Indefensible (24 page)

Wednesday, 10:01 a.m.

M
aybe he should just hop on a plane to Toronto and meet Elise's therapist face-to-face, Ethan thought. He might get more information out of him. Dr. Gainsford was his only chance right now. If Elise's therapist didn't give him something to work with, he could kiss his case against Randall Barrett goodbye.

But, he reminded himself, Dr. Gainsford had told him to call if he suspected Elise had been a victim of domestic abuse. After conducting a background check on the psychologist, Ethan understood why. He appeared to have a professional interest in domestic abuse. Throughout his relocations—he emigrated from South Africa, then worked in British Columbia and Nova Scotia before moving to Toronto—he maintained a steadfast interest in domestic abuse situations, volunteering for committees and board positions.

Ethan dialed Dr. Gainsford's number, scanning Elise's phone records. She'd spoken to the therapist regularly, at least two or three times a week. Sometimes every
day. Dr. Gainsford was a gold mine of information. If he wanted to share it.

Dr. Gainsford answered on the second ring. “Hello.”

“This is Detective Ethan Drake. I'm calling about the Elise Vanderzell investigation.”

“Yes? Have you determined her cause of death?”

“We believe she was murdered.”

Silence. Ethan had said those words too many times in his life, and in his experience the reactions boiled down to denial, grief, anger or shock. In Dr. Gainsford's case, it was shock. He was silent for a moment, then said, “Have you found her killer?”

“Not yet. That's why I'm calling.” Ethan added quickly, “We believe it's a case of domestic homicide.”

“Her ex-husband?”

“Yes.” Ethan hesitated. “Possibly her son, Nick Barrett.”

“Her son?” Dr. Gainsford sounded startled.

“Possibly. Did Elise Vanderzell ever indicate she was scared of Nick Barrett?”

“No.”

“Do you think her son was capable of killing her?”

“I never met her son. It would be a conflict for me to treat both the mother and the son. Based on what Ms. Vanderzell told me about Nick, his behavior was becoming more wanton and reckless. But no, I do not think he killed her.”

“Why not?”

“Because she told me she had a good relationship with her son. I fail to see a motive.”

Ethan leaned back in his chair. The doctor was
warming up, giving more information than he probably realized. Even better, Dr. Gainsford's professional assessment of Elise Vanderzell's son confirmed Ethan's gut instinct. Nick did not kill his mother. “How about her ex-husband?” Ethan asked. “Randall Barrett.”

A few pages rustled on Dr. Gainsford's end of the line. “You understand, Detective, that I've never met Randall Barrett.” The careful tone of the doctor's voice and his cautionary preamble made Ethan straighten. These were the words witnesses used when they knew what they were about to say would land a suspect in hot water. “I'm just checking my notes…”

Ethan heard paper flipping, then a deep inhale of breath.

What had Dr. Gainsford just read that caused his reaction? Ethan needed those notes. He needed to see what words were used, the sequence of events, the chronicle of Elise's relationship with her ex-husband through his own eyes, not through the eyes of a therapist.

“You realize that these are Elise's perceptions, Detective,” Dr. Gainsford began in the same cautionary tone.

“Yes, I understand. What did she say? Was she scared of him? Had he ever threatened her?”

Dr. Gainsford sighed. “I'm afraid so. In fact, looking at my notes, I can see an escalation of anxiety about her ex-husband, and a few indications of fear.”

“Recently?”

“Yes. In fact, her concerns escalated after her—” Dr. Gainsford stopped himself.

“Abortion? We know about it, Doctor. From the autopsy.”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

“Did she express any concerns the night she died?” Ethan glanced down at his notes. “When we spoke on Sunday, you told me she'd called you after she fought with her ex-husband. Did he threaten her?”

“Not in words. But he was very angry. She told me she'd never seen him so angry before.”

“Did you give her any advice?”

“I suggested she take a sleeping pill. She'd slept poorly since her procedure and I felt she'd be able to handle things better if she had a good night's sleep.”

