“I was on my boat, Lucy.” She needed to believe him. He needed to believe it, too. “I swear to you, I did not go back to the house.”
“But Nick says he saw you—”
Randall shook his head. “It wasn’t me. I would never do that.” Would I?
She looked away.
His heart broke.
She doesn’t believe me.
My own daughter, the child I rocked to sleep and carried on my back, does not believe me.
“Lucy, I swear to you I did not—” He couldn’t say “kill.” He could not use that word with his daughter. “I would never hurt your mother.”
And yet, wasn’t that a lie? He’d hurt Elise in a thousand different ways.
As she’d hurt him.
Oh, God.
“I tried calling you.” Every child’s unspoken reproach: Why weren’t you there when I needed you?
“I’m sorry, Lucy. I’ll never turn my phone off again.” He meant it. He was now the sole parent. He edged closer to her, needing to make contact, craving the reassurance that he still had a family. “What can I do to make it up to you?”
She closed her eyes. “Nothing. I don’t want anything.” She curled sideways and rolled facedown into her pillow. “I just want to be left alone.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off.
“Leave me alone. Please.” It was her politeness that killed him. She spoke to him as though he were a stranger.
His mother was right. His children needed help.
He hoped Elise’s therapist would know what to do.
He left Lucy’s room. There was nowhere to go but back downstairs.
The wood creaked under his weight.
43
Tuesday, 8:15 a.m.
Fog had moved in during the night. It settled over Halifax, warm and damp. Kate glimpsed mist sparkling on her hair as she rode the elevator up to MB’s offices, then turned her face so she could not see her reflection in the mirrored wall. No need to be reminded of the deep circles and bloodshot eyes that had greeted her this morning.
Even the sleeping pill she took last night couldn’t erase those. What the pharmaceutical companies really needed to do, she thought as she hurried down the corridor to her office, was create a sleeping pill that made you look rested, even if you didn’t feel rested. Profits would soar.
Because she wanted to look good this morning. Damn good. She did not want Curtis Carey to think she’d lost one iota of sleep over him.
Even now, seventy-two hours later, her cheeks burned at how she’d treated him. She flipped open the Great Life file, flopping behind her desk, frowning furiously at the independent medical expert’s report on plaintiff Mike Naugler’s injuries. Thank goodness she’d already gone through it yesterday with a fine-tooth comb, because the words swam in front of her eyes. She wouldn’t have much to do today, anyway. The questions would be asked by Curtis, who would be poking around the medical expert’s opinion to check its watertightness.
She glanced at her clock. The old battered silver travel clock ticked toward twenty to nine. Showtime. She grabbed her notepad, stacking it on the thick file folders in her arms, and headed to the boardroom.
Besides the discovery reporter, she was the first to arrive. Just as she planned. She lined up her notepad and pen, spreading out her files with the multicolored tabs. Cupping a coffee mug in her hand, she stared through the window. Gray.
“Kate.” Rachel, the new receptionist, stood in the doorway. “Dr. Mercer is here.” Her client’s medical expert pushed through the doorway. Impeccably attired, with a look of self-importance on his face, he did nothing to reduce Kate’s contempt. This guy was a hired gun; a doctor who didn’t actually have his own practice but instead flew all over the country giving “expert opinions” to his insurance company clients.
The receptionist added, “Tom Werther from Great Life called.” She glanced down at the message in her beautifully manicured hand. “He says he became sick very suddenly and won’t be able to attend the discovery.”
“He must have caught Nina Woods’ bug,” Kate said, rising to her feet to greet her expert. “Dr. Mercer.” She held out her hand. “I’ve reviewed your report. Nina Woods told me she’d already briefed you with the questions we expect will be asked by the plaintiff.”
“Yes, she did.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“Where’s the coffee?” He grinned. Kate forced herself to return his smile.
“Just over there. Help yourself.”
He turned to the back of the room where refreshments and pastries were set up on a credenza.
