Indefensible (15 page)

The only way Nick would come would be to physi
cally propel him into Randall's car. And that was ridiculous.

He moved away from his son. “You go with your grandmother.” He turned to Lucy. She was watching the three of them, clearly torn. “I know Charlie's been dying to see you.”

She nodded.

“I'll call you later,” he told his mother. He glanced at his son, who glared in return. Randall sighed, put his arm around Lucy's shoulders and led her to his car.

He opened the sunroof, trying to cool off the interior. The temperature was hot, but a cool breeze off the ocean made it comfortable. Everything was still green because of the rain in July.

Lucy slid into the front seat and buckled her seat belt. Normally, he'd enjoy wowing her with all the gadgets on his car, but not today.

They drove to his house. Lucy stared out the window.
Was she wishing she were with her grandmother? Her brother?

Everything he'd believed to be true had been thrown in his face. He knew his relationship with Nick was rocky, but had hoped a week together on his yacht eating steak and potato chips would bring them back together.

How wrong he'd been.

Saturday, 2:28 p.m.

“D
etective Drake.”

Ethan straightened. Even over a cell phone connection, there was no mistaking the rich lilt of the medical examiner's voice. “Hello, Dr. Guthro.”

“I have some preliminary findings that may be of interest. I'd like to show them to you. Could you come down to the lab?”

Ethan grabbed his jacket. It was perfect timing. They were done with their interviews. “I'm on my way.”

Ten minutes later, he was navigating the labyrinthine basement of the Greater Halifax General Hospital, known in the city as the GH2. Lamond met him at the door to the path lab. “It's been quite a morning.”

Ethan studied his face. It looked pale, but not green. Lamond was toughening up.

“Ah, Detective Drake,” Dr. Guthro said, ushering him into the bloodied, metal-filled room with the expansiveness of a country gentleman at his club. “Good to see you.”

Ethan smothered his amusement. “And you, Doctor.” He grabbed a gown off the shelf and slipped it on. “How did you make out?”

“Mixed results.” Dr. Guthro led them to the autopsy table where Elise Vanderzell lay, naked. Ethan had seen a lot of dead bodies in his time, and a lot of undignified deaths. So he was unprepared when his heart constricted at seeing her there. Was it seeing the crude marks of the autopsy marring her body? The long row of broad stitches marched up her torso, branching off into the arms of a Y on her chest. Somehow, it seemed obscene on this woman. Maybe it was because she had been so beautiful. He shook his head at his fancifulness. Even in death, the beautiful garnered instinctive sympathy.

Dr. Guthro glanced at his notes. “Did you know the decedent had had an abortion several weeks ago?”

Ethan stared at Elise Vanderzell's stomach. “We knew she'd had some kind of procedure.”
Talk about adding fuel to the fire.
Suddenly, the case for homicide had legs. “Can you harvest any tissue for a DNA analysis?”

Dr. Guthro shook his head. “Not from her. The clinic that performed the procedure might have kept paraffin-embedded tissue. You'll have to ask.”

And he'd need to get a DNA sample from Randall Barrett…

He almost rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“Do you think she was deliberately killed, Doctor?”

Dr. Guthro raised a brow. “Has this become a homicide investigation?”

“Not yet. But we've got a neighborhood that had recently reported break-ins. I've also got my sights on her ex-husband.”

“Could be challenging to prove based on the autopsy findings. Head injuries are tricky. It can be difficult to differentiate what caused the injury, and what ultimately caused the death.”

Ethan's heart sank.

“Did you find anything at the scene to suggest a homicide?”

“Not yet.” Based on the fact there were no signs of obvious struggle and the discovery that nothing had been stolen, the likelihood of Elise being killed by a random intruder seemed low. Ethan thought of what Nick had told them. And what Randall had not said.

Abortion was such a touchy subject. There could be any number of motives to kill Elise. If his ex-wife had had a lover, Randall Barrett might have killed her out of spite. Or, if Elise was pregnant with Randall Barrett's child, that raised a whole new set of dynamics that could have triggered a homicidal rage.

Yet, they couldn't rule out suicide. Elise Vanderzell could have been depressed because she'd had an abortion. Or her hormones might have triggered another case of postpartum depression.

