Of the most deadly kind.
Nick had not intended to beat up his father.
He’d meant to kill him.
That must have shaken Barrett.
So must the accusation his son had leveled against him in front of everyone.
How did it feel to have your own flesh and blood accuse you of murder?
Ethan stirred his coffee. Barrett had declined a drink of any sort, although Ethan guessed his throat must feel pretty scratchy after the stranglehold Nick had had on it.
Thanks to Nick’s statement, they now had a homicide investigation. “Your son committed a serious assault.” Ethan made a point of glancing at his file. The patrol officers’ report sat prominently on top. Under it, he had stuffed a bunch of youth-offender files to make the folder appear nice and thick.
Barrett slouched in the hard chair, his shirt specked with blood, his arms crossed. Bruises marred his knuckles. His bloodshot eyes remained impassive in his swollen face. Ethan knew it would take some work to get a rise out of him. He took another sip of his coffee. Time to get down to business. “Looking at those marks on your neck, we could make a case for attempted murder.”
“It would be hard to prove,” Barrett rasped.
Ethan shrugged. He knew that Barrett would never go to court and testify that his son had tried to kill him. He had more pride than that. He bet it took all of Barrett’s self-control not to yank his collar over his son’s thumb-prints. As for Lucy Barrett and Kate Lange, they’d only arrived at the end. Without Randall Barrett to testify, the case would be weak.
“Interesting timing, though, wouldn’t you say?” Ethan took another drink of his coffee. After what had happened in the Barrett household last night—and after he had heard who had been there at two o’clock in the goddamn morning—he needed that coffee. He bit into his bagel. Maybe it would soak up some of that acid.
Barrett watched him, his arms crossed, his eyes alert.
His mouth shut.
“Sure I can’t get you something?”
Barrett just looked at him.
Ethan leaned back in his chair. “Why would your son attack you two days after your ex-wife was killed?” he asked, his tone conversational.
His choice of words was not lost on Barrett. There were no more euphemisms about Elise Vanderzell falling to her death. Barrett’s jaw tightened ever so slightly.
“Your son says you killed her.” Ethan bit into his bagel.
Not a flicker, not a twitch. That itself was a giveaway: Barrett was trying to control his reactions.
“He says he saw you hit her head with a club. It wouldn’t be a blackjack, would it?” Made of a smooth leather pouch about six inches in length, they were spring-loaded, lethal weapons. Perfect for inflicting maximum damage with little outward harm. He couldn’t wait to call Dr. Guthro with this new information.
A slight flush to Barrett’s bruised face was the only sign he registered Ethan’s goading. How does it feel to strike a lethal blow to a woman you had made love to only months before, who had borne your children, whom you had cradled in your arms just before killing? Ethan wondered.
Barrett stared at him. The sliver of bloodied eyeball revealed by his swollen eyelid had gained an awful intensity.
“Your son says he saw you toss your ex-wife over the balcony.” Ethan made his voice soft, willing Barrett to strain closer to hear.
He was gratified to see his ploy worked. When he had Barrett nice and close, he said, “He says he wanted you to pay,” uttering the words as viciously as a snake digging its fangs into an exposed vein.
Barrett jerked back.
Anger flared in his eyes. But not fast enough to hide the anguish in their depths. Barrett stood. “I have a phone call to make. To my lawyer.”
He walked out the door.
Ethan watched him leave.
He’d put the ball in motion.
Now he just had to make sure it didn’t get away from him.
He picked up the phone and called Redding. “We need search warrants for Barrett’s house, his office, his car and his yacht.” Nick Barrett’s statement had given them enough cause for a JP to authorize it.
He gulped the rest of his coffee. He needed his brain to be on full alert to deal with his next interview.
Kate Lange, the woman who he had once thought would be his wife, was cooling her heels in the waiting room.
He was about to find out why she was in her boss’ house at two o’clock in the goddamn morning.
38
Monday, 8:54 a.m.
He knew he should have asked Brown to do this one. If he’d been smart, he would have.
But Ethan never claimed to be a genius. Ergo the empty extra-large coffee cup that had released enough acid in his stomach to cauterize his entire intestinal system.
He just wished it would cauterize his nerves. Every thing jumped into high gear when Kate walked into the room.
His eyes skimmed her from head to toe. She raised her chin, a slight flush putting color into her cheeks.
He watched her walk toward him. She swayed ever so slightly. Still recovering from the thigh injury? He hadn’t seen her since he’d visited her in the hospital in May, although her picture had been plastered over all the media outlets for weeks.
But seeing her in the flesh…now he realized every feeling he’d hoped had been dead and buried had merely been comatose. Desire and pain swelled to life in his chest. His voice literally stuck in his throat.
He’d loved her.
He’d deeply loved her.
He loved her still.
God, no.
Not after she’d told him so definitely it was over.
Even the way she looked at him right now told him it was over. At least for her.
Put it behind you, Drake. It’s over.
For you, at least.
But what about Randall Barrett?
His teeth ground together. When Barrett called him last May to tell him that Kate was in danger, he could tell from the tone of the man’s voice that it was more than just fear for Kate’s safety that had spurred his phone call.
