[Kate Lange 01.0] Damaged

by Pamela Callow

  The grandmother may look frail, but she had her head screwed on right. “Did you ask her mother if Lisa could live with you?”

  Mrs. MacAdam’s mouth twisted. “Ask Hope? She’d never allow it. People would judge Hope if she sent her daughter to live with me, and rightly, too.”

  “So what did you do?”

  Mrs. MacAdam gazed at the wall behind his head, her expression wistful. “At first I thought if I just invited Lisa over, she would come.” She glanced at him, her eyes seeking understanding. “But then I realized she was using drugs again. And Hope wouldn’t do anything about it. Too concerned about how it would look to have a daughter in rehab when she’s up for the Supreme Court.”

  His neck tingled again. Judge Carson was being considered for the Supreme Court?

  “What did you do?”

  Mrs. MacAdam straightened. “I went to see a lawyer.”

  He leaned forward. He could imagine how Judge Carson would react to that. “It was Kate Lange, correct?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  He could see how this was unfolding. And it was a fucking mess. When Judge Carson found out about this, she was going to blow a gasket. “And…?”

  Mrs. MacAdam wound the handkerchief tightly around her index finger. “She told me I didn’t have a good case. That the courts were reluctant to remove a child from her mother, especially a teenager who didn’t want to go.”

  He jotted down this information. Kate would have to be interviewed. Shit.

  Marian MacAdam twisted her handkerchief. “I’d heard Lyons McGrath Barrett was a good firm, but I didn’t feel Ms. Lange gave me good advice.”

  He leaned forward. “Why not?”

  “She told me I didn’t have a case unless I had proof that Lisa was endangering herself.”

  “Did she give you any advice about how to get it?” He watched her closely. Had Kate observed her statutory responsibility?

  Mrs. MacAdam’s eyes fell to her handkerchief. “She told me I could call Child Protection but I told her I didn’t have any proof…”

  “And did you?”

  She stared at her handkerchief. “I didn’t think I did…it was just a feeling.” She met Ethan’s eyes. Beseeching him not to judge her. It was a look he’d received so many times, he usually felt little sympathy. But in this case, he felt a twinge of pity. This woman would likely never get a full night’s sleep again. “I didn’t think a feeling counted.”

  She was right—in a way. It was hard to act without some concrete evidence. And yet, cops acted on instinct all the time. Feelings, as Marian MacAdam put it, could make or break a case.

  “What about your lawyer?” He avoided saying Kate’s name. “Was she going to call them?”

  She shook her head. “I asked her not to. I wanted to keep the matter private.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I knew that if Lisa found out I’d involved the authorities she wouldn’t come live with me.”

  “You’d lose your case.”

  She hung her head. “Yes.” Tears ran down her cheeks. The consequence remained unspoken but it was obvious what they both were thinking: and now you’ve lost Lisa. Marian MacAdam swallowed a sob.

  “We need to find the person who did this to her,” Ethan said, his voice firm. He couldn’t have her disintegrate on him. There’d be plenty of time—the rest of her life—to be subsumed in recriminations and loss. Right now he needed to get whatever information he could extract from her before time and grief blurred her memory. “We need to establish a time line.”

  She nodded, her head still bent. She closed her eyes for a moment. Then she took her handkerchief and wiped it over her cheeks. She stuffed it into her sleeve and straightened. “I don’t have a lot of information,” she said. “I was at my cottage.” What she did know she recounted in a defeated tone. Ethan closed his folder. It was 10:07 p.m. They were both exhausted. He stood. “Thank you for coming in, Mrs. MacAdam.”

  “Can I see her?” she asked.

  He picked up his file. “That’s up to Judge Carson.”

  Tears welled in Marian MacAdam’s eyes. “I was afraid you’d say that.” She walked to the door, her body shrunken in her camel overcoat. Neither of them spoke as Ethan led her through the security door to the main foyer.

  “Do you have an alarm system, Mrs. MacAdam?” he asked. She looked as if she would fall to pieces if anyone so much as tapped her arm.

