Indefensible

by Pamela Callow

  Kate gave the dog a wry smile. “You don’t realize what you’re asking.” She deliberately turned her back to the bed. It was too unsettling. Too tempting. She wasn’t Goldilocks.

  She scanned the room, waiting for her breathing to slow down. Near invisible blinds hung from the back windows. They were open, and sun streamed early morning warmth onto the cream walls.

  She turned—and gasped at the sight of a woman standing in the corner, eyes glinting at her.

  It was her reflection in the mirror. “You are really going cuckoo, Kate,” she muttered. But she couldn’t resist glancing back at herself. The scar on her thigh looked as bad at a distance as it did up close, so she quickly moved her gaze upward. Her face was drawn, not what one would hope after spending a night with a guy like Curtis. The only glow she could claim was the nervous sweat she’d broken into when she walked into this room. Nice. Just the way she wanted to look in Randall’s bedroom. At least her butt looked good.

  Fortunately, Randall would never know she was in here unless—

  She spun around, eyes searching the corners of the ceiling. Please don’t have security cameras in here, she prayed.

  She exhaled in relief. Randall’s room did not have cameras—and as rational thought overrode her guilty conscience, she realized how weird it would be to have security cameras in your bedroom, although Randall’s room did have a lot of high-tech entertainment equipment. A massive built-in wall unit housed the requisite large-screen plasma TV. Under it sat a sophisticated stereo system. She was sure the whole room was wired for sound, high speed and whatever else divorced managing partners of boutique law firms liked to play with when they drowsed in their king-size platform beds.

  She waited for a beautifully modulated woman’s voice to speak from some hidden computer and ask her for a drink order. Like in Star Trek.

  She shook her head. Alaska is waiting for his walk.

  She turned to Randall’s dog. “Right,” she said, her voice brisk, striding toward the bed. “Time to go, Charlie.”

  The dog breathed a deep, shuddering inhale of pleasure, rubbing her nose against Randall’s pillow. Kate wondered if Randall’s sheets smelled like him.

  Time to go, Kate.

  The dog wagged her tail again. Come on, she seemed to be saying, why fight it?

  The phone rang. Kate jumped, her usual startle reaction compounded by her guilty conscience. She felt as if she’d been caught red-handed. Standing in Randall’s bedroom. Wondering about his underwear, his sheets.

  Her cheeks flushed.

  The phone rang again. Could it be Randall?

  And where, in his technologically advanced bedroom, was his phone? It rang again. Close to Kate.

  She lifted the pile of magazines that were stacked haphazardly on the side table. They revealed a crystal tumbler sitting in a ring of liquid, but no phone.

  Then she saw the cradle for the phone, hidden under a guidebook titled Exploring Nova Scotia’s Waterways.

  But no phone receiver.

  The phone stopped ringing.

  Damn, it must have gone to voice mail.

  Charlie stretched and Kate saw the phone receiver, lying half under a pillow, as if it had been thrown there.

  What if Randall had been trying to reach her? She picked up the phone. Maybe he had left a message on voice mail.

  Seven missed calls, the call display informed her.

  Should she check his messages?

  No. She couldn’t violate his privacy like that.

  Glad to see you have some standards, Kate, after snooping through his kitchen and checking out his bedroom.

  Seven missed calls.

  But what if he had called her? She could just check the caller list. If one of the callers was Randall, she’d listen to that message.

  She skipped through the phone numbers. The first one had a Toronto area code. The second one was a different number with a Toronto area code. The same person then called two more times. The rest of the numbers were local calls. But none of them were Randall’s cell phone number.

  So he had not tried to reach her. But it looked as if his family had been trying to reach him.

  Kate returned the phone to the cradle. She picked up the crystal tumbler, leaning over to wipe the ring left by the scotch with the edge of her T-shirt.

  Her gaze fell on a double photo frame housing pictures of Randall with a boy and a younger girl. They were in the cockpit of a boat. Blue water shimmered behind them. Judging by the kids’ ages, the photos were taken when Randall still lived in Toronto. The daughter was stunning, wide blue eyes, thick blond hair, beautiful bone structure. She looked oddly familiar. The son definitely had his father’s genes. But not his confidence. His shoulders were tense, his eyes wary.