And what about the missing sleeping pills? “Her daughter told me that they'd made plans for today. But her son told me he'd seen her jump. And her pill count didn't match.” Ethan's words seemed unnaturally loud in the room. “What do you think, Doctor?”

Dr. Guthro rubbed his chin. “How many pills were missing?”

“Fourteen.”

“So…it adds a complication to the equation. Did she overdose? Then how would she have jumped over the rail? We'll have to see what the lab report tells us. On the other hand, even a single sleeping pill could have made her more suicidal.”

“Really?”

“If she had a history of depression, Delteze could enhance suicidal thoughts.”

Ethan thought back to his interview with Barrett. “Her ex-husband said she had a history of postpartum depression.”

“I'm surprised that she would have been prescribed these pills.” Dr. Guthro shook his head. “Was she still depressed?”

“Her ex-husband didn't think so.” Ethan flipped open his notepad. “No. Wait. He said he didn't know. But he did say that his daughter told him the pills had made his ex-wife sleepwalk before. Could she have done it last night?” Ethan studied Elise Vanderzell's face. It was bloody and staring, the features blurred by blood from the scalp that had been folded over her face during the autopsy.

“If she had a history of reacting to Delteze in such a fashion, it is possible. And her reaction would likely be exacerbated if she took more than one pill.” Dr. Guthro pointed to a series of dark bruises on her rib cage. “There are more on her back. The contusions are consistent with a fall.”

“So. Strange house. The pills make her sleepwalk straight out her room and over the rail?”

“It's possible.”

The patio door sounded like it hit the end of the runners really hard. Sort of like bounced against something,
Nick had said. “Would she be able to use a lot of force to open the door if she was asleep?”

“With drug-induced somnambulism, she could easily have done that. This is what is so disconcerting about sleeping pills—Delteze, in particular—the behaviors are more complex than usual parasomnias. For example, there have been reports of people getting out of bed, taking their car keys and driving—all while asleep.”

“With their eyes open?”

“Most definitely. And they could even speak. Although it is usually gibberish.”

“So when her son, Nick, says he saw her commit suicide by climbing over the rail—”

“—she could have been in the deepest stages of sleep.”

“Nice,” Lamond said. “Accidental suicide.”

“Are there any injuries to suggest it wasn't accidental?” Ethan asked.

Dr. Guthro moved around to Elise Vanderzell's head. Her hair had been pulled over her head and to one side, revealing the bloody scalp underneath. “This is where it gets tricky.” He leaned over her head, using a swab as a pointer. “See, here, in the back of her skull?” This part of the skull had been removed to conduct the examination of her brain, but the bone had been stuck back in the hole. “Her scalp had an elongated laceration. The X-ray confirmed her skull had a fairly extensive de pressed fracture. This is consistent with impact on the upper region of the occipital area.”

“From hitting the ground?”

“Precisely. The brain shows an acute subdural hematoma under the skull fracture. This commonly occurs when the skull fragment is pushed into the brain.

“Over here,” Dr. Guthro continued, pointing the swab to above Elise Vanderzell's ear, “in the temporal area, we found a
contrecoup
contusion on the brain, which, again, is consistent with the type of fall she experienced.”

Lamond glanced at Ethan.
What the hell is a
contrecoup
contusion?
his eyes asked.

“What exactly does that mean, Doctor?” Ethan asked.

Dr. Guthro's face lit up. He was a teacher at heart, and enjoyed any opportunity to expound on pathology. “
Contrecoup
injuries occur when the head is moving and is stopped by a hard or immovable object. In this case, the decedent was falling backward, headfirst. Cerebral spinal fluid would accumulate to the back of the skull due to gravity. When her skull hit the ground, the brain would normally bounce against the skull, but the CSF provides a cushion. So the brain rebounds against the opposing skull wall—in this case, her temporal area—and it suffered a contusion at that point of impact.”

Lamond squinted at the victim's temple. “I don't see anything.”

“The skull does not need to be fractured for the brain to suffer an injury. This type of trauma happens from the inside out.”

“Ah.” Lamond stepped away from the body.

“So is the fall the cause of death?”

Dr. Guthro inhaled sharply between his teeth. “Yes. She was alive when she fell.”

“And you see no other injuries that could have killed her?”

“No obvious injuries. Except…” He rubbed his chin. “Do you think she was deliberately killed?”

