[Kate Lange 01.0] Damaged

by Pamela Callow

  She turned and faced him. He looked all business, his dark suit and midnight-blue tie bringing out his European good looks. Longing stabbed through her in jagged thrusts. She still wanted him. And that was the worst.

  “We need to talk,” he said. Alarm bells went off in Kate’s head. He’d shown up at her house on Friday night, saying the same thing. And then had thrown one accusation after another at her.

  She wasn’t going to let him do that again. Offense was the best defense when it came to the way he made her feel. “The only thing I want to talk about is why you threw me to the wolves,” she said curtly.

  “The wolves?” Surprise, then guilt, swept through his eyes.

  “Yes. The wolves. How do you think I felt, being ambushed by your team and knowing full well you could have called me but you didn’t? Especially after I’d called you about Lisa MacAdam!” That had really hurt.

  His face tightened.

  Good. She’d pissed him off.

  “Why didn’t you call me about the intruder you reported last Friday night?” he shot back.

  She stared at him. “Because you’d just finished accusing me of lying to you. Remember?”

  A flush rose in his neck.

  Her temples throbbed. She wanted to go home and bury her face in Alaska’s fur. “I need to go.”

  “Wait. I need some information.”

  Her heart sank. “I can’t help you.”

  “I think you can. I need to know if Marian MacAdam told you anything that would give Judge Carson a motive for murder.”

  Gooseflesh shivered down her arms. “You think Judge Carson killed Lisa?” She rubbed her arms reflexively, stunned by his question.

  “She is on my list of suspects.”

  “But why?” How could Judge Carson commit such a horrible crime to her own child? She was so shocked by Ethan’s accusation that she didn’t see the trap he set for her.

  “That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me.”

  The headache tightened into a band around her skull. “Solicitor-client privilege prevents me from saying anything, Ethan,” she said softly. She searched his face for understanding. All she saw was a man who’d had too little sleep and enough disappointment this week to etch lines around his generous mouth. “You’d have to ask Marian MacAdam.”

  “I already asked her. She couldn’t tell me much except that you felt she didn’t have a good case for custody. I want to know why.”

  “I can’t disclose the details.” The lambs frolicking on the wall behind Ethan’s head had an alarming perkiness. Too white, too fluffy, too innocent of the wolf at the end of the path.

  He didn’t bother to hide his frustration. “Were you influenced by the fact that Lisa’s mother was Judge Carson?”

  “No.”

  “Then why didn’t you call Child Protection?” The question came swiftly and with the unerring aim of a snakebite. “You have a statutory duty.”

  “I know that.” She glared at him. “I didn’t think at the time there was evidence that Lisa was endangering herself.”

  “Child Protection doesn’t think so.”

  “What, exactly, is your point, Ethan?” His ruthless attack and her own guilt fanned her anger. “You know damned well I can’t disclose anything. I did the best I could.”

  His lips tightened. “A girl died.” He added softly, “I’m not convinced she had to.”

  She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. “You think I’m to blame?”

  “Do you?”

  The lambs froze on the wall.

  “You bastard.” She spat the words. “You are so fucking sanctimonious. You believe the worst of everybody.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes. It is.” She felt the anger and hurt spilling free. She relished it. “I made some terrible mistakes in my life and I pay for them every single day, Ethan. Every. Single. Day. I don’t need you to be my judge and jury.”

  “I’m not trying to be.”

  “You treat me like I’m a suspect.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “You interrogate me as if I’ve committed a crime.”

  “I was giving you a chance to make amends, Kate.”

  “Make amends?” She was not going to stand there and let him heap more guilt on her. “You fucking bastard!”

  She pushed past him. He grabbed her arm. His fingers were hard. “I’m not done with you.”

  She looked at his face. It was hard. Angry. Bitter. As if he wanted her to pay. And she knew this wasn’t about Lisa. This was about them.

  “Let go of me!” She wrenched her arm.