Relax, Kate. Whatever you do, don’t let Curtis see that you dislike your own client.
Rachel knocked lightly. Curtis Carey ushered in plaintiff Mike Naugler. Both of them were damp, the fog giving Curtis’ hair a slightly shaggy wave. His hair had been soft and thick, Kate remembered. Just as soft as the matting of hair on his chest. She remembered the low groan he’d made when he came.
She dropped her eyes to her notepad, her cheeks burning. What the hell was she thinking? She had mentally undressed the guy and had sex with him—and he’d only just arrived.
Curtis’ eyes flickered over Kate. She prayed he wasn’t doing what she’d just done. She gave him a quick nod then pointedly ran her pen along a paragraph as if Dr. Mercer’s words were worthy of such attention.
The plaintiff glared at the good doctor, who sank his teeth into a glistening mound of jam in the center of a pastry. A dot of jam oozed out of the corner of his mouth.
“Ms. Lange.” Curtis gave Kate as brief a nod as humanly possible.
“Mr. Carey. Mr. Naugler. Good morning.” She rose to her feet, the brisk hostess to this hostile proceeding. “Coffee and pastries are at the back. Please help yourself.”
Curtis walked to the coffee station without a word. There would be no dimples today.
Homicide unit sergeant Deb Ferguson had called in Ethan, Redding, Lamond and Warren for the first team meeting of the day. Lamond had stopped at Tim Hortons and bought everyone a double double.
“Did you get the toxicology report back yet?” Deb asked.
Redding shook his head. “The lab’s backed up. Between the long weekend and summer vacations, they told me they wouldn’t have anything until next Monday.”
Ethan stared at Redding, dismayed. “Vanderzell’s parents keep calling.”
Redding shrugged. “She’s gonna be on ice for a while. The lab told me the earliest would be next Monday. We wouldn’t be able to release the body until Tuesday.”
“So what’s the story with Nick Barrett?” Deb asked.
“He says he saw his father hit his mother with a blackjack—”
Lamond slapped his palm on the table.
Ethan raised a brow. “Easy on that coffee.”
Lamond grinned. “That’s why the M.E. didn’t see any lacerations on Vanderzell’s head.”
Ethan nodded. “And then he dumped her over the balcony.”
“Why didn’t the kid stop him?”
“He says he tripped over a flowerpot.” Ethan pulled out a crime scene photo of a large urn. The stem of a geranium had been broken. “People have done stupider things. He could be telling the truth. It was dark. He was in a strange house.”
“So he trips over the pot.”
“And when he looks up, he sees his father kill his mother.”
“So that’s what he told you,” Deb said. “Lamond, what about the break-and-enter angle?”
Lamond threw a quick glance at Ethan, then flipped open his notepad. “The neighborhood had been hit with two B and E’s in the past ten days. Same M.O.—someone popped a patio door off its runners, grabbed whatever was in sight and ran off before patrol could investigate.”
“How about Feldman’s house? How did the intruder get in?”
Lamond blew out a breath. “There was no sign of forced entry. No fingerprints on windowsills, door frames, nothing.”
&n
bsp; Deb arched a brow. “So how do you think the intruder got in?”
This was the moment Ethan was waiting for. “We think Barrett walked in.”
“You mean through the front door?”
“Yes. It was unlocked. We know Elise called him earlier. Maybe he told her to leave the door unlocked so he could slip in quietly and not wake the kids. He doesn’t show. She’s upset, takes a sleeping pill, forgets all about the door…”
“Got any evidence of that?”
“His prints are on the door, Deb.” Ethan tried not to let his excitement show. “I know that he was in the house earlier, but we don’t have anyone else’s prints but his, the house cleaner’s, Elise’s and her kids’.”
Deb tapped a pen against her cheek. “Okay,” she said slowly. “But what if it was our neighborhood thief who wore gloves? He gets a surprise when he tries to steal the jewelry in the master bedroom.”
