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.
A fly buzzed through the broken glass. It darted around Kate’s head, then back out the window. “Goodbye.” She pushed away from the counter.
“I was on my yacht.” His voice was low.
“The whole time?” This was the test.
A muscle ticked beneath one corner of his eye. “No. First I got drunk.”
“Where?”
“Here. Then at a bar. I drank more than I’ve drunk in years.”
Some of the tension in Kate’s shoulders eased. “How did you get to your yacht?”
He shook his head. “I think I drove. I don’t remember.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m lucky I didn’t kill someone.”
Kate stared at him. “You mean you were so drunk you had a blackout.”
He looked away. “Yes.” Then his gaze swung back to her. “This is the first time it’s ever happened, I swear it.”
“Why couldn’t your children reach you?”
He jerked back. “How do you know they tried to call me?”
The Toronto phone numbers on Randall’s call list flashed through Kate’s mind. She hoped her flush of guilt didn’t show through her tan. “Your kids found her, didn’t they? It stands to reason they’d try to call their father.”
“Yes. It stands to reason. I failed them, Kate. I was so drunk I didn’t even think about whether they could reach me.” Pain, remorse, guilt. It was in his eyes, his voice. He gave a derisive laugh. “I discovered my phone was turned off this morning. I must have turned it off last night. I obviously forgot what it was like to be a parent. Elise did all the day-to-day stuff. I forgot the cardinal rule—you never turn off your phone. Ever.” He crossed his arms. “I failed them.”
She didn’t know what to say. He had failed them. Gone off, gotten drunk, wallowed in whatever had upset him and not been there at the most traumatic moment of his kids’ lives.
“You didn’t know what would happen.”
“It doesn’t matter. The kids won’t rationalize that part. All they know is that their dad wasn’t there when their mother died.”
The self-loathing had returned in his eyes. Kate wondered if her own father had been so consumed with recriminations after he pulled them under and then left them. She doubted it.
But wh
at she did know was how it felt to be twelve years old and have your world irrevocably destroyed. And to realize that your father was not there to help you when you needed him the most.
“Dad.” Lucy stood in the doorway. Her face was swollen from sleep, her hair tangled. Kate gave her a tentative smile. Would she remember Kate from when she patted Alaska yesterday? The girl’s gaze swept over her. A flicker of recognition was all Kate got. Her animation, her impish smile were gone. In its stead was apathy. “Where’s Charlie?”
At the sound of Lucy’s voice, Charlie bounded from her bed, throwing herself against Lucy with enthusiastic kisses. Lucy sank to her knees and buried her face in Charlie’s fur.
It took Kate a moment to realize that the girl’s shoulders were heaving. Randall hurried over to his weeping daughter and put his hand on her shoulder. She shook it off.
“I’ll see you later.” Kate edged around them, wishing she’d left the first time she’d said goodbye.
Randall caught up with her as she walked through the front doorway. He gripped the door frame with bloodless fingers. “How can I make it up to her, Kate?”
It was the one question today that Kate could answer with confidence. Her own past gave her that authority. “You can never make it up to her, Randall.”
His fingers tightened. It was not the answer he expected to hear. Or wanted to hear. It never was. She placed a hand on his wrist. “But you can start over. Just take it one step at a time.”
She walked away, down the elegant stone walkway. For a man like Randall, the hardest part of her advice would be the last part. He lived life in the fast lane. Now he would have to slow down. And not make the assumption that taking things bit by bit would be easy.
The pitfalls for the impatient on the road to redemption were many.
Only a few succeeded.
For the sake of his daughter, Kate hoped he would be one of those few.
But at some point, the law of probabilities dictated that a man who had won so many times would inevitably lose.
Kate wondered if Randall’s luck had run out.
28
Sunday, 11:02 a.m.
“I don’t think Elise Vanderzell killed herself,” Ethan said.
Detective Sergeant Deb Ferguson did not look impressed. In fact, she looked for all the world like a scornful, big-boned milkmaid. Except she sat behind a large desk instead of a reluctant cow. Plaques awarded for outstanding police work and volunteerism dotted the wall behind her. “So you think this is a homicide investigation?”
“Yes. Right now, I’m working on two theories. The first theory is that she was killed by a random intruder. The whole area around Point Pleasant Park was being targeted for break-ins. And we know that Dr. Feldman’s house had not been occupied prior to Elise Vanderzell’s arrival. She might have surprised someone.”
Deb nodded. “And what’s your second theory?”
Ethan shifted in his chair. He knew Deb wouldn’t like it. “It was Barrett. He had every opportunity to kill Elise Vanderzell.”
“But neither the scene nor the autopsy have given us a damn thing.”
“But Barrett also had motive, Deb.”
She raised a brow.
“The autopsy revealed she’d had an abortion.”
“Was the baby his?”
Now came the hard part. “The clinic says it doesn’t ask who the father is. But Elise Vanderzell put down Randall Barrett’s name as next of kin.
“Dr. Guthro told me that the clinic might have tissue samples. We could run the DNA—”
“It still doesn’t give us motive, Ethan. Randall Barrett might have been very happy to not have a third Barrett from his ex-wife.”
Ethan looked away. He knew the evidence was flimsy. But his gut was telling him that there was more to this than met the eye.
“I believe she was murdered, Deb.”
She crossed her arms. “By Randall Barrett?”
He shrugged. “Possibly.”