  He grabbed her other arm and pulled her to him. “I’m not done yet.” His mouth ground against her jaw, seeking her lips.

  She twisted her face away. “Ethan, stop it!” She pushed her hands against his chest. “Let go of me or…I’ll scream!” Jesus. Couldn’t she do better than that?

  “Please, Kate.” His voice sank into a whisper. “Please.”

  She heard his pain. Her own pain, clawing her now, overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes. Allowed herself to feel his chest against hers. His hands loosened their hold on her arms. His lips softened. All she was aware of was their warmth sliding along her jaw. Seeking her mouth.

  Her breath caught between her lips, moist and suddenly desperate to feel his mouth on hers. Desperate for the sure oblivion they would provide.

  His hands slid around her waist, pulling her closer.

  She could not do this anymore.

  She could not ignore everything that was wrong about them for momentary oblivion.

  She stiffened.

  “No, Kate,” he whispered. “Don’t.”

  “Ethan, please,” she said, pushing him away. He resisted for a moment. But when she pulled back, his hands fell. “Don’t do this.”

  He half turned from her. Breathed deeply. Ran his hands through his hair, then turned back to her.

  “I don’t know what happened there.” No apology, Kate noted. She knew what happened. He wanted to make her pay. In the currency he knew would cost her the most.

  He shoved his hand through his hair again. “We need to catch Lisa’s killer. Make her pay for what she did to her.”

  Lisa’s face, twisted in agony, flashed through Kate’s mind. She closed her eyes. Her heart raced. Pain and guilt swamped her. She forced herself to breathe slowly.

  “If you could tell me what you know about Judge Carson’s behavior toward Lisa…”

  She hugged her arms. “I don’t know anything. That’s the truth.”

  “Can I see your notes? There might be something in them.” Something you missed. He didn’t need to say the words. But they both knew it.

  She tried to remember her meeting with Marian MacAdam. It hadn’t seemed to yield anything important. But she didn’t know what evidence the police had uncovered. Maybe there was something in her notes that would be the missing part of the equation. She stared at the lambs. They didn’t deserve to be butchered.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “You know I’ll be disbarred if this is ever revealed.”

  Ethan’s face softened. “I won’t tell a soul.” He reached out to touch her arm. Then stopped when he saw her pull back. His hand fell to his side. “Thank you.”

  She wasn’t ready to accept his gratitude. He’d hammered her too hard with her own conscience. He’d manipulated her as deftly as any of his suspects. And he’d tried to exact the steepest price he could from her: her dignity. “In return…”

  He stiffened. “In return?”

  She crossed her arms. “I need some information.”

  He hadn’t been expecting that. She’d boxed him just as neatly as he’d boxed her. And she could tell by the hardening of his gaze that he didn’t like that.

  “What is it?” His gaze was wary.

  She said softly, “Did Lisa suffer?”

  He let out a deep sigh. Whether it was relief that she wasn’t asking something that would jeopardize the investigation,
or whether it was from the knowledge her question brought, she didn’t know. “According to the M.E.’s report, she was drugged. Then strangled. The dismemberment came afterward.”

  “So did she suffer?” Every part of her being was focused on him.

  “Probably very little.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. Her nausea swelled with relief.

  A cell phone rang.

  They both checked their pockets, an awkward silence descending between them. “It’s mine,” Ethan said, putting his phone to his ear. “Drake here.” He listened for a moment. “Right. I’m coming.” He slid it into his jacket. “I’ve been called in. Ferguson wants to go over the guest book and review the footage.”

  “The footage?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got security cameras on all the exit points. To see if we can get a visual on the killer.”

  “You think he was here?” A small shiver snaked across her scalp.

  Ethan nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

  She walked up the dim stairwell, aware of Ethan’s large frame behind her. Lamond opened the door for her. “Deb’s on her way, Ethan.”

  “Yeah, she called me.” Ethan turned to Kate, his voice low. “I need that package ASAP.”