Did Kate return the feeling? Had her own crisis and her firm’s involvement in the TransTissue fraud drawn her closer to Randall Barrett?
Why else would she be at his house in the middle of the night?
A suspicion snaked through him. Had Barrett’s involvement with Kate compelled him to murder Elise?
Ethan’s eyes flickered over Kate, trying not to linger on the high curve of her butt in her faded, paint-splattered jeans, or the smooth swell of her breasts under her running jacket. Her choice of clothing did not suggest she’d been engaged in a night of lovemaking at her boss’ house. When Ethan and Kate were together, she’d made an effort. Body-skimming knits. Lace-trimmed bras. Matching panties.
Did she wear the same lingerie for Randall Barrett? Did he take those delicate wispy nothings off with his teeth, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of her thighs? Making her moan a low, throaty animal call to mate?
Acid churned a big ball of gaseous fire in his gut.
He stood. Forced a smile. She smiled back. It was tentative. Tired.
Apprehensive.
She sat down in the proffered chair. Her eyes, clear despite the dark circles beneath them, met his.
He let the silence grow between them. He needed to get control back. He needed to erase from his memory those images that attacked him like stealth missiles, detonating pain and desire in his chest.
Focus, Drake. Focus on the facts: she had been caught assaulting a fifteen-year-old boy.
She never called you after you visited her at the hospital.
Jesus, get over it, would you?
Fact two: she had been at her boss’ house in the middle of the night, just two days after Barrett’s ex-wife had been murdered.
That worked. His head felt clearer. “How are you, Kate?” He managed a relaxed tone.
She gave him a wry look. “Busy.” Her hair was
pulled up in a loose ponytail, revealing the delicate veins behind her ears. He noticed the summer sun had lightened her hair. “How are you?”
“Good.” He picked up a pen. “Things are good.”
“Good.” She smiled. Waiting expectantly.
He caught himself rolling the pen between his fingers. Good grief. He was behaving like he was a fifteen-year-old moron again. “Things aren’t going so good for your boss, though.”
“It’s terrible about his wife.” Her eyes were open, disingenuous. But he sensed it was an act.
After all, she’d said “wife.” Not “ex-wife.” What was going on between Randall and Kate? Randall and Elise?
“Elise Vanderzell was murdered, Kate.”
Kate looked away. “So I understand.”
“And Nick Barrett tried to kill his father.”
Kate’s eyes returned to his. There was a sadness in their depths. He knew why, he understood it now. But he couldn’t let it affect him. “Tell me what happened,” he said softly.
She exhaled. “I don’t really know. When I got to Randall’s house, Nick was choking him.”
“Why were you going to your boss’ house at two in the morning?”
A light flush crept up her neck.
Damn it. There was something going on.
“I had to bring his daughter home.”
That surprised him. “You mean Lucy?”
“Yes. I had taken her to the vet hospital with me.” She tucked the wisp of hair behind her ear again. “Randall’s dog was sick.”
“What was wrong with her?”
“She broke her pelvis.”
He sensed she was being deliberately vague. “How?” His voice was curt.
Kate flashed him a look. Aha. He was getting under her skin. “Nick hit her with a baseball bat.”
“Deliberately?”
She exhaled. “I don’t know. Randall called me. I took the dog. When I came back, Nick was choking Randall.”
“Then what did you do?”
Her eyes flashed a you-know-damn-well-what-I-did look. “I hit Nick with a bottle. Randall was almost unconscious by then.” She glanced down at her hands. As if she couldn’t believe what they’d done. Then she looked back at Ethan. They both knew her hands were capable of being so much more deadly than that. “He said that Randall had killed his mother.” This was said wearily.
“I see.” Ethan made a show of writing this down.
Her gaze followed the movement of his pen. “You think Randall did it, don’t you?”
He looked up and met her eyes. For eyes so clear, he couldn’t read the expression. Hadn’t that always been the way? She always held back a piece of herself. “The evidence is stacking up.”
“But why would he do it, Ethan?” she asked in a low voice. “What motive did he have? They were divorced.”
Ethan’s heart constricted.
He may not be able to read her eyes, but he could read between the lines.
Those stealth missiles had been tipped with poison, he discovered. Jealousy burned a straight path into the darkest part of his heart.
“Kate.” He made his voice soft, caressing. The way he used to speak to her after they made love. “You ever heard of ex sex?”
39
Monday, 9:14 a.m.
Blood rushed to Kate’s head.
Ex sex.
The words conjured up memories she’d been desperately holding at bay since she walked into the room and saw Ethan sitting behind the table.
Now the sensations flooded her: Ethan’s skin, hot and smooth, under her hand. His tongue, whispering words of pleasure in her ear before flicking her nerves into ecstasy.
Her last lover had been Curtis, but he hadn’t gotten into her heart. Not like the man staring at her across the table. The man who’d shown her how passion could be. The man who had been the most generous, thrilling lover she’d ever had.
The man who had deliberately dropped this bombshell with cruelty in his eyes.