“There was no sign of struggle. Nothing had been gone through. Elise’s purse was sitting on a table in the front hallway. Her wallet had one hundred and eighty dollars in cash in it.”
Deb glanced at Lamond. “Whaddya think?”
Lamond straightened. “I don’t think the break and enters are connected. The M.O. is totally different. The guy who killed Elise was careful. Everything seemed planned out.”
Deb nodded, sipped her coffee. “So, Drake, you said that Nick Barrett told you his father turned around just after he dropped Vanderzell.”
Ethan cleared his throat. Deb was warming up to their theory. “Right.”
“Did his father see him?”
“Yes. He looked over his shoulder when he heard Nick trip.”
“Over his shoulder?” Deb put down her coffee. “You mean he had his back to the kid?”
This was where things got a little slippery. “Yes. But the kid swears it was his dad.”
“Why?”
“His build, hair color. He wore a stocking over his head, but Nick says he could see blond hair under it.”
“Ethan, it was dark. How could he tell?”
“The light from the kid’s bedroom reaches the balcony. I checked.”
Deb shook her head. “I don’t think this will stand up under cross-examination. Did he see what happened to the weapon?”
“No. He says his father ran away with it. Into the park.”
And the park, of course, bordered the Atlantic Ocean. The chances of locating the weapon were slim to none.
“Nothing Nick Barrett has told us would stand up in court,” Deb said.
“Come on, Deb. He was an eyewitness! That counts for something.”
“Not with the bad blood between them.” She pointed to the thick file folder with Nick Barrett’s name on it. “Putting a kid with Nick’s history on the stand is like giving a defense lawyer a license to kill. He’ll be eaten alive.”
“He had a learning disability.”
“He also lied, cheated and stole.”
“But he doesn’t have a record.”
“He doesn’t have credibility, either.” Deb’s gaze narrowed. “What makes you think Nick Barrett didn’t do it himself? He tried killing his father. Maybe he hated his mother, too. There’s a lot of insurance money when they both kick the bucket.”
Ethan shook his head. “I don’t think he’s motivated by money, Deb. The kid is devastated by his mother’s death. He wanted vengeance. An eye for an eye.” He leaned forward. “It’s the only motive that makes sense. He had no reason to kill his mother.”
“Except for money.”
“The kid had all the money he wanted.”
“Then why did he steal from his father?”
Why, indeed? “I think he hated him. He was acting out.” Ethan flipped through the file. “Look, I have his employment records. He was a reliable employee. According to his sister, he used that money to pay back his father.”
“So he pretended to be a good boy. To deflect suspicion.”
Ethan stared at his notes, frustrated. The team played devil’s advocate all the time—they had to, to figure out motives and leads. But right now, Deb’s skepticism was pissing him off.
“Look, I interviewed the kid with Tabby. She thought the same thing as me. Randall Barrett did it.”
Deb exhaled. “Ethan, we need more than this.”
Ethan’s mind raced. What more could they get? They had no weapon. They had only one eyewitness. As much as he disliked what Deb was telling him, he knew she was right. “I’ll give Vanderzell’s therapist another call. See if I can get more out of him.”
“Good.” Deb looked at the rest of the team. “Redding, I want you to conduct another canvass with Lamond, see if anyone has seen a man matching the description Nick Barrett gave. Warren, we need to mobilize a K-9 Unit and search for the weapon in the park.” She grinned. “I’ve been known to get lucky at blackjack.”
44
Tuesday, 8:59 a.m.
No matter how expensive the suit, it could not compensate for the crassness of a beaten face. There was not a single colleague in Randall’s acquaintance who had shown up to work sporting the evidence of a fistfight. At least, not since university days. And those were long gone, left behind as Randall faithfully trod the road to prestige, wealth, power. Brawling was not part of that package.
