The next thing he saw were red-and-blue lights, flashing and bobbing next to him. A siren blaring, then his name shouted through a bullhorn. It was the police. They were on a boat.
He’d slowed down his yacht, afraid he would vomit. Two police officers boarded his boat, smelling the alcohol that wafted off him. They’d informed him that Elise was dead and that they would like him to come to the station for questioning. He’d realized that they weren’t going to bother arresting him for a DUI—there was much more at stake than to worry about a charge like that. But he was sure it would be duly noted.
And used against him if necessary.
It was interesting what light could do to a crack.
Nick stared at the ceiling. The crack ran almost the length of his bed. The moon illuminated it. He’d been staring at the crack for a long time. Hours, in fact. He’d been dozing lightly, his anger dissipating into an exhaustion that weighed his limbs but couldn’t fully silence his mind.
The creak of his grandmother’s hundred-year-old front door jolted his body awake. Then he heard the murmur of his grandmother’s voice and his father’s, and his anger surged from its uneasy rest.
The crack looked like a fuse. He was at the skinny end. His father was at the other end where some of the ceiling had crumbled. It looked as if it had been smashed with something.
He visualized his father on that smashed ceiling. His face smashed. His body smashed. His life smashed.
Just as his father had smashed his mother’s head with a club only five hours before.
17
Saturday, 7:15 a.m.
In Kate’s half doze, the ringing phone morphed into an elevator chime. She bolted up in bed, her heart frantically trying to flee.
The phone rang again. Her head throbbed. God al mighty. She could not drink ever again. Soft snoring re minded her she was not alone. She threw a quick glance at Curtis, then squinted at the caller ID.
She didn’t recognize the number.
Daylight picked its way daintily through her blinds, illuminating corners with a false cheeriness that had seemed ominous and dangerous only hours ago.
Curtis opened an eye, gave her a questioning smile. Who’s calling you at this hour in the morning? his one open eye asked.
She raised her eyebrows and snatched the receiver. “Hello?” Her voice, she was pleased to note, had not croaked despite her parched throat and aching head.
There was a hesitation. “Kate?”
At the sound of Randall Barrett’s voice, Kate’s headache intensified a hundredfold.
Why in the world was the managing partner calling her at seven on a Saturday morning?
And wait. Wasn’t he supposed to be on a sailing trip with his son?
Curtis had opened his other eye and now his gaze was fixed on her face. A flush rose in her chest.
Why, after all these months of silence, was Randall Barrett calling her early on a Saturday morning when she was naked with a strange man in her bed? She shook her head at the gods of the universe. She could not lie next to Curtis while talking to Randall. It just seemed…wrong.
She threw her legs over the side of the bed. Everything wobbled, then shifted into place. Alaska nosed her hand. “Is everything okay?” she asked Randall in a low voice.
Another pause. “Why do you say that?”
As cagey as always. Her tone sharpened. “It’s a bit unusual for you to call me at seven in the morning.”
Randall cleared his throat. Something was going on. “I need to ask a favor.”
She had to admit to being annoyingly flattered that he would turn to her for a favor, but she was also surprised. Why not a friend? Or another partner? “Of course.”
“My dog, Charlie, is in her crate at home. My mother was supposed to go over this morning to take care of her while my son and I went on our sailing trip, but—” His voice choked off. What the hell?
“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice low.
Curtis sat up and edged along the bed toward her. As if he had a right to be part of what was clearly becoming an intimate exchange. His presence was so suffocating that she forced herself to not hunch her shoulders away from him.
Randall cleared his throat. “My wife—I mean, my ex-wife—died last night.”
Kate’s breath caught. “I’m so sorry, Randall. What happened? Was she in a car accident?”
“No. She fell. Off a balcony. My kids found her.”
Kate closed her eyes. “Oh, God.”
“It’s been a tough night for them. And it will be an even tougher day. The police want us to give statements.” His tone became brisk. “Could you go feed Charlie for me? She’s very friendly. I don’t think she’ll give you any trouble.”
