Indefensible (8 page)

Saturday, 2:24 a.m.

S
everal patrol cars blocked the driveway, lights flashing. Every other second, the lights flickered over a red Volkswagen Beetle, spotlighting the haphazard parking job done by its owner.

A distraught family member.

From the gray hair and the familiar embrace she gave the victim's daughter—who sobbed brokenly into the older woman's shoulder—Ethan guessed the owner of the red Beetle was the girl's grandmother. He was glad to see the kids had a family member to comfort them. Even better, she might know the whereabouts of the victim's husband.

Sue headed to one of the patrol cars to get the canvass organized. Ethan walked toward the girl and the older woman. They stood near the last patrol car. Ethan glanced in the backseat and saw the son, Nick, slumped with his head in his hands.

The older lady lifted her head, throwing a con
cerned glance at Nick as Ethan approached, but did not relinquish her hold on the girl.

“I'm Detective Ethan Drake.”

“Penelope Barrett,” she said, her eyes assessing him. “Their grandmother.” She hugged the girl a little tighter.

“I came as fast as I could,” the grandmother added, more for the girl's benefit than for his, Ethan guessed. “I left home as soon as Lucy called me. But it's a forty-minute drive from Prospect. Where I live.”

She did look as if she'd run from her bed, her short gray hair swirling around her head, a pair of bifocals in a striking blue shoved crookedly on her nose. They seemed too vibrant for the grief shadowing her deep-set eyes. There was something very familiar about her face—she was still attractive, the benefit of good bones—and yet Ethan knew he hadn't met her before. It would be hard to forget someone like her. She was a tall, lanky woman, and her loose sweater and slightly askew wrinkled skirt hung from her spare frame. On her feet were green rubber boots—the type that had a permanent shelf at Canadian Tire—covered with splashes of paint. The colors were too vibrant and eclectic to be house paint. She was an artist, Ethan bet.

Lucy wiped her nose with the back of her hand and gazed at Ethan with an expression so bereft that he had to look away.

“Can I take them home now?” Penelope Barrett asked softly. “They're exhausted.”

“Mrs. Barrett—”
Mrs. Barrett
.

No. It couldn't be.

He felt as if he'd been punched.

He cursed his gut for denying him his coffee. He'd have picked this up right away if his brain weren't so sluggish.

Her eyes narrowed. He was sending off signals to her that he needed to control. He forced his face to relax. “Mrs. Barrett,” he began again. “You are the children's paternal grandmother?”

“That is correct.” The whole artsy getup she had going on could not disguise the steeliness in her eyes. This woman was no flake.

“What is your son's name?”

Lucy stiffened. Ethan glanced at Nick. The teen hadn't moved an inch, but Ethan sensed he was listening intently.

Penelope Barrett's gaze was level. “Randall Barrett.”

Je-sus
.

Ethan strove to keep his voice neutral. “Do you know his whereabouts this evening? We haven't been able to locate him.”

Lucy threw a panicked glance at her grandmother, then at her brother. Had there been a flicker in Nick's eyes?

Penelope Barrett straightened, keeping a comforting arm around her granddaughter. “I do not know where he is.”

Ethan's gaze shifted to Lucy. “Do you know where your dad is, Lucy?”

She shook her head. “I kept calling him but he didn't answer his cell phone.” Her lip trembled. “What if something happened to him, too?”

“I'm sure he's fine, Lucy. But we need to track
him down. He needs to know what's happened.” She flinched. He turned to the young man slumped in the car. “How about you, Nick? Do you know where your father is?”

Nick stared at Ethan for a minute. “No,” he said finally.

“But you did see him earlier today?”

“Yes, he came by earlier.” Lucy jumped into the silence, her gaze earnest. The muscles around Nick's eyes relaxed. His sister had spared him from answering.

Ethan turned to Lucy and Penelope. “I'd like to have a few minutes with Nick. Could you go wait by your car, please.”

“Is that okay, Nick?” Penelope asked.

Ethan's mouth tightened. Most people would just do as they were asked, too traumatized by events to question authority. “Yeah.” Nick crossed his arms. His body language clearly signaled that Ethan could talk to him until he was blue in the face but he wasn't getting anything from him.

Ethan slid next to Nick in the backseat of the patrol car. “Nick, I realize you've gone through a very traumatic experience.”

Nick's breathing quickened.

“Tomorrow we'd like to spend some time finding out exactly what you witnessed. But for now, I'm just trying to track down your dad.”

Nick's shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I told you. I don't know where he is.”

“But you saw him earlier, right?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“After we arrived.”

Ethan knew that Randall Barrett and his ex had split in a very messy way several years ago. Yet, she'd brought their kids to Halifax to see him. Had they reconciled?

“Did your mum invite him over?” Ethan gave Nick an encouraging smile. “After all, they hadn't seen each other for a while, right?”