  “I live in a condo, Detective. There is good security in our building.”

  He nodded. “Make sure you use it.” Given that Lisa’s mother was a criminal court judge, and, in particular, Judge Hope Carson, there could be a number of killers with bones to pick.

  Or cut off.

  Chapter 14

  Wednesday, May 2, 6:00 a.m.

  The rising sun sent a shaft of light under the blind, lightening the room to a cool blue. Sleep had proven a faithful accomplice to Kate’s conscience, abandoning her to a night of insomnia while her mind twisted with recriminations.

  She pushed back the bedcovers and sat up. Alaska had only been living with her for a short time, but he knew this was his cue. He padded over, his dog tags making a light jingle in the otherwise silent room, and nuzzled her hand. She rubbed his head. “You are the only good thing in my life right now, boy,” she whispered.

  She discovered how true that statement was when she opened her front door.

  The morning paper lay on her front porch.

  She picked it up and braced herself for what the headline would say. But it didn’t prevent her heart from stopping in her throat.

  Judge’s Daughter Dismembered, the headline screamed.

  Judge Carson’s stark features, made even grimmer in grainy black-and-white, stared accusingly at her from the front page.

  * * *

  The few hours of sleep that Ethan caught didn’t feel like any at all. He was on his third coffee, picked up from the gas station on his way to work. He pulled into the lot opposite the police station and parked the car. It was a perfect spring morning. The air was fresh, moist and full of promise. Ethan rolled down the window and breathed deeply. In the distance, Halifax Harbour spread out before him. Blue, sparkling, beautiful.

  Some things never seemed to change, despite the death and depravity that he investigated every day. It comforted him to know that he could still find beauty. Because he was scared that one day he would look at the harbor and see just blue water. Cold, polluted water.

  He picked up the paper and glanced at the clock on the dash: 7:38 a.m. He had just enough time to skim the paper before the case meeting.

  He knew what the headlines would say—the phone had been ringing since yesterday morning. The Halifax Post’s usually cynical crime reporter eagerly asked him about the girl’s death, probing for as many salacious details as he could get.

  Still, he flinched when he read the large bold print on the front page: Judge’s Daughter Dismembered. He thought of Judge Carson when she saw that headline. It would anger her. But would it also wound her?

  Or would it give her a secret satisfaction?

  He was bothered by her interview yesterday. She was so angry. She showed very little grief. That wasn’t necessarily a sign of guilt; many people were paralyzed by grief and unable to show it. It would swell inside until it erupted when the grief stricken were least prepared. Judge Carson might adjudicate a case five months from now and find herself swallowing sobs as she gazed at the shaved head of a Hells Angels member. Maybe he’d have a tattoo of a dog on his skull. Maybe that would remind her unexpectedly of her own child.

  Nonetheless, he’d interviewed a lot of victims’ families and something about Judge Carson was off.

  He hadn’t really considered her a strong suspect until Marian MacAdam told him Judge Carson was in line for an appointment to the Supreme Court. That was a big step up from the criminal court. Supreme Court justices were chosen based on their legal acuity and their character. He suspected Judge Carson would easily ac
e the first criterion, but given Mrs. MacAdam’s description of Judge Carson’s family situation, he wasn’t sure about the other. Would having a drugged-out daughter and a nasty custody battle with her own mother-in-law be grounds for excluding her from the race? He guessed that no one wanted to appoint a justice to the Supreme Court with that kind of baggage.

  So it came to this: How far would Judge Carson be willing to go to secure that appointment?

  From Mrs. MacAdam’s point of view, she was already willing to sacrifice her daughter’s well-being and not send her to rehab for fear of public scandal.

  But would she actually kill her daughter?

  And dismember her?

  Mutilating the body would be a perfect way to cover up the crime.

  Yet, it was hard to believe that a mother—and a criminal court judge—could commit so heinous an act on her own flesh and blood.

  Which, of course, was the perfect reason for doing it.