She had no right to feel hurt. But she did.
He waited for her reaction. Which was the last thing she wanted to give him.
She leaned back and crossed her arms. “Your point?”
“Your boss’ ex-wife had an abortion two weeks ago.”
Her breath stopped. “And?”
“She’d been in the first trimester of her pregnancy.”
Kate began to feel sick. Ethan was playing out the information for a reason. She’d wait it out. Wait for the bombshell she sensed he was about to drop.
“Randall Barrett visited his ex-wife in early June.”
He’d laid out the timeline neatly. Leaving her to come to the same conclusions she could read in his eyes: that Randall Barrett had impregnated his wife and she’d had an abortion.
“Is he the father?” She forced her voice to remain cool, professional.
“If you’re asking if we have tangible proof, the answer is not yet. But I’m confident a DNA sample will confirm our suspicions.”
“How? Do you have tissue samples?”
“We’re checking with the abortion clinic right now. They haven’t gotten back to us yet.”
So. What the police had right now was circumstantial evidence. The facts could be interpreted a number of ways, she knew that.
But she didn’t feel reassured.
The timeline Ethan had provided fit in with her own personal interactions with Randall since the TransTissue affair: his sudden preoccupation, his deliberate aloofness toward her.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
He’d slept with Elise. And then his ex-wife had come to Halifax for the month.
Kate barely focused on the rest of Ethan’s questions. Partly because her brain was unsteadily jumping from fact to fact, trying to absorb what Ethan had revealed to her, partly because the rest of his questions were routine. He’d accomplished what he’d set out to do: he’d pulled the rug out from under her.
And that really stung.
She scrambled out of the room, hoping Ethan hadn’t seen how much he had hurt her.
Or how much more Randall had hurt her.
40
Monday, 2:52 p.m.
He was in deep shit.
Randall sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel suite. His suitcase sat on the other bed, untouched. When the police came to his house to serve the search warrants, he hadn’t been surprised. The writing was on the wall. Drake’s taunting this morning had given him a good indication of how confident the police were that they were on the right trail.
His trail.
So he’d packed a bag, leaving his home to be rifled by the police. Already the house had distanced itself from him. As if it was bracing itself for its violation. And blaming him. It had become, in the past few days, just a space with objects.
Before he left, he called the daughter of his neighbor. She agreed to water his garden.
He locked the door. He didn’t look back.
Couldn’t look back.
Because he had the feeling he was never going back.
It was a melodramatic thought, an emotion bred by the trauma of the past few days.
But he couldn’t shake it.
He had acted recklessly. Drunkenly. Disgracefully.
He hoped that was all.
Dear God, he hoped getting drunk was the worst he’d done.
Because what Nick accused him of shook him to the core.
What if…?
He jumped to his feet. He couldn’t think about it. And yet, his son believed he’d seen him killing Elise.
And he had no idea where he’d been that night.
He couldn’t have done that.
Could he?
He lowered his head into his hands.
It was time to meet his lawyer.
He found himself hurrying to the hotel bar, gazing straight ahead to avoid the stares from the other guests. He looked as if he’d been hit by a truck. He wanted to shock the curiosity out of their faces, tell them that you to
o could look like this if your teenage son tried to commit patricide.
When he pushed open the glass doors of the bar, he forced himself to take his time. Intimate pairings of sofas sat on Persian-style rugs against one side of the room. From the farthest corner, his lawyer gave Randall a small wave.
Randall moved toward him, passing a group of tourists who had either had enough of the Natal Day celebrations or were just getting warmed up. They stared at him, unable to disguise their shock at his battered face, unable to meet his unswollen eye.
Bill Anthony shook Randall’s hand vigorously. Randall was not going to let this guy see how tender his own hand was. He forced a smile. “Bill, good to see you.” As if this were a regular business lunch.
One of Halifax’s top—and highest-profile—criminal defense lawyers, Bill Anthony was only average height, with stubby salt-and-pepper hair and a face Randall was sure only Bill’s mother loved, but he exuded the confidence of a man who knew he was the best in his profession. His eyes, sharp and bright like a ferret’s, flickered over Randall, noting his stitches, swollen eye and bruised neck with a glint of amusement. “So, tell me what they have.”
Randall gave him all that he knew. He tried to be objective, lawyer to lawyer, but when he described Nick’s first attack, the words got stuck in his throat. Randall had assumed Nick was acting out by hitting the dog. But now he realized Nick had never intended to attack Charlie. He’d been gunning for Randall. And the dog had saved him.
He still could not comprehend it.
Bill popped a peanut in his mouth. “So your son explained the attack by telling the police he saw you throw your ex-wife over the balcony?”
Jesus. Did he have to say it like that? “Yes.” Randall took a long pull on the rum and Coke he had ordered.
What had gone wrong between him and Nick? That Nick could believe he was capable of killing someone, let alone his ex-wife?
“Do you think your son killed your ex-wife?”
Randall stared into his drink. The slice of lime had turned brown, sinking to the bottom of the glass. “No. He had no reason to.”
Indefensible Page 20