  Randall was tanned in the photo, his daughter leaning against his shoulder. But his eyes appeared strained.

  Kate wondered if the person who took the photos was the fourth member of that seemingly happy family: the faceless and now dead Elise. Her infidelity had been lovingly described in the Halifax gossip rag when Randall moved here. It was perfect tabloid fodder: the unfaithful wife who betrayed her charismatic husband. Had Elise been a good mother even if she hadn’t been a good wife?

  Was she blond like her husband? Or a dark, striking beauty? There was no doubt in her mind that a man like Randall would have a wife who was as attractive as he.

  “Come on, Charlie. It’s time for a walk.” Something in Kate’s tone of voice must have conveyed she meant business, because the dog jumped to the floor.

  Kate found the leash hanging on a hook by the side entrance and put it on the dog’s collar, leading her to where she’d tied Alaska out front. The husky greeted them both with a low whine. Here was the moment of truth: Would the two dogs get along enough that she could run them together?

  After a generous amount of sniffing, they seemed to accept one another. She shoved several poop bags into the waistband of her running shorts and began warming up her thigh.

  But Charlie was excited with all the strangeness and pulled on her leash. Kate was impatient, too, impatient to forget her glimpses into her managing partner’s private life, impatient to forget her memories of last night.

  Ten minutes later, she jogged down Point Pleasant Drive to the park.

  And slowed.

  A large, dark green home was encased in crime scene tape. Several FIS vans were parked on the street beside it. A patrol officer stood in the driveway.

  Almost in the same place as the blond woman Kate had waved to yesterday.

  And even though Kate’s gut reaction wasn’t confirmed until the evening news aired, she knew that the woman whose death police now investigated was the same woman she’d seen stumbling out of her car.

  A stunning blond in the prime of her life. Who had appeared ill. And embarrassed by her weakness.

  But had still kept a careful eye on her daughter.

  And from Randall’s phone call this morning, she could only conclude that this dead woman was none other than his ex-wife.

  19

  Saturday, 9:45 a.m.

  “You’re starting now, Dr. Guthro?” Ethan hadn’t expected the medical examiner to be so prompt. He thought Vanderzell was second in the autopsy cue. He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got interviews to do with her children this morning. And her ex this afternoon.” He looked around the bullpen. Lamond was going through some files, getting ready for a trial next week. Even though this wasn’t a murder investigation—yet—Ethan was sure Lamond would benefit from the extra seasoning an autopsy would provide.

  “Just a sec, Doctor. I’ll see if I can get Detective Lamond.” He put a hand over the mouthpiece. “Hey, Lamond, can you do the Vanderzell autopsy?”

  Lamond glanced up from his paperwork. “Since when did this become a homicide?”

  “It isn’t. Not yet. But I think we should have an MCU detective there.”

  Lamond nodded reluctantly. Ethan knew he was remembering the last autopsy he
attended. Lisa MacAdam’s. He’d left in a hurry. Ethan was glad to see his partner’s penchant for junk food had decreased as a result of viewing the victim’s stomach contents. “Detective Lamond is on his way,” he said to the medical examiner. “Thanks, Doctor.” He hung up the phone.

  Lamond grabbed his jacket. “So why’d you ask me?” he grumbled. “I had a great day planned.” He pointed to his thick file. His even taller coffee. “You need to start drinking coffee again, man. It’d do you good.”

  Ethan gave him the finger. “See this? This victim has all ten of these. You’ll get to see an autopsy where the M.E. finds trace under the nails.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Lamond said. “So why can’t you go, anyway?”

  “I have to do the interviews of her kids.”

  “On your own?” Lamond suddenly looked interested.

  “No. With Tabby.”

  “Ooh, man, I knew you were screwing with me. You take the autopsy, I’ll take Tabby.” The bullpen erupted in snickers.