So far, everything Dr. Gainsford told him lined up neatly with their findings. Just one last question.

“Can you think of anyone else who might have had a reason to kill Elise Vanderzell?” Ethan asked.

“No. I cannot.”

Neither could Ethan. But what Dr. Gainsford told him wasn't any use without the documentary proof. Ethan needed the therapy notes.

“Dr. Gainsford, we need evidence to substantiate our suspicions about Randall Barrett. Your notes would help establish Randall Barrett as a key suspect, and could go a long way to ensuring that men like Barrett who are abusers do not remain above the law. Now, we could get a warrant for your notes, or…”

“Are my notes that critical to your case?”

Ethan closed his eyes. He wished he had a different answer, but he didn't. “Yes.”

“I see.” Dr. Gainsford exhaled. “I've seen too many women whose husbands get away with hurting them,” he murmured. “Fine. Take the notes. But make sure you bring Randall Barrett to justice. I'll send them by
courier tonight. If you need me to clarify anything, you can reach me on my cell phone.”

Ethan laid his head back against his chair. “Thank you, Doctor. I'm sure Elise Vanderzell would be glad to know that her killer will be brought to justice.”

 

As soon as the detective hung up, Jamie Gainsford pulled out the file folder containing the session notes for Elise Vanderzell. He read through them carefully. Then read them again.

They were in order.

He placed the notes in an envelope for overnight delivery, addressing it to the attention of Detective Ethan Drake. Then he called the courier.

His heart pounded.

He couldn't believe how everything was falling into place.

His fingers inched toward his laptop before he even realized it. He glanced at his watch. His next client wasn't due for another eight minutes.

He had just enough time—

No. He needed to calm down before the session.

Goddamn it, what difference did it make now if he hadn't prepared for his client's session? He would never see this client—or any of them—again.

The envelope had changed all that. As soon as Detective Drake received the notes, the next phase of his plan would be put into motion.

There was no going back now.

Excitement, pain, desire flashed through him.

His fingers trembled as he struck the touch pad on his laptop. The beach-and-tropical-ocean screen saver
melted away to reveal the
Halifax Post
's photo of the anguished face of a girl. A girl who had haunted his dreams for the past four months.

Lucy Barrett.

Soon he would see her in the flesh.

Wednesday, 11:15 a.m.

U
ntil Randall stepped foot in Bent and Associates, he had never seen a legal practice like it. If his firm interacted with lawyers from small firms, those lawyers always came to the big office buildings that oozed space and endless gourmet coffee for meetings.

His first impression was that the historic building housing Eddie's practice was quite nice, with exposed wooden beams and unfinished brick walls. Simple IKEA-style tables and chairs dotted the main lobby area. But there was no receptionist. That was his first clue that Eddie Bent ran a shoestring practice.

His second clue came from the chalkboard on the side wall. AUGUST was written in block letters along the top, with office numbers listed beneath, and their occupants written in chalk.

Chalk?

Then he got it. Bent and Associates, Office Number 3, Randall's last—and only—bastion for legal representa
tion, rented its office space on a month-to-month basis in an office commune.

His spirits sinking, he walked slowly to Eddie's office. He wondered, for the third time in the past hour, if he should have called first. But every time he tried to imagine that phone call, he knew he couldn't make it. He needed to see his old friend face-to-face.

He knocked on the door. Eddie's gravelly voice called, “Come in.”

They hadn't seen each other for several years. Not since Bent bottomed out. Now they surveyed each other's battered faces: Randall's, by his son; Eddie's, by his booze. Neither of them commented on the changes their lives had wrought.

Nor did Eddie express any surprise or delight at Randall's appearance on his doorstep. “Have they charged you yet?” He settled himself behind his desk. The old building had real windows, and the large window behind Eddie's desk was open about six inches. A breeze stirred the ashes in the ashtray on the windowsill, sifting a fine layer of ash onto Eddie's thick black hair.