“Of course.”
“I have a spare key in my office. It’s in my left desk drawer.”
“I’ll go right now.”
After telling Kate how to disarm his alarm system, Randall hung up.
Kate put down the phone, her mind whirling.
“Bad news?” Curtis asked.
“Yes.” At his inquiring look, she added, “My boss’ ex-wife died last night.”
He stared at her. “You mean Randall Barrett’s ex-wife?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus. That’s terrible.”
“Yes.” She stood, yanking the crumpled throw around her. “I need to go get his dog.”
“His dog?” The shock in his gray gaze had been replaced with…what?
She didn’t have time to worry about it. “Yes. He left the dog alone last night. He was supposed to go on a sailing trip today, so he thought his mother would be picking the dog up this morning, but it turns out they all have to go to the police station to give statements.”
She walked toward the shower, but Curtis’ next question stopped her cold.
“The police station? Why, was she murdered?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “All I know is that his dog is waiting for me.”
Her tone would have given a much less intelligent man than Curtis the hint that it was time to put on his clothes and go.
Curtis’ jaw tightened. Kate felt a pang of remorse. She’d hurt his feelings.
But she hadn’t liked that look of salacious curiosity in his gaze when he questioned her about Randall’s ex-wife.
“Thanks for everything,” Curtis said. The way he said it could have easily meant “thanks for nothing.”
“Curtis…” Kate exhaled. “I’m sorry. About last night. I want you to know how much I appreciated you staying with me.”
He pulled on his pants. “Glad to be of service.”
Ouch. She hurried over to him, put her hand on his arm. “Please don’t be angry with me.”
“I’m not.” But his eyes told the truth. Curtis had sensed that Randall’s phone call had put everything they had shared clean out of her mind. Not something easily swallowed by an alpha male like Curtis. He gave her a tight smile. The dimple refused to appear. “See you Tuesday.”
“See you Tuesday,” Kate echoed. He left, just as Kate wanted. She resisted the urge to run after him.
She’d treated him badly.
But she didn’t know what she could have done differently.
The scalding water she stood under when she took her shower was a small attempt at self-flagellation, but she shouldn’t have bothered. Her mind, as always, delivered a much more potent dose of self-punishment than her body could ever produce.
As she went through the motions of removing all traces of her evening with Curtis, her mind taunted her.
Had Randall’s ex-wife come to Halifax to reconcile?
Was that why Randall had been so aloof since Kate had returned to work in June?
She scrubbed the conditioner out of her hair with more vigor than was required. Only here, in the privacy of her burning hot shower, would she admit that she was hurt.
There had been something between her and Randall after the TransTissu
e debacle, she knew that.
What she hadn’t known was why he was keeping his distance.
She had assumed it was because of the inappropriateness of their attraction. She was grateful for his restraint, she’d told herself as days passed—and then weeks—and there had been little or no contact between them.
But if she was honest with herself, it hurt.
Man, she was screwed. How could she feel jealous of his ex-wife when she’d died in the prime of her life and left two grieving children?
And, without any doubt, a grieving ex-husband?
She turned the water onto the cold setting and stood there until her body was numb.
Only then did she feel she could face the day.
18
Saturday, 8:25 a.m.
Alaska’s tail went up as soon as Kate opened the car door. He hopped out, sniffing the grass edging Randall’s driveway. “Come on, boy,” Kate said, tugging his leash. She hurried up the walkway to Randall’s house, looping Alaska’s leash around a column by the front porch. Alaska watched her, his ears pricked. What about our walk? his eyes asked.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get it.” Kate rubbed his ears, then slipped Randall’s house key from her pocket. “We’re not too far from the park.”