  He ran his mind back over the information she had provided. It was very little. She was vague about the time line. A picture of her hands floated in his head. They were strong hands. One knuckle bore a cut.

  And Lamond reported that Lisa’s father had been overseas for the past fifteen days and was not due back for another ten. Thus, nicely out of the picture.

  He washed his muffin down with his coffee and hopped out of his car.

  Judge Hope Carson was officially on the list of suspects.

  He headed through the heavy wooden doors of the police station, swiping his pass through the inner security door, and strode down the hallway. He tipped his coffee cup into his mouth and discovered he’d drunk it all. Cursing under his breath, he tossed the cup into the garbage can.

  Ferguson stood at the white board at the front of the war room, jotting notes. He slid into a seat at the boardroom table next to Lamond. Ferguson stared one last time at the map, then turned to the group.

  “All right, then,” she said. “The media is already whipping the public into a frenzy, so we have no time to lose. Walker and Lamond, you take the street kids and prostitutes. Lisa MacAdam’s grandmother thinks she started using a few months back. Find out when, who sold to her, who she hung out with, and whether anyone had a reason to hurt her.”

  Her gaze turned to Ethan. He knew what was expected of him. They’d already discussed their tasks earlier this morning via cell. “I’ll check out all the offenders on release that Judge Carson put away,” he said for the benefit of the team. He’d wanted to be out in the field, checking leads, not sitting on a computer tracking ex-cons. But he was good at this. And right now, he had to prove he was not only a team player, but a team leader. He pushed back his chair. “Everyone know their tasks?”

  The team nodded. He walked toward the door. “See you at 5:00 p.m.”

  Ferguson intercepted him outside the war room. “Before you go…” She lowered her voice. “I had one of the guys run a check on Kate…”

  “You did what?”

  She returned his outraged stare with a coolness that Ethan knew he needed to regain. He breathed in deeply. “What did the check show?”

  “The previous Friday night she reported an intruder in her yard.”

  His pulse pounded. Kate had reported an intruder? Why hadn’t she called him? “What time?” he asked. His voice was hoarse. He swallowed. “What time did she report the intruder?”

  “About 2150.”

  He felt the tension leave his shoulders. It was after the time he’d seen her, but still…the realization that she’d called patrol instead of him was like a punch to his gut.

  She’s moved on, buddy.

  But he hadn’t.

  He’d swallowed his pride, gone to her new house. Tried to make her see that they couldn’t just leave things the way they were. He’d hoped she’d apologize, that she’d throw herself in his arms and tell him that Vicky had gotten it all wrong. That she was the woman he’d fallen in love with.

  But she didn’t.

  He should never have fallen for a lawyer. Lawyers were trained to champion a side. They represented a client, not the public. They deliberately turned a blind eye to justice. It infuriated him when an accused got off on a technicality, practically given permission to go out and hurt someone else.

  Kate had tried turning the tables on him and telling him that he had the problem. He wasn’t the one with the stained past. Her father had been feeding a spiraling gambling addiction; she’d been speeding. They’d both thrown the dice—and lost.

  She also had been everything he’d ever wanted in a woman.

  He was fucked.

  “We’re going to have to talk to her, Ethan.”

  He nodded. “Right.”

  Ferguson’s face became more intent. “I don’t want you calling her.”

  He crossed his arms. “Is she a suspect?”

  Ferguson shook her head. “No. But we can’t afford to have the media spinning this. I’m going to do the interview myself.”

  “Right.” He picked up his clipboard, pretending an indifference he didn’t feel. “I’m going to start the court record check.”

  “Good.” She paused. Her eyes sought his. “If I learn anything, I’ll let you know.”

  Ethan nodded. He turned on his heel and left the room. He needed some privacy to sort out his thoughts. Without the team watching his face.

  How had Ferguson guessed that his first instinct would be to call Kate and give her the heads-up? Despite everything that had gone down between them, he wasn’t prepared to have her ambushed.

  And yet, as Ferguson had told him—had that been an oblique warning in her gaze?—Kate hadn’t called him about the intruder on Friday night.