  “In your dreams,” Tabitha Christos said, striding into the bullpen, her black curly hair pulled up in a loose topknot, her tailored blouse and jeans doing nothing to hide her curves. She looked like a Greek version of Sophia Loren, Ethan thought. His grandmother would probably declare him disloyal to his Italian heritage, but Tabitha Christos had that effect on people. And, he said silently to his nonna, she was sweet like honey.

  She gave Lamond a good-natured wink and passed Ethan an extra-large gourmet coffee.

  Lamond turned an interesting shade of pink and drained his cup. He nodded toward Ethan’s coffee. “Since you’ve quit, you could at least give me your coffee.”

  “In your dreams,” he repeated Tabby’s retort with an arch look at Lamond and took a sip from the cup. The coffee hit his tongue with such intense flavor that he at once blessed and cursed Tabby for tempting him. He’d have to remember this moment when his stomach gave him grief in an hour.

  “You’ll be sorry, Drake,” Lamond said. He turned to Tabitha. “Just wait till he starts holding his tummy. He’s like a big baby.”

  She watched them with the patient and amused look of a woman who has seen men grandstand for her attentions all her life.

  Ethan’s body, starved for caffeine, was already buzzing with the jolt. He added one more dig for good measure. “Don’t stop for more coffee on the way, Lamond. You don’t want to make a mess on your nice shoes.”

  Lamond slung his jacket over his arm. The sun beat in through the windows. His face lost its teasing expression. “I’ll call if the M.E. comes up with anything.”

  “Remember what Ferguson said. There’ve also been a couple of break-ins in that neighborhood over the past few weeks—just the usual stuff, electronics, jewelry, money. No one has ever been home.”

  “You think someone broke into the house and was surprised to find it occupied?” Tabby asked.

  Ethan shrugged. “I doubt it. There was no forced entry, nothing was stolen. But the door could have been left unlocked by accident. Elise and her kids were new to the house. And if a thief went into her bedroom and was surprised…”

  “But there were no signs of struggle, were there?” Tabby had already read his rough notes of the crime scene.

  Ethan took a gulp of his coffee. “I know, I know. But I just don’t want to assume the killer is Barrett. Yet.”

  Lamond threw his coffee cup in the garbage. “Hopefully the M.E. will find some trace under her nails.”

  Ethan picked up his files. “Keep me posted.”

  Lamond nodded and walked out of the bullpen.

  And so their workday began. Again.

  Ethan tapped Tabby on the arm. They’d worked together on and off for the past few years but he hadn’t seen her for months. And man, she was a sight for sore eyes. He wondered if she was still dating that lawyer. “Let’s do a quick conference before we begin.”

  They headed into the interview room. Like all the interview rooms in the station, it was small, with off-white concrete-block walls. A panel of soundproofing on the wall by the table and a ceiling-mounted video camera made no bones about the fact the conversation would be recorded. And like all the interview rooms, the walls were scratched with graffiti from suspects who had used a belt buckle or a key to carve their disdain.

  “Already have my questions drafted.” Tabby held up a slim portfolio. He’d called her a few hours ago, briefing her over the phone. “So who’s on first? The fifteen-year-old or the twelve-year-old?”

  “I’d like to do the girl first. Get her version and then compare it to her brother’s.”

  “You think he’s hiding something?”

  Ethan thought back to last night. “Yeah. I do.” He took a sip of his coffee. “You handle him, Tabby. He shut down on me last night.” He added with a sly grin, “Plus, I think you might get more out of him than me.”

  She arched a winged brow. “I know you’re referring to my expert interviewing skills, Detective.” With an M.A. in child psychology and years working for Child Protection, she wasn’t kidding. Nor was he. He bet Nick was just like any other fifteen-year-old boy. A woman like Tabby could fuel a teenage boy’s imagination for many a love-starved night.

  His cell rang. It was Nadine from the front desk. “The Barretts are here.”

  “I’ll be right down.” He glanced at Tabby. “It’s showtime.”

  He left her studying her notes and went downstairs to the foyer. Three generations of Barretts were waiting for him: grandma bear, papa bear and two baby bears. He wondered which one would attack first.

  Glancing at their faces, he’d put his money on any of them except the girl. She looked too distraught to do much but play along. But the rest…

  He was glad they decided to do Lucy Barrett first. She’d give them the straightest goods. And they’d use what she said as a yardstick to measure the truth of the statements from the rest of her family.