Randall lived in the deep south end, an exclusive and expensive area of Halifax, close to Point Pleasant Park. But if his neighborhood didn’t surprise her, the house did. She was expecting something modern and severely stylish in its aesthetic. It was modern, but not severe. The glass-and-wood exterior sported unpainted shingles weathered to a silver-gray. Lush green foliage, orange and yellow daylilies and a Chinese dogwood flanked the stone path to the front porch. The main door was glass. When Kate peered into it, she could see all the way through the house to the back garden.
She unlocked the door, noting how easy it was to turn in comparison to her old, uneven lock, and disarmed the security system with the code Randall had given her.
A dog whined. She hurried into the kitchen. Charlie was in her crate, her ears erect at the stranger. She barked. Kate smiled at the dog, murmuring encouraging words as she bent down and unlocked the Lab’s crate. The dog stepped out hesitantly. Kate held out her hand, letting Charlie sniff her. She knew she’d have Alaska’s scent on her, which would intrigue the dog. She pulled out a biscuit from her pocket, blessing the Lab for being so trusting, and watched her enjoy the treat. Then Charlie gamboled out into the back garden.
It was definitely a garden. No, it was more than that. It was a respite, a work of art. A sanctuary.
Kate had not intended to follow the dog outside, but when she glimpsed the landscaping, she couldn’t resist exploring. A path curved under a large arbor covered in grapevines. She marveled at the mature hostas, lilies, roses, echinacea and bee balm. A faint scent of lavender grew stronger as she neared the stone patio. Comfortable-looking garden furniture sat in a patch of early morning sun. Kate imagined Randall lounging there on a Sunday morning, reading his paper with Charlie at his feet.
She pushed the image away. It seemed too intimate. And intrusive, given what was happening in Randall’s life right now. She looked around for Charlie. The dog squatted in a patch behind the stone wall and then trotted toward her.
Kate was impressed. She never knew when Alaska would obey her commands. Maybe Labs were just born obedient, she thought.
“Time for brekkie,” she told the dog. Charlie ran back into Randall’s spacious kitchen, Kate hurrying behind her. The kitchen was everything she wanted and could never afford: a large stone-topped island, bleached wooden cabinets that had room to spare.
On the walls hung a series of paintings in deep blues, grays and white. They were stunning—abstract and yet with enough form to discern that the paintings represented the ocean in its infinite moods. Kate peered at the signature. P. Barrett. Someone in Randall’s family was talented.
Charlie stood by her food bowl. For the life of her, Kate couldn’t remember if Randall had told her where to find the dog’s food. So she opened the stainless steel fridge, scanning the shelves. It only took her seconds to realize that all the perishables had been cleared out in anticipation of Randall’s sailing trip. Just condiments remained. Her mouth quirked at the jar of caviar, the specialty relishes, the Thai fish sauce, the designer barbecue marinades. An oversize bottle of ketchup—almost empty—clownishly towered next to a half-opened bottle of wine with a label that Kate didn’t recognize but guessed was very expensive.
It looked like an upscale version of her own fridge.
Feeling like a snoop, she opened all the cupboards, secretly fascinated by her glimpses of Randall’s simple white china, his cut-glass crystal wineglasses that she guessed were individually hand-blown by Nova Scotia Crystal and the gleaming bottles of single-malt scotch. After investigating the pantry with no luck, she found Charlie’s kibble in a custom-built pull-out drawer next to the dog’s bowl.
Hello, Kate. Welcome to the modern kitchen.
Carrying Charlie’s water bowl to the sink for a fill-up, Kate saw the first item out of place in Randall’s immaculate kitchen: a crystal glass holding the remnants of an amber liquid sat by the drain. She sniffed the glass. Scotch.
She put it back and filled up Charlie’s water bowl.
The phone rang, startling her so much that the water sloshed over her hand. “Damn!” she muttered, wiping her hand on her shorts. She searched the kitchen for the phone, discovering it on the wall by a cleverly inset computer desk. The phone rang again, insistent.
She hesitated. Should she answer it?
What if Randall was calling her?
She hurried over to the phone. “Hello?”
“Randall Barrett, please.”