  She’d chosen to not involve him.

  The message was loud and clear. Kate wasn’t calling him for help. She had opted to go the official route.

  He would do the same.

  * * *

  “The police are here to see you,” Liz announced. Kate glanced up from her work. Her nerves were so taut that she was shaky. Her icy-blond assistant looked surprised for once, but Kate wasn’t. She knew why they were calling. Relief seeped through her, mingling with trepidation. She wanted to know what happened to Lisa and yet was scared to find out.

  Because she would finally know how terrible her guilt would be.

  “Send them in,” she said. She closed her file and pulled out the MacAdam folder, her hands suddenly sweaty. Two police detectives came in.

  This pair was older than the ones who came to her house on Friday, more seasoned veterans of the police force, dressed in civilian garb.

  “Ms. Lange, I am Detective Sergeant Ferguson,” said a woman about ten years older than Kate. She held out her hand, her open, freckly features belying a steely grip and even steelier gaze. “And this is Detective Constable Redding.” He nodded, his bloodshot eyes inscrutable in his weathered face.

  “Please have a seat, detectives.” Kate tried to look calm, but her palms were sweating like crazy. She sat down and rubbed her hands furtively on her skirt.

  The officers pulled up the two seats by her desk until they were directly in front of her. Detective Redding took out a portfolio from his briefcase and balanced it on his knee. He clicked his pen. That seemed to be a signal for his partner.

  “Ms. Lange, you are aware that the granddaughter of your client Marian MacAdam was found dead on Tuesday morning?” Detective Ferguson asked.

  Judge’s Daughter Dismembered. Kate could never forget that headline for as long as she lived. “Yes.”

  “We believe she was the victim of foul play,” Detective Ferguson said.

  “The paper said she’d been—” Kate’s tongue resisted saying the word. She forced it out, “—dismembered.”

  Detective Ferguson nodded. “Yes.”

  Kate swallowed. “Do you know if she was conscious when it…happened?” Her mind refused to let go of the images of Lisa’s final moments. A killer cutting off an arm. A girl whimpering in disbelief. Then
agony. Crying for her mother, her grandmother, someone, to help her. Eyes begging for mercy. How long would it have taken her to lose consciousness?

  She suddenly became aware of Detective Redding watching her. There was a flash of sympathy in Detective Ferguson’s eyes before she shook her head. “We cannot give details, Ms. Lange.”

  Kate’s hands clenched. She knew the police couldn’t give out information while they were searching for a suspect. But she needed to know.

  “Lisa had been hanging out with some street kids the day she disappeared,” Detective Ferguson said.

  “I see.”

  Detective Ferguson watched her closely. “Lisa’s grandmother told us she was concerned enough about Lisa’s activities that she came to you for advice about getting custody from her daughter-in-law.”

  Kate breathed out slowly. “Yes, Detective, that is correct.” Breathing made no difference. The guilt churned regardless.

  “And what advice did you give her?”

  Kate’s gaze sharpened. Nice try, Detective. “Solicitor-client privilege prevents me from sharing that with you.”

  Detective Ferguson raised a brow. Kate could see that she had known full well Kate wouldn’t divulge the details of the meeting.

  “Well, you must have had a good reason for not involving Child Protection…”

  Detective Ferguson was fishing. Kate knew the detective was hoping she would try to defend her advice, and thereby reveal information about the file. But she held her tongue. She would repent silently. Not share her remorse with two homicide detectives.

  “Although you did call the police yesterday morning, correct?”

  “Yes.” Too little, too late. The thought was reflected in Detective Ferguson’s gaze.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d spoken to Mrs. MacAdam and she told me Lisa was missing. And I’d heard the news report about the homicide.”

  “Why didn’t you call Child Protection sooner?”

  “Without revealing the details of my discussions with Mrs. MacAdam, I was assured that she had no proof Lisa was endangering herself.” She knew what she said, on the surface, sounded reasonable. But inside her conscience was firmly on the homicide detectives’ side. Why didn’t I call them sooner?