And certainly being assaulted with deadly intent by one’s own son was not part of it, either. Randall shot his cuffs and stepped out of the elevator into the MB lobby. He nodded to the new receptionist. She tried her best to hide her reaction to his face, but she was young. He smiled, letting her know he was not offended, and strode toward the boardroom, his eye drawn to the visual installation on the far wall. It had the power to both soothe him and stir him at the same time.
He looked away. His emotions were too close to the surface. Too raw. Like his face. He could not allow himself to be thin-skinned, not when he entered the dragons’ cave.
Nina rose from her seat at the foot of the table when he strode in. “Randall.” She nodded, her face somber as befitted the circumstances. “Thank you for joining us.” Again, her choice of words was brilliant, he thought. Deliberately designed to keep him on the outside of this exclusive enclave.
He closed the door. His gaze traveled around the table, stopping for a full second on each partner’s face. Some gazed back with sympathy, others looked down at the table, and a pitiful few glanced, tellingly, at Nina Woods. His lip curled.
The chair at the head of the table was empty. So Nina hadn’t quite dared to take that over. Not yet.
He strolled over to the chair and sat down, clasping his hands loosely in front of him.
“How are you, Randall?” This question came from across the table. Tony Maybourne, one of the more senior partners of the firm, gazed at him through his wire-framed glasses. Tony and he had taken their clients golfing on many occasions. An intellectual, somewhat shy man, Tony was lousy at golf, but Randall had always enjoyed his dry sense of humor.
Randall shrugged. “As you can see, it has been a difficult weekend.”
The partners began to murmur their condolences. Randall felt his body grow hot. This was not what he came in for; he knew it, they knew it.
He fixed his gaze on Nina Woods. Her face was composed in an expression of horrified sympathy, but he sensed that her gaze took in the muted circus with the air of a bored ringmaster, biding her time for the tiger to be let out of its cage.
“Shall we begin?” he asked.
Her eyes met his. They reminded him of blood diamonds, so pale, so hard. “We called you in today to conduct a partners’ vote.”
Silence fell over the boardroom.
He raised a brow. “Regarding?”
“Appointing an acting managing partner who will take over your duties until you are able to resume them.”
“I feel completely capable of continuing as managing partner.”
“I have had great difficulty reaching you,” Nina said, glancing around the table. “McGrath Barrett needs a manag
ing partner who is accessible at all times. And due to your unfortunate circumstances, you are not.”
He felt his jaw go rigid. “By ‘unfortunate circumstances,’ are you referring to the murder of my ex-wife?”
Nina Woods stared at him. Challenging him.
Tony Maybourne gave him a placating look. “Randall, the partners feel that you cannot carry on your role as managing partner when your personal situation is consuming so much of your time. We just want you to be able to devote your attention to your family…” His voice trailed off.
Randall nodded, unwilling to skewer his old friend. He believed Tony wasn’t trying to screw him. Nina, on the other hand, was clearly in this for a power grab.
In the silence that fell around the table, Nina added, “McGrath Barrett is still in a delicate stage of recovery.” Due to your mismanagement, her eyes said. “The firm cannot afford to have its leader mired in personal legal problems.”
Randall’s brows rose. “Which legal problems are those, Nina?”
“The murder investigation of your ex-wife.”
Tony gave Nina a disgusted look. Several partners shifted. Randall both admired Nina and reviled her at the same time. How she could be so coldly assured as she spoke of his personal horror was impressive.
“Why, exactly, do you think the murder investigation constitutes a legal problem for me?”
Nina’s face tightened. “Because you’re one of the suspects, are you not, Randall?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I understand you spoke with Bill Anthony.”
Randall bit down on his teeth. Hard. The shit. So much for solicitor-client privilege.
Suspicion edged his partners’ faces. Thanks to the local gossip rag, everyone knew that Randall had been involved in a humiliating divorce. Thanks to this Sunday’s edition of the Post, everyone knew that he’d argued with Elise the night she died.
He rubbed his jaw. And saw Tony Maybourne eye his hands, his gaze fixed on the garish bruises that swelled Randall’s knuckles.
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