Kate’s heart sank. She had an awful feeling she knew that voice. She just hoped the woman on the other end wouldn’t recognize hers.
“He’s not here. May I take a message?” Kate fumbled on the desk for a Post-it note and pen.
“It’s Nina Woods. With whom am I speaking, please?”
Kate almost groaned. She didn’t want to admit to Nina she was here, in the managing partner’s home, early on a Saturday morning. After he began vacation. It seemed way over the line.
“Uh…” She cleared her throat. “Nina, it’s Kate. Kate Lange. How are you feeling?”
Kate could tell that she’d shocked the partner. Nina’s voice was even brusquer than usual. “Better. What are you doing there?”
“Randall asked me to look after his dog.” So far, the truth. She hoped Nina was buying it.
There was a pause. McGrath Barrett’s newest partner was mulling over the mendacity of the statement. “How did the rest of the discovery go on Friday?”
“Fine. It wrapped up quickly.”
“Good. I want you to do Tuesday’s discovery. I’ve got some matters to handle.”
Kate’s headache returned full force. She swallowed. “You aren’t going to be there?”
“That’s right.” Kate closed her eyes. Just her and Curtis Carey going head to head. The thought made her sick. “Tom Werther thought you did a fine job.” There was a note of grudging respect in Nina’s voice. “And besides, you won’t be doing the questioning.”
“Sounds good.” Kate knew she should be pleased Nina trusted her enough to handle the discovery with one of Nina’s carefully cultivated clients, but she didn’t.
Nina paused. “I’m calling because I heard about Randall’s ex-wife. Where is he, by the way?”
“He’s at the police station. Giving a statement.”
“I see. Tell him to call me as soon as he comes home.” The phone clicked in Kate’s ear.
“O-kay,” Kate said, grimacing to the dog.
But the Lab wasn’t there.
Kate spun around. Charlie was not in the kitchen.
She checked the patio door. It was closed. The dog couldn’t have gotten outside.
Where was she?
She heard the faint jingle of dog tags.
Sounded as if they were coming from upstairs.
She began climbing the curving wood-and-metal stairwell leading to the upper level. It seemed to float between the two floors. Behind it, a multistoried window ran the full length of the house, showcasing a stunning view of the terraced garden.
“Charlie.” Although the stairs felt solid under her feet, she couldn’t escape the feeling that she was about to take flight. She wouldn’t want to walk down these stairs in the dark.
The tags jingled again.
The dog was definitely upstairs.
She glanced in each room as she hurried down the hallway. Two bedrooms, one decorated in royal blue and very masculine, the other in pale greens and soft blues, sat untouched, but ready for visitors. She guessed they were for Randall’s kids. Opposite them was a full bath with seaglass-colored tile, and an office, in burnt orange and cherrywood, lined with books, navigational charts and ancient maps.
A thump at the end of the hall announced Charlie’s whereabouts.
Darn. The dog was in Randall’s bedroom. It was one thing to look around his kitchen, it was another thing entirely to check out where he slept. Or made love to other women.
A flush warmed her chest as she walked into his bedroom. She hoped she wouldn’t see his underwear on his tallboy. But then wondered if he wore boxers or briefs.
Get a grip, Kate. You need more ibuprofen.
As she guessed, the dog was lying on the bed. A low, king-size platform bed, finished in ebony wood, it was spare. Manly. Incredibly comfortable looking. Creamy-white linens in Egyptian cotton, with a thread count that had to be written in exponents, looked crisp against a simple yet elegant headboard of ebony wood. In contrast, the deep rich nap of the chocolate duvet begged to be snuggled under. Kate eyed it, envious of the bliss it seemed to invite. She hadn’t gotten much, if any, sleep last night.
Charlie lay curled by Randall’s pillow. Her head rested on her paws.
“Come, Charlie.”
The dog lifted her head, one eye lazily surveying her.
“Here, girl.”
Charlie wagged her tail. Join me, she seemed to be saying. You know you want to.
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