  His gaze flickered over to Randall Barrett. His expression was bland, but Barrett couldn’t control the muscle that jumped by his right eye. Ethan’s presence had unnerved him.

  Ethan hoped it would continue to rattle him when they got him in the interview room. He was glad to see that the normally Hugo Boss–clad managing partner of McGrath Barrett was dressed in a pair of wrinkled khaki trousers, a limp pale blue golf shirt and leather Docksiders. He had a day’s worth of stubble on his face. Good. He wanted Randall Barrett in rumpled clothes. And if they stank of his day-old sweat, all the better. He wanted him rank and uncomfortable.

  He turned to Randall Barrett’s mother. “Mrs. Barrett, I am Detective Drake.” He held out his hand. He wasn’t sure he’d have recognized her from the previous night except for the aqua-blue eyeglasses. Her short silvery hair was now stylishly coiffed around her face, a touch of lipstick and blush giving her skin the color it lacked when he first met her. Her eyes needed no enhancing—they were the piercing blue that her son had inherited.

  Eight hours ago she had been in artist’s garb. This morning she was dressed for battle, wearing an elegant tailored suit in a muted blue and matching low-heeled sandals. A single pearl hanging from a chain around her neck like a teardrop caught Ethan’s eye.

  Penelope Barrett grasped his hand and then let go. “Yes, Detective Drake. I remember you from last night.” Lucy flinched. Randall moved toward Lucy to comfort her, but Penelope put her arm around the girl. Was the grandmother just offering solace—or protecting her from her father?

  “I’d like to extend my sympathies to you all,” Ethan began. “I realize this is a difficult time for you—” He glanced at Lucy. She looked exhausted. “—and I appreciate you coming down to the station to help us piece together what happened last night. We’ll try to be as quick as possible.” He pressed the button to the elevators.

  The ride in the elevator was brief—only twenty seconds, in fact—as the interview rooms were up on the next floor. But in those fleeting seconds, the elevator vibrated with a nervous energy that undercut the ex
haustion on the faces of Elise Vanderzell’s family.

  The doors slid open and Ethan led them down the corridor to the interview rooms. A tall, coppery-haired constable leaned against one of the doorways. She straightened at their approach.

  “This is Constable Brown,” Ethan said. “She’ll be assisting today.”

  She stepped forward. “Hello.”

  “We’ll begin with Lucy,” Ethan said. “Nick, make yourself comfortable in here—” He opened a door to a small room with a table and two chairs. Before Nick could respond, Ethan opened the door opposite and said, “Mr. Barrett, if you could wait in here—”

  “Hold on, Detective Drake,” Barrett said, his jaw tightening. “I’m going with Lucy. You aren’t interviewing her on her own. And my mother will wait with Nick.” Barrett moved to stand next to his daughter. Lucy froze, immobilized by yet more drama, her eyes darting from her father to the homicide detective.

  “Sir, we have a youth worker waiting in the interview room,” Ethan said, enjoying the narrowing of Barrett’s eyes at being addressed as “sir” by him. “She will speak to each of your children to ensure their rights are adhered to. If one or both of them wish to have a family member present, we will inform you.”

  Barrett crossed his arms.

  Ethan pulled open the door to Barrett’s waiting room. Constable Brown stepped closer to the doorway. “Until then, please wait in here. Mrs. Barrett can wait with Nick, if he so wishes.”

  “I don’t want anyone with me.” Nick crossed his arms. Ethan was sure he had no idea that he had copied his father’s belligerent stance. “I want to be alone.”

  “But not during the questioning, Nick.” Barrett’s eyes entreated his son.

  Nick refused to look at him. “I do not want my father or my grandmother present,” he said to Ethan. “Period.” He spun on his heel and stalked into the room Ethan had assigned him, slamming the door shut behind him.

  For the space of a heartbeat, everyone stared at the plain plywood door. Then Barrett turned to Lucy. “Honey, the police are going to question you about Mum’s…accident. It’s strictly voluntary. You don’t have to do it.”