“Not sure. We were wondering about an intruder. But the scene doesn't support that theory. On the other hand, her ex-husband had both opportunity and, we think, motive. Especially since she had an abortion.”

Dr. Guthro pushed Elise Vanderzell's hair away from the area of the
contrecoup
injury. “There is some bruising on the scalp. I wondered about it, but I think it's more likely she hit something during her fall.”

“Could the bruising be from a weapon or a fist?”

He shook his head. “In my experience, not likely. There normally would be lacerations or abrasions. The skin is intact. And the brain injury is completely consistent with the fracture on the other side of her skull.”

“But you wouldn't rule it out?”

“I wouldn't rule it in, either. Sorry, Detective.”

Dr. Guthro gave him a rueful shrug. “If you find anything of interest, let me know. I am willing to revisit this. The findings won't change. But, as you know, how you interpret them depends on what you are trying to prove.”

Saturday, 3:01 p.m.

L
ight and shadow played across the front lawn of Randall's home. He sat in his car, absorbing the graceful stems of the lilies, the verdant mystery of the hostas, the elegantly curved walkway that led to his home.

The glass-and-shingle take on the classic Cape Cod had been his own design, inspired by his mother's seaside home. Designing it had been his outlet during his first year in Halifax, when he still grappled with his decision to leave Toronto. Building the house had been a declaration of his intent. A haven to lick his wounds. And a source of creative joy. Few knew of his love of architecture. Even fewer knew of his landscaping talent.

It had been everything he had wanted, he had needed.

Until today.

The beauty of his house now jarred him. As if he had no right to be there.

As if he had no right to enjoy it anymore.

He flung open the car door, turning away from the
house. Lucy sat huddled in the back. “Honey, we're h-here,” he said. He'd almost said
home
. Not only did it sound like a line from Ward Cleaver, it also seemed insensitive. Lucy didn't view his house in Halifax as her home.

Not yet.

He exhaled deeply. He wanted the kids to stay with him. It wasn't even a conscious thought. It was instinct. The knowledge that this was the right thing to do. He was their father. He'd left them with Elise in Toronto because he felt that their mother had the presumptive right to the children. But now that she was gone…

His gut constricted. The issue of custody was up for grabs. He knew Elise's parents would want the kids to stay in Toronto. But Jane's stroke two years ago had left her dependent on a walker and on her husband. They could not manage two children.

Still, that didn't mean they would make things easy for him.

Lucy stared at the house, her face unreadable. “Come on, honey, let's go in,” he said.

She made no move to leave the car. “When will Nick come?”

He'd love to know the answer himself. “Soon. Let's go see Charlie.”

Her face brightened. “Yeah.”

Randall followed her up the walk. She'd grown since he'd last seen her. Her body had changed, the limbs long and lean, like a stripling maple. But the supple strength she usually possessed had shriveled in the past few days. Had she eaten anything? He couldn't recall seeing her put a single morsel of food in her mouth.

She hiked her backpack onto her shoulder and waited for him to open the door. Her passivity unnerved him.

What do you expect? She's in shock. She's been traumatized. She's not the same girl who threw herself in your arms yesterday afternoon, with sun gilding her hair and love lighting her eyes.

Would she ever be the same again?

His throat tightened. He unlocked the door and turned off the alarm. “Let's go see Charlie.” He forced a light tone into his voice.

Midafternoon sun streamed through the kitchen windows. The room was warm, the air still. Too still.

Charlie wasn't there.

As soon as the realization hit him, he saw the Post-it note stuck on his counter.
I've taken Charlie home with me,
Kate wrote.
Just call,
she'd added.

“Where's Charlie?” Lucy asked. “Is she okay?” Her voice wobbled.

“She's fine, Lucy. A junior in my firm is looking after her for me.”

“Oh.”

“Why don't you go upstairs and get yourself settled into your room. I'll call Kate and ask her to bring Charlie over.”

“Okay.” Her voice was almost expressionless. Randall tried not to let it alarm him.
Give her time. She needs time.

She left while Randall was reaching for the phone. He didn't hear her go, her footsteps so hollow that they made no sound.

He dialed Kate's number, his fingers fumbling on
the keypad. He disconnected, then tried again. He was more tired than he realized.