“Are you sure you don’t have blinkers on? You two have some nasty business between you.”
He stiffened at her reference to the Clarkson file. “That’s not the reason. Give me some credit, Deb.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What about the son? He was present at the scene.”
“I know.”
“He could have killed her and lied about seeing her jump.”
Ethan’s skin prickled. Deb had just pointed out what his mind whispered every time he zeroed in on Barrett. “I know. But I don’t think he did it.”
“Could he be protecting someone?”
“It wouldn’t be his father. He hates him.”
“What about someone else?”
“Who else would he know? He just arrived in Halifax.”
“So maybe he killed his mother.” The mildness of Deb’s tone belied the hardness in her eyes. “But right now, there is no proof this is a homicide. FIS has come up with nothing, the M.E. isn’t giving us anything. In fact, the only eyewitness we have is Vanderzell’s son, and he says that she jumped.”
“Come on, Deb. An innocent woman is dead. Her death is suspicious. We can’t just ignore it. Think of what the media will say if some other woman ends up killed.” He raised his brows. They both knew what he was referring to. The Lisa MacAdam case. The Major Crimes Unit had thought she was the first victim of a serial killer. Turned out there had been many before her. And no one in the Major Crimes Unit had made the connection.
Deb exhaled. Loudly.
“Okay. But keep Barrett under wraps for now. The shit will hit the fan if we begin filling out warrants on Randall Barrett with what we’ve got so far. The JP will stop answering his phone.” She leaned toward Ethan. Her eyes locked onto his. “Not to mention the field day the media will have with this. Do you really want all that bad blood between you and Barrett printed in black and white on the front page of the Post?”
She was throwing the media card back in his face, he knew that. It still didn’t stop his gut from clenching.
“We are maxed out as it is on the Robichaud file.” She twisted her mouth to the side, a sure sign she was going to tell him something he didn’t want to hear. “In fact, I wanted you to be the file coordinator on Robichaud.”
“Okay. Just give me a week. I’ve got a couple of leads. One of Elise Vanderzell’s final phone calls was to a Dr. Jamie Gainsford. I think he might be her therapist. He could help us establish her state of mind. And the toxicology report hasn’t come in yet.”
She waved him toward the door. “You have five days. If you haven’t come up with anything, you’re on Robichaud.”
29
Sunday, 3:13 p.m.
Aisle number eleven was where Nick Barrett found his murder weapon.
He hadn’t thought it would be so easy. So…well, normal.
This morning, his grandmother told him that she was going into town to see Lucy. It had been a perfect opportunity to take the first step of his plan. He told her he’d come with her. And that he wanted to spend the night at his father’s.
Surprise, pleasure, hope—each of those emotions flickered through his grandmother’s eyes. He knew she was thinking that her ex-daughter-in-law’s death might have one unexpected silver lining: that her grandson might reconcile with her son.
They left his grandmother’s house in Prospect after lunch. It was all Nick could do to hide his anger. His hate.
He stared out the window. He loved his grandmother, but she was blinded by the golden glow of his father. Everyone was. Grandma Penny, you are so wrong. You are so wrong about your own son. He’s evil.
His father greeted them at the door of his house, weary hope in his gaze when he saw Nick’s duffel bag. Nick had challenged him with his eyes. Just admit you killed her, you bastard. You know I saw you. Stop fucking pretending.
But his father just ushered them in, offering them a drink. Nick hoisted his duffel onto his shoulder and stomped upstairs. His room had been redone since he was last here: there was a new Mac
in the corner, an iPod stereo system on the bureau and a guitar leaning against the wall.
It sickened him. His father was trying to buy his affection, trying to assuage his conscience by tricking out his room.
He dumped his bag on the floor and left.
He went back downstairs and asked his father if he could buy a baseball bat. His father had seemed startled, but then said, “Yes, of course. It would do us both good to get outside.”
Typical of him to expect that Nick would want to play ball with him.
Nick had barely been able to swallow the putdown he longed to throw in his father’s face. His father had offered to bring Lucy shopping, but she’d refused. She wanted to read a book, she said. Nick bet she was writing in her journal.
He could just imagine the entry she would make tomorrow. “Nick killed Daddy.” She’d probably underline it down the whole page.
But Luce, he wanted to tell her, you didn’t see what he did to Mum.
You didn’t hear how she moaned. You didn’t see how he lifted her right over the rail.
And then let go.
When you know the real story, you’ll understand.
And you’ll thank me.
They drove to the store in silence. The parking lot was busy; the sun was shining and people were buying things for their barbecues, their trip to the beach, their water sports. Nick scanned the signs hung over the aisles.
Aisle 11—Baseball and Racquet Sports. He headed straight to it. The baseball bats were lined up by price. Nick stopped, studying them, breathing hard. He wanted something with heft.
His father turned in to the aisle and walked up behind him. Nick stiffened. He tried to ignore his father as he examined the bats, the hair on the back of his neck quivering, but his father reached over and picked one with Slugger written in extravagant letters across the side, then weighed it in his palm. “How about this one?”
Nick grimaced. Typical of his father to choose something, instead of letting Nick pick it for himself. But in this case, having his father pick the bat that would kill him had a certain poetic justice.
“Let me see.” Nick took it from his father, being careful not to make contact. His hands curled around the handle. He backed away, swinging the bat in a small arc. It would do. “Okay.”
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