. “He says he became sick very suddenly and won't be able to attend the discovery.”

“He must have caught Nina Woods' bug,” Kate said, rising to her feet to greet her expert. “Dr. Mercer.” She held out her hand. “I've reviewed your report. Nina
Woods told me she'd already briefed you with the questions we expect will be asked by the plaintiff.”

“Yes, she did.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Where's the coffee?” He grinned. Kate forced herself to return his smile.

“Just over there. Help yourself.”

He turned to the back of the room where refreshments and pastries were set up on a credenza.

Relax, Kate. Whatever you do, don't let Curtis see that you dislike your own client.

Rachel knocked lightly. Curtis Carey ushered in plaintiff Mike Naugler. Both of them were damp, the fog giving Curtis' hair a slightly shaggy wave. His hair had been soft and thick, Kate remembered. Just as soft as the matting of hair on his chest. She remembered the low groan he'd made when he came.

She dropped her eyes to her notepad, her cheeks burning. What the hell was she thinking? She had mentally undressed the guy and had sex with him—and he'd only just arrived.

Curtis' eyes flickered over Kate. She prayed he wasn't doing what she'd just done. She gave him a quick nod then pointedly ran her pen along a paragraph as if Dr. Mercer's words were worthy of such attention.

The plaintiff glared at the good doctor, who sank his teeth into a glistening mound of jam in the center of a pastry. A dot of jam oozed out of the corner of his mouth.

“Ms. Lange.” Curtis gave Kate as brief a nod as humanly possible.

“Mr. Carey. Mr. Naugler. Good morning.” She rose
to her feet, the brisk hostess to this hostile proceeding. “Coffee and pastries are at the back. Please help yourself.”

Curtis walked to the coffee station without a word. There would be no dimples today.

 

Homicide unit sergeant Deb Ferguson had called in Ethan, Redding, Lamond and Warren for the first team meeting of the day. Lamond had stopped at Tim Hortons and bought everyone a double double.

“Did you get the toxicology report back yet?” Deb asked.

Redding shook his head. “The lab's backed up. Between the long weekend and summer vacations, they told me they wouldn't have anything until next Monday.”

Ethan stared at Redding, dismayed. “Vanderzell's parents keep calling.”

Redding shrugged. “She's gonna be on ice for a while. The lab told me the
earliest
would be next Monday. We wouldn't be able to release the body until Tuesday.”

“So what's the story with Nick Barrett?” Deb asked.

“He says he saw his father hit his mother with a blackjack—”

Lamond slapped his palm on the table.

Ethan raised a brow. “Easy on that coffee.”

Lamond grinned. “That's why the M.E. didn't see any lacerations on Vanderzell's head.”

Ethan nodded. “And then he dumped her over the balcony.”

“Why didn't the kid stop him?”

“He says he tripped over a flowerpot.” Ethan pulled
out a crime scene photo of a large urn. The stem of a geranium had been broken. “People have done stupider things. He could be telling the truth. It was dark. He was in a strange house.”

“So he trips over the pot.”

“And when he looks up, he sees his father kill his mother.”

“So that's what he told you,” Deb said. “Lamond, what about the break-and-enter angle?”

Lamond threw a quick glance at Ethan, then flipped open his notepad. “The neighborhood had been hit with two B and E's in the past ten days. Same M.O.—someone popped a patio door off its runners, grabbed whatever was in sight and ran off before patrol could investigate.”

“How about Feldman's house? How did the intruder get in?”

Lamond blew out a breath. “There was no sign of forced entry. No fingerprints on windowsills, door frames, nothing.”

Deb arched a brow. “So how do you think the intruder got in?”

This was the moment Ethan was waiting for. “We think Barrett walked in.”

“You mean through the front door?”

“Yes. It was unlocked. We know Elise called him earlier. Maybe he told her to leave the door unlocked so he could slip in quietly and not wake the kids. He doesn't show. She's upset, takes a sleeping pill, forgets all about the door…”

“Got any evidence of that?”

“His prints are on the door, Deb.” Ethan tried not
to let his excitement show. “I know that he was in the house earlier, but we don't have anyone else's prints but his, the house cleaner's, Elise's and her kids'.”

Deb tapped a pen against her cheek. “Okay,” she said slowly. “But what if it was our neighborhood thief who wore gloves? He gets a surprise when he tries to steal the jewelry in the master bedroom.”

“There was no sign of struggle. Nothing had been gone through. Elise's purse was sitting on a table in the front hallway. Her wallet had one hundred and eighty dollars in cash in it.”

Deb glanced at Lamond. “Whaddya think?”

Lamond straightened. “I don't think the break and enters are connected. The M.O. is totally different. The guy who killed Elise was careful. Everything seemed planned out.”

Deb nodded, sipped her coffee. “So, Drake, you said that Nick Barrett told you his father turned around just after he dropped Vanderzell.”

Ethan cleared his throat. Deb was warming up to their theory. “Right.”

“Did his father see him?”

“Yes. He looked over his shoulder when he heard Nick trip.”

“Over his shoulder?” Deb put down her coffee. “You mean he had his back to the kid?”

This was where things got a little slippery. “Yes. But the kid swears it was his dad.”

“Why?”

“His build, hair color. He wore a stocking over his head, but Nick says he could see blond hair under it.”

“Ethan, it was dark. How could he tell?”

“The light from the kid's bedroom reaches the balcony. I checked.”

Deb shook her head. “I don't think this will stand up under cross-examination. Did he see what happened to the weapon?”

“No. He says his father ran away with it. Into the park.”

And the park, of course, bordered the Atlantic Ocean. The chances of locating the weapon were slim to none.

“Nothing Nick Barrett has told us would stand up in court,” Deb said.

“Come on, Deb. He was an eyewitness! That counts for something.”

“Not with the bad blood between them.” She pointed to the thick file folder with Nick Barrett's name on it. “Putting a kid with Nick's history on the stand is like giving a defense lawyer a license to kill. He'll be eaten alive.”

“He had a learning disability.”

“He also lied, cheated and stole.”

“But he doesn't have a record.”

“He doesn't have credibility, either.” Deb's gaze narrowed. “What makes you think Nick Barrett didn't do it himself? He tried killing his father. Maybe he hated his mother, too. There's a lot of insurance money when they both kick the bucket.”

Ethan shook his head. “I don't think he's motivated by money, Deb. The kid is devastated by his mother's death. He wanted vengeance. An eye for an eye.” He leaned forward. “It's the only motive that makes sense. He had no reason to kill his mother.”

“Except for money.”

“The kid had all the money he wanted.”

“Then why did he steal from his father?”

Why, indeed?
“I think he hated him. He was acting out.” Ethan flipped through the file. “Look, I have his employment records. He was a reliable employee. According to his sister, he used that money to pay back his father.”

“So he pretended to be a good boy. To deflect suspicion.”

Ethan stared at his notes, frustrated. The team played devil's advocate all the time—they had to, to figure out motives and leads. But right now, Deb's skepticism was pissing him off.

“Look, I interviewed the kid with Tabby. She thought the same thing as me. Randall Barrett did it.”

Deb exhaled. “Ethan, we need more than this.”

Ethan's mind raced. What more could they get? They had no weapon. They had only one eyewitness. As much as he disliked what Deb was telling him, he knew she was right. “I'll give Vanderzell's therapist another call. See if I can get more out of him.”

“Good.” Deb looked at the rest of the team. “Redding, I want you to conduct another canvass with Lamond, see if anyone has seen a man matching the description Nick Barrett gave. Warren, we need to mobilize a K-9 Unit and search for the weapon in the park.” She grinned. “I've been known to get lucky at blackjack.”