  “I’ll get it for you tomorrow morning. Come to my house around ten.”

  “Thanks, Kate.” He infused a little warmth into his voice, but it didn’t penetrate her hurt. She’d seen the way he’d looked at her. She knew what he’d been thinking: first her sister, now Lisa. “You should go now.” He glanced over his shoulder. When he saw Deb approaching, he added under his breath, “We need to keep this between us.” He gave her a gentle push on the small of her back. “Pretend we just crossed paths. Take the main doors. Don’t look back.”

  She hurried into the vestibule. She didn’t stop until she’d gone through the double doors and felt the sun on her face. Ethan’s words echoed in her head. Don’t look back.

  The irony of it didn’t escape her. She’d spent her whole life trying to get ahead. But in the end, she was always looking back. She was always trying to outrun her mistakes.

  Chapter 18

  Sunday, May 6, 12:02 a.m.

  He got out of bed and padded into the living room. He’d had a good nap after the funeral. It had refreshed him.

  He grabbed a beer from the fridge. The funeral program sat on his coffee table. He picked it up and studied Lisa MacAdam’s face. It wasn’t a great picture of her; she’d looked better in the flesh.

  He closed his eyes, his finger lightly stroking her photo.

  The urge was back. Sooner than before. Much sooner. Normally after one of his nights out he’d be exhausted, moody, withdrawn. Happy to get back to his job and his routine.

  But not today. He took a long swig from the bottle.

  It was the funeral that did it. Seeing all those young girls. Young, firm bodies. Unlined skin, gleaming hair. Just like the dolls.

  He’d already gone through his six-year-old neighbor’s collection of dolls. At first, her mother would buy her a new one. And he’d steal that one, too. But her mother starting accusing her of being careless, and she stopped replacing them.

  He had to find more dolls to steal. He discovered it was quite easy at the local department store. No one suspected a seven-year-old boy would want a doll.

  After he’d finished with them, he’d burn their limbless bodies in the woods. He loved watching the synthetic hair curl and then fall off.

  The arms and legs he kept under his bed. In a shoebox. Every night before he went to bed he’d pull them out and stroke them under the cover of his sheets. The smooth plastic, pliable under his fingers, soothed him, helping to ease the loathing he felt for his mother. Until the next day.

  When he was older the limbs had a special purpose.

  A special pleasure.

  Then Tim found them.

  “You freakin’ weirdo,” Tim said, grabbing a handful.

  “No! D-D-Don’t!”

  His brother snickered. “If you can say it without stuttering, you can keep them.”

  That just made the stutter worse. And his brother knew it.

  He eyed his painstakingly assembled collection mashed in his brother’s fist. If he could just grab them…

  “Say it!” Tim commanded.

  He shook his head.

  His brother smacked him across the face with the plastic legs.

  It hurt. His cheek flamed pink.

  But it wasn’t the smarting of the blow that made him angry. It was the knowledge that his brother had used his only pleasure to inflict pain on him.

  Anger shot through him. “I-I-I’m g-g-g-g-gonna—”

  Tim laughed. “You gonna make me pay?” He began bending the limbs. “How? With your doll collection?”

  He threw the limbs on the floor and began jumping up and down on them. “Ooh, I’m so scared. Little brother’s dollies might get angry.” When the limbs were crushed to his satisfaction, Tim walked to the door. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  Then he left.

  He’d never stolen another doll again. Instead, he began hunting live specimens—rats, stray cats, raccoons. He worked on specimens for years, trying to develop his skills until he was ready for his ultimate dissection.

  His brother.

  Tim’s funeral was one of the happiest days of his life. His mother had wept, mourning the loss of her beloved first son, the genius of his pathetic family.

  There had to be sacrifice for genius. How many times had he heard that, as the family scrimped to pay for the extras that came with having a firstborn who was a prodigy.

  It would have been perfect. Except he wasn’t the firstborn.