Kate answered on the second ring. “Randall?”

His throat closed up when he heard her voice. He swallowed. “Yes.”

“Did you get my note?” Kate asked.

“Yes.”

“Charlie's doing great. You don't need to worry about her.”

“I'm sure she's fine. But my daughter would like to see her…”

“Of course!” She sounded embarrassed. “I didn't realize your daughter was with you… But of course she is. I'll bring Charlie over now.”

“Thanks.” He disconnected the phone. He leaned back against the counter and closed his eyes.

His head throbbed. Viciously.

Images flashed behind his eyelids. Elise's face yesterday. Twisted with anger and pain. Betrayal.

Elise, the first time he saw her. In the library of their firm on Bay Street. Her head bent, her brow furrowed as she skimmed a case report.

Elise, giving birth to their first child. Exhaustion and doubt giving way to elation.

Elise, admitting to her affair, the defiance in her eyes masking pain. And need.

His heart constricted.

He stared down at the phone in his hand. She'd called him last night. He'd been in the kitchen, nursing the first of four doubles. He'd picked up this very phone. Spoken to his ex-wife.

The rest of the night was a nightmarish blur. Like a
Hieronymus Bosch painting. When all his demons, emboldened by the alcohol, attacked him at once. Exacting their vengeance.

He hurled the phone at the back window.

It smashed through the glass, tiny splinters windmilling through light and air before the shards pierced the pale petals of a rose.

 

Charlie was so excited at the sight of her home that she strained at her leash, pulling Kate with her.

Kate reached for the doorbell.

The sharp cracking of glass startled her. She fell back a step. Charlie let out a low whine. She hesitated.
What the hell was going on in Randall's house?
Maybe she should come back later. But Randall's daughter wanted to see his dog. The subtext of his request had been clear: his grieving daughter needed the comfort of the family pet.

She listened for another moment. No sounds of chaos within.

Taking a deep breath, she rang the doorbell. Charlie nosed the door, readying herself to lunge as soon as the door opened.

Footsteps approached. The door swung open. Charlie leaped onto Randall with a joyous bark. He bent over to pat her, the tension in his body obvious. He straightened. “Please, come in.”

“No, it's okay.” His appearance shocked Kate. It wasn't the rumpled clothes, messy hair or unshaven jaw. It was his face.

No. It was his eyes. Normally they would pierce through you without revealing a thing.

Today they were so full of loathing that Kate couldn't meet his gaze.

“Please.”

She forced herself to look at him. The loathing had retreated, swiftly and with no trace. But Kate knew how Machiavellian self-loathing could be. It would wait for the moment when your defenses were down, and then it would strike.

“Okay, sure, I'd love to come in.”

Relief crept across his face. It was like dawn breaking. Only then revealing how dark it really had been.

He led her into the kitchen. “Would you like a drink?” He stopped at the massive granite island and pulled out a leather bar stool. “I don't have a lot in the fridge, but I could make you some tea.”

“Tea would be lovely, thanks.” She slid onto the stool.

It was then she saw the broken window. So that's what she heard when she stood on the front porch. “What happened to your window?” She jerked her chin at the gaping maw of glass. It looked ugly and raw against the cool serenity of the kitchen.

He was rooting around in the cupboard for some tea bags. He glanced at the window. “Oh, that.” He turned back to the cupboard. “I lost my balance and fell against the glass.”

“Are you hurt?” She hadn't noticed any abrasions or cuts.

“No. No, I'm fine.” He placed two mugs on the counter next to the kettle. It was sleek, burnished metal. Just like all the appliances in the kitchen.

Silence fell between them.

Kate glanced around. “Where's your daughter?”

“She's up in her room.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I'll let her know that Charlie is back.”

He left. Kate stared at the broken window. The glass was jagged. Wicked looking. There was a distinct hole in the middle. She wondered what had been thrown through it. And by whom.

Glass glittered against the tile floor. Perfect for slicing open a dog's paw. She hopped off the bar stool and began picking up the shards, placing them carefully on her palm.

“I'll do that,” Randall said from behind her. She started, her hands reflexively curling into her palm. Her skin stung.

“I think I got the worst of it.” She rose to her feet. “Where's your garbage?”