Randall relaxed into the chair opposite his old school friend. Eddie looked older than his years, his face sagging, his gut bigger than it used to be. The puffy pouches of skin under his eyes were new. But his eyes remained the same: shrewd and nonjudgmental.

That's why he trusted Eddie; there was no bullshitting with him. He knew that Eddie, like the rest of Halifax's residents, could not have missed the media reports about Elise's death and the police's suspicions about Randall's involvement.

“No. But I think it's imminent.” He told Eddie about Nick.

“Jesus. But they haven't found the weapon?”

“I don't think so.”

Eddie tapped a cigarette out of a crumpled pack in his drawer. He rose to his feet and leaned his bulky frame against the windowsill, cupping his hand protectively around the cigarette as he lit it. He stared at the building opposite him, inhaling deeply, then slowly blew the smoke through the open window.

“Randall, I want to help you, but…”

Not you, too, Eddie.
Randall's fingers clenched. He'd really thought Eddie was different from his partners.

“But I can't. I'm sorry.”

“Why not? I'll pay you up front.”

“It's not the money, although God knows I need it. The problem is that the bar society is suspending me. Again.” He flicked the ash off his cigarette. “Nonpayment of fees. I couldn't afford the insurance.”

“How can you rent office space, then?”

“My sister-in-law owns the building. Said I could borrow the space and pay her back later.”

“Why bother to come to the office if you can't practice?”

Eddie gave him a wry smile. “Beats sitting at home fighting my demons.”

“How much money do you need?”

“At least five grand.”

“I'll lend it to you.”

“But they won't reinstate me right away, Randall. This is the second time I've done this. The suspension is part of the knuckle rap. I have to pay and repent.”

“Shit.”

Randall closed his eyes. He wanted Eddie to represent him. No. He
needed
Eddie. Eddie was the best criminal defense lawyer east of Montreal until he drank his career away. Now he was sober. And he had Randall's back.

The only other person who had his back was Kate.

Eddie blew a smoke ring out the window.

Randall watched it dissipate into the air. Kate had said to ask if he needed help.

Well, he needed help. He leaned forward. “What if you worked with one of my associates? You could do the behind-the-scenes stuff. She could front you in court.”

Eddie shot him a look. Randall couldn't read it. “She'd have to be absolutely trustworthy, Randall. I won't work with some junior who is trying to make a name for herself.”

“She's trustworthy.”

“Does she work for you?”

“Yes.” A slight flush burned his face. He hoped his bruises hid them from Eddie's assessing gaze.

“From what I hear, your firm wants you out, Randall. Are you sure she isn't on their side?”

“She's not.”

“But they'll make life difficult for her if she takes you on as a client. They're trying to maintain a distance from you.”

Damn.
Eddie was right. Randall slumped back in the chair.

“What's her name, anyway?” Eddie tapped his cigarette against the edge of the windowsill, an auto
matic gesture. Randall wondered if some unsuspecting pedestrian was about to get showered in ash.

“Kate Lange.”

Eddie's gaze narrowed. Randall expected him to make some comment about TransTissue or about Kate killing the serial killer. Instead, he asked, “Is she the daughter of Dick Lange?”

And then Randall remembered. “You defended him, didn't you?”

Eddie nodded. He dragged on his cigarette ruminatively. “Yes.” He blew the smoke into the room, forgetting to exhale out the window. He waved a hand hurriedly. “Shit.”

Then he peered through the haze at Randall. “Do you think she'll help you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because she's been through too much not to.”

Eddie raised a brow. “Even if it means putting her career at stake?”

“Yes.” Randall stood. “But that's precisely why I won't ask her.”

Eddie shrugged. “If Nina Woods gets her way, you're not going to be Ms. Lange's boss for much longer.” Randall wondered how on earth Eddie, sitting at his empty desk in his one-room legal practice, could know about Nina's machinations several blocks away in MB's glass-and-steel tower. “I think you should let Ms. Lange decide for herself.”