“They're divorced. My mother hates him.” Nick spat out the words. But the anger in his eyes extinguished as soon as he realized he'd spoken about his mother in the present tense.

“So why did you come to Halifax?”

“My sister wanted to visit my dad.”

“What about you?”

Nick's lips pressed together. He wasn't going to answer in words, but the look on his face spoke volumes. So Randall had alienated his son. Ethan wasn't surprised. The guy was a prick.

Ethan arched a brow. “You say that your mother hated your dad.” He decided to fish a little. “How did she react when she saw him?”

A very faint sheen of perspiration marked the boy's upper lip. “She got mad at him.”

“Why?”

Nick blew out air heavily between his lips. “Because he got mad at me. He wanted me to go sailing with him.”

“On his boat?”

“Yacht,” Nick corrected. “My dad owns a yacht.”

“And he wanted you to go sailing on it.”

“There was no way I was going to spend a week alone with him.”

Ethan couldn't blame him. “So did you tell him that?”

“Yes.”

“And how did he react?”

“He got angry.”

Did Nick realize how this was sounding? Ethan wondered. “What did he do?”

“He yelled at me and my mum.”

“She was trying to defend your decision?”

Nick looked away. “Yeah,” he said softly.

“Did he get violent? You know, hit you or your mum?”

Nick tensed. “No.”

“So what happened?”

“He got in his fancy new car and left.”

“Was that the last you saw of him?”

Nick stared straight ahead, his expression wooden again. “Yeah.”

Ethan opened the door to the patrol car. The night air rushed in, cool and holding the breath of fog.

“Do you think your dad could be on his yacht right now?”

Nick shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Don't worry, we'll find him.”

Nick shrugged. “Don't bother on my account.”

Ethan stepped out of the car. “We'll talk to your grandmother about coming to the station tomorrow. We need to take a more detailed statement.”

“But I already told you and some other officer everything I know.”

“A good night's sleep might help you remember
things. We need to piece together what happened to your mum.”

Ethan left the door open and walked over to Penelope Barrett's red Beetle. Lucy and her grandmother leaned against the hood of the car. Lucy clutched a blanket around her shoulders. As Ethan got closer he could see she was trembling. “Mrs. Barrett, we are going to send patrol over to your son's house, his office and his yacht.”

“His yacht! Of course, I should have thought of that.” Relief warmed Penelope Barrett's voice. “He keeps it at the Armdale Yacht Club. It's white. It's called
Ex Parte.
”

“Can you think of any other places he might be? Does he have a cottage? Or a friend he visits regularly?”

Ethan used the euphemism for Lucy's sake. Her grandmother didn't miss the nuance. “No. He doesn't have either a cottage or a place he goes to regularly.” Penelope Barrett smoothed Lucy's hair, which Ethan realized looked just like her dead mother's. She gave Ethan a warning glance. “I need to get Lucy and her brother home. They're in shock.”

“Just give the patrol officer at the end of the driveway your address and a number to reach you tomorrow. We'll need to get their statements at the police station.”

Lucy closed her eyes as if the thought was too much for her. Penelope Barrett nodded brusquely. “I understand.”

 

Nat drove slowly down Point Pleasant Drive. It was easy to find the house in question: several patrol cars sat in the driveway.

She raised her brows at the sight of the FIS van. A murder? When she'd heard the original call over her new scanner, patrol had said a woman appeared to have fallen off a balcony on the north side of the house. The watch commander hadn't given any more details.

She'd grabbed her satchel. A woman had died. Fallen to her death. And in an area of the city known for its wealth, not for its crime. That would be attention-grabbing. Everyone loved to read how the wealthy had fallen—literally.

Sounded like a story worth checking out.

Nat parked her car across from the house and gave a low whistle. The house wasn't one of Halifax's Victorian grande dames, but it was still impressive. She glanced at her iPhone directory. The house was owned by Catherine Feldman, associate professor at Hollis University Law School. The law school's website announced that she was currently a visiting professor at the University of Auckland law faculty in New Zealand. She must have hired someone to take care of the place, be cause the lawn had been recently mowed—although not weeded—and the garden looked as if it was getting regular watering.

Who had fallen off the balcony? A caretaker? A family member?

There was a small cluster of onlookers, a couple in bathrobes, a few others in T-shirts and shorts. Looked like neighbors, attracted by the police cars and FIS detectives combing the property.
Perfect
. Hopefully someone had been interviewed by the police and could give her the lowdown. She had loved weekends when she covered the crime beat in Ottawa, but Halifax was proving
to be much more fertile ground than the staid nation's capital.
Take that, Bryce.

She grabbed her notepad and hopped out of her car. There was surely someone in that crowd with a story to tell. As she neared the group, she realized they were all watching a scene unfold twenty feet away. A silver-haired woman was ushering two kids into a red Beetle. The hairs on the back of Nat's neck tingled. This was the victim's family, she was sure of it. She whipped her camera out of her satchel, taking a picture of the three head-on before they realized what was happening.