  He had been an “accident.” His lips twisted. There were no accidents. There were just mistakes. And his mother didn’t like it when anyone else made them. She showed her displeasure in ways that he didn’t want to remember. His brother never had to worry about that. Everything Tim did came naturally. With ease, grace, precision.

  Everything he’d done had been the opposite. Except when he picked up a blade. It focused his energies, turned his clumsiness into smooth, deliberate motion until it was like an extension of his brain, his heart. His soul.

  His brother had finally seen the power in him.

  Had finally recognized his talent.

  Had finally seen that he was deserving of sacrifice, too.

  His brother just hadn’t realized that he was the sacrifice.

  Until it was too late.

  His pulse thudded with remembered pleasure. He never had to hear his brother’s laugh again.

  He finished his beer and wiped his mouth the back of his hand. Within minutes, he was dressed, briefcase in hand.

  He locked his apartment carefully. No one was allowed in it.

  He slipped into his car, putting his briefcase into the empty slot between the front seats.

  He was ready.

  * * *

  Ethan ran toward Serpentine Hill, pacing himself, relishing the fact it was Sunday morning and he could do a longer run. Point Pleasant Park was wet today. A torrential rainfall last night had eradicated the weak sun that shone at Lisa’s funeral.

  The air was incredibly fresh. A damp breeze cooled him down. He needed it. He’d been running for the past hour, ruthlessly pushing his body through the last ten Ks. Frustration still thrummed through him. He’d been sure they’d get a lead on the killer at Lisa’s funeral. But everyone who attended had checked out: Lisa’s friends, Judge Carson’s colleagues and neighbors, lawyers, the funeral employees, the media.

  And then there was Kate. Seeing her had totally thrown him off. He’d been trying to focus on the job. And then she’d arrived. He’d never felt so confused in his life. Everything was usually clear-cut. Black or white, blue or yellow, but not a fucking kaleidoscope. That’s what Kate did to him. She mixed everything up until he wasn’t sure what color he was seeing, what emotion he was feeling.

  He turned up Serpentine Hill. It was a ste
ep, windy path that cleared his head like nothing else. The first time he saw Kate, he’d turned up this hill, not suspecting that his life would change that instant. One look into those amber eyes and he was a goner. She just pulled him in deeper and deeper until he felt as if their souls were touching.

  That’s what he’d tried to recapture yesterday. It had shocked him, his impulsive grab of her.

  But she’d tried walking away.

  And it was one time too many.

  Not when her client’s granddaughter had been brutally murdered. Kate hadn’t seen Lisa’s body on the gurney in the morgue. He had. And he didn’t think he’d ever forget it.

  And when he held Kate against him, felt her breasts push against his chest, her rapid breath moistening his cheek, his pain erupted. He wanted to grind his mouth into hers, push her against the wall and lose himself in the sweet nirvana he knew she could give him. He needed something to remind him of all that was good and hopeful when every day he faced evil and hopelessness.

  He was just one guy trying to draw a line to protect the innocent. And when he failed to protect them, all he could do was solve the crime and make the perpetrator pay. An eye for an eye.

  And that didn’t mean he believed the worst about everybody. Kate was wrong about that. He didn’t. Not yet. He’d believed the best about her. What really hurt—and if he was honest with himself, what really scared him—was that his gut had been so wrong about her. That knowledge had eaten away at him for the past five months.

  Now he felt a lightening. She’d pushed him away but she’d also made a promise to him. She was willing to put herself on the line to redeem herself. To redeem her profession. To redeem his belief about her.

  He glanced at his watch: 8:57 a.m. Kate had told him to meet her at her house at 10:00 a.m. She’d have the notes for him to read.

  The kaleidoscope was shifting into focus. The hill had done its job. It began to level off. He didn’t slow down; he didn’t try to catch his breath.

  * * *

  “Randall Barrett.” He uttered his name automatically, wondering who on earth could be calling him this early on a Sunday morning—at his office, no less.