He led her to a garbage unit that had been emptied in anticipation of his sailing trip. Kate shook the glass pieces off her hand. A blood-streaked piece gleamed against the pristine white plastic liner.

“You cut yourself,” Randall said, frowning.

“It's nothing.” She curled her fingers over her palm.

“Let me get you a Band-Aid.” He turned to yet another cupboard—how did he keep track of them all? Kate wondered—and pulled out a box of Band-Aids and some antibacterial ointment. He held out his hand. “Let me see.”

“It's just a scratch, Randall.”

“Let me see.”

She opened her hand. Blood highlighted the lines of
her palm in pale red. “You need to wash it,” Randall said, turning on the faucet.

She placed her palm obediently under the cold stream of water. “Where's your daughter?”

“She's fallen asleep. I decided not to wake her.”

Randall pulled a dish towel from a drawer by the sink. Unlike the many designer elements of his kitchen, it was an ordinary white tea towel with a yellow border. He took her hand and wrapped the towel around her palm, keeping pressure on the cut.

Kate could hear her breathing. His breathing. She couldn't look at him. So she stared at her hand. But his hand was covering her hand, and she found herself studying the curve of his fingers. The light hairs on the back. The ringless third finger.

She pulled her hand away. “That feels much better. Thanks.” She unwrapped the towel. A smear of blood marred the white weave. She hurried over to the garbage and threw it in. “Sorry, I ruined your dish towel.”

He stared at her. “That was just a drop. It would have washed out.”

Probably. But she wasn't sharing her blood with anyone. Not after Craig Peters had bled all over her. She knew she was being paranoid—if she had CJD, it was unlikely it was transmissible by blood, and certainly not transmissible by touching a light bloodstain on a dish towel—but it didn't matter. The sight of her own blood panicked her now. “I'll get you a new one.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” The kettle had begun to boil. Randall dropped two tea bags in the pot and poured in the boiling water. Kate busied herself with applying a Band-Aid to her cut.

Charlie nosed her leg. She'd been lazing in the sun on a large doggie bed. But the sounds of Randall's tea preparations had roused her.

“Alaska and Charlie got on very well,” Kate said, trying to break the silence that had descended on them yet again. She regretted her impulsive acceptance of his invitation into his home. She did not belong here, she did not want to be a witness to his grief and tragedy.

As soon as she could down her tea, she was gone.

He passed her a steaming mug. “Milk? Sugar?” He placed a carton of milk and a simple white sugar bowl in front of her. She added both, pouring in a generous amount of milk to cool down the tea. She'd be able to drink it more quickly.

They sipped their tea in silence. Kate couldn't help but reflect on how bizarre this whole situation was. Here she was, in the kitchen of the managing partner who'd avoided her since June, drinking tea with him the afternoon after his ex-wife died a tragic death, staring at the cracked edges of his broken window.

“Where were you last night?” The question bubbled out from her throat.

He stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“After your ex-wife…” She swallowed. “After her accident, no one could reach you.”

“Where did you hear that?”
From Ethan?
his eyes demanded.

“From a reporter. Who contacted me.”

That surprised him. “Natalie Pitts?”

“Yes.”

“Why did she contact you?”

Kate exhaled. “Because we're friends.”

He turned away from her and leaned over the counter. “Jesus.”

“I didn't say anything, Randall.”

“Then how did she know?”

“I don't know. She's a reporter. She has her sources.”

He turned to her. “Kate, I need to be able to trust you.”

Why?

The question was reflected in his eyes, too. “You are an associate of my firm,” he added. “You can't speak to the media.”

They both knew what he'd just said was bull. “Anyway, you still haven't answered my question. Where were you last night?”

He picked up his mug. “On my yacht.”

“The whole time?”

He slammed his mug down on the counter. “No. I stole away for an hour to kill my wife.” His expression clearly said: satisfied?

Kate noted he said “wife.” Not “ex-wife.” Her stomach tightened. She placed her mug on the counter. “I think I should go now.”

He was so close, the fine arteries of his bloodshot eyes were visible. “No. Don't leave.”

“You accuse me of speaking to the press. Then you refuse to answer my question. You say I'm the one you need to be able to trust. Did it occur to you that the onus is reversed?
You
are the one who went AWOL last night.”

The silence was so palpable that Kate couldn't breathe.