The grandmother hurried the kids into the car, glaring at Nat as she sped away.

“Bad luck,” a man murmured, nodding his head toward the crime scene tape. He edged closer to Nat. “She'd only just arrived, I think.”

With that opener, Nat got her story.

As she left the scene of Elise Vanderzell's death, she should have felt satisfied with her night's work. But she didn't.

The look on those kids' faces had been so desolate.

Some days she hated her job.

Saturday, 3:54 a.m.

E
than stood in the doorway of the master suite in which Elise Vanderzell had not even had one full night's sleep. It had originally been a large bedroom in the center of the house that had been doubled by removing the wall from the east-facing bedroom. A walk-in closet sprawled over one wall. Half of the back wall boasted a sliding patio door that opened onto a narrow balcony.

The balcony from which Elise Vanderzell fell.

An FIS technician photographed the bedside table. There was nothing remarkable about it. The clock radio, lamp and travel magazines had the air of a still life. But there was no dust on them. Ethan guessed that the room had been recently cleaned in anticipation of Elise's stay.

Even the matching cherrywood king-size four-poster bed with pale blue and cream bedding appeared barely inhabited. The duvet had been pulled back on one side, revealing only slightly rumpled sheets. The pillow cradled the faint imprint of a lone head. The other side of
the massive bed was neatly made. It would appear that Elise Vanderzell had slept alone tonight.

Had she been so alone, so desolate that she threw herself over the balcony?

A large framed picture of a beach dotted with shells hung over the bed. The master suite had been decorated by a romantic, it seemed. Ethan wondered how much trace evidence they'd have to eliminate because someone else normally occupied the room.

He looked down at the floor. Hardwood. Wouldn't give much in the way of footwear impressions, but it was a perfect trap for blood spatters. A large pale blue Persian rug lay on the floor by the bed.

“Get any impressions from the rug?” Ethan asked the FIS technician.

The technician shook his head. “Nope.”

“Have you taped any of the floor yet?” FIS technicians use clear tape to pick up fibers and hairs from the floor.

The technician shook his head.

“I'll be careful.” Fortunately, the bathroom door was ajar, so he slid sideways through the doorway, stopping on the threshold. The blue-and-cream theme had been extended to the matching bath, with gold faucets and gold-speckled tile adding a touch of luxury. Nautilus-themed hand towels hung from a gold towel bar. The carefully decorated interior was in striking contrast to the indifferently shabby exterior.

But Ethan wasn't here to admire the decorating job. What he was looking for sat on the gold-flecked vanity, right next to the shell-shaped sink.

A bottle of pills.

He snapped on latex gloves and picked up the bottle.

The label confirmed his suspicions. Prescription sleeping pills. But his eyebrows rose at the brand.
Delteze.

There'd been a lot of press about those pills. Originally touted as one of the best treatments for insomnia, reports surfaced of strange side effects: people driving their cars at night, binge eating and sleepwalking—with no memory of it.

He shook the pills onto his palm and began counting. The prescription was a month old. If Elise Vanderzell had followed the prescribed dose, there should be thirty pills missing, max.

There were exactly fourteen pills unaccounted for.

Had she taken them all and OD'd?

Or had she taken one pill and sleepwalked to her death?

 

“We've found the husband,” Sue announced in the doorway. “Or should I say, ex-husband.”

Ethan spun around. He'd been standing on the balcony outside the master suite, surveying the surrounding buildings. He couldn't see much through the foliage. He'd hoped that there might have been late-night party-goers taking advantage of the long weekend who might have witnessed something—but he doubted anyone could see through the hedges or trees. Still, you never knew.

“Where was he?” Ethan retraced his steps through the bedroom. He'd seen enough. There was no obvious sign of struggle. Nothing to suggest Elise Vanderzell
had met a violent death. It was now up to the FIS technicians to reveal what could be concealed to the naked eye.

Sue's mouth twisted. “You're gonna love this one. The harbor patrol found him.”

“The harbor patrol? He was out on his yacht?”

“Yup. He was heading down the Arm when they flagged him down. Drunk as a skunk.”

“Where was Barrett going?” Ethan asked.

“He says he was going on the trip he was supposed to take with his son.” Sue arched a brow.

“Why couldn't anyone reach him on the phone?”

The sergeant shrugged. “He says he'd turned his phones off. Wanted some time for reflection.”

Ethan frowned. The guy was an act-first-and-ask-forgiveness-later type of guy. And Ethan knew from personal experience that he rarely did the latter.

“Is he down at the station?”

Sue shook her head. “He asked to be taken to his kids.”

Fair enough. Randall wasn't charged with anything—yet.

What the hell had happened between Barrett and his ex-wife? The woman had only arrived and now was dead.

Ethan knew that this situation presented him with two options. He'd either end up pitying Barrett. Which he was loath to do.

Or charging him with murder.