Damaged

by Pamela Callow

  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 ace 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 provided. It was very little. She was vague about a lot of 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 wood doors of the police station, swiping his pass through the 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, 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 a
bout 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?

  Detective Redding fished through his briefcase and pulled out a document. Kate recognized it as the statement she gave to police on Friday night. “You told Constable Drummond that you had an intruder at your house on Friday night?” This was the first time he had spoken and his voice was surprisingly deep and penetrating.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see the intruder?”

  Kate shook her head. “No. He wore a hooded coat. It was long. His back was to me. He ran away before I could see his face.” But he hadn’t really run, Kate remembered. He had just…left. Gone out through the gate. Same way he had come in.

  Detective Ferguson leaned back in her chair. “Quite a day you had, Ms. Lange. You chase away an intruder—not recommended, by the way, you should call the police—and earlier that evening you meet with the grandmother of a girl who is murdered only a few days later.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence.”

  “Yes.” But there was no explanation for it. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Detective Redding closed his portfolio and clicked his pen. The interview was over. “If you remember anything else that may help us in our investigation, here’s my number.” Detective Ferguson sized her up one final time before giving Kate her card. “And keep your doors locked, Ms. Lange. Until we determine whether your intruder and Lisa’s murderer are linked, you could be at risk.” With those parting words, the detectives left.

  Kate closed the door and sank in her chair. Her mind was going in circles. The meeting had been fruitless for both sides. Neither had gleaned anything more.

  She just needed to know one thing.

  Had Lisa suffered?

  She’d hoped the detectives would give her a hint. But they were too experienced to give anything away that would jeopardize their investigation.

  Her mind scrabbled for the only other option. Would Ethan take pity on her and tell her if she called him?

  He hadn’t called to warn her about the police detectives coming. He hadn’t tried to warn her that there could be a link between the intruder and the murderer.

  She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples.

  15

  Thursday, May 3, 4:00 p.m.

  “This is not the way we do things at LMB,” Randall said. He flipped open the file Kate passed him. His handwriting jumped out at him. Marian MacAdam. He’d had no idea when he took her call what chaos that unassuming name would wreak. Damn, why hadn’t he remembered she was Hope Carson’s mother-in-law?

  He skimmed Kate’s notes, noting her even, scrawling hand, feeling her stiff presence across from him. She’d given him the file with a flash of defiance and anger. It diverted him for a moment from other, more telling, signs. She looked a little worse for wear. Her usually luminous skin was marred by dark shadows under her eyes. But it was the expression in her amber gaze that warned him. As if she was ready for his attack and wouldn’t let him see how much it hurt.

  He tried a different approach. “I realize I referred Mrs. MacAdam to you, but she did not inform me of her relationship to Judge Carson.”

  “I wondered that,” Kate said. Her tone was as stiff as her back. “But it didn’t matter. It would have been difficult for her to proceed with a custody application. She didn’t have much going for her.”

  “I see.” He paused for a moment, finding himself strangely unsure o
f how to proceed with her. He brushed a hand over his hair. “Look, Kate, I believe you gave Mrs. MacAdam the appropriate advice—” She glanced away. She doesn’t think she did. He filed that knowledge away. “—but you failed in your duty to the firm. You should have come to me and told me about the delicate nature of this case.”

  She straightened her back. Met his gaze head-on. A direct, clear gaze that seemed to look into him. Which was distinctly unnerving.

  “As far as I was concerned, there was no case.”

  Unrepentant.

  He fought to hide his response to that. She needed to understand that she was part of a team now. A team that was only as strong as its weakest link. He couldn’t indulge her defiance. “It doesn’t matter what you believed.” His subtle emphasis of the word you was noted by the tensing of her shoulders. He relaxed a little. He could get under her skin just like her gaze seemed to get under his. “You are operating in one of Halifax’s best firms. You are no longer in a two-person practice. You need to be cognizant of the firm’s reputation.”

  “Trust me, I was very concerned about it.” He thought he glimpsed self-loathing in her eyes. She dropped her gaze. When she raised her eyes again they gleamed with a fierce determination. Kate was not going to let him see how upset the MacAdam case made her. She probably believed he’d think she was weak.

  He’d have to work at it to make her crack.

  He softened his tone. “Why didn’t you come to me, Kate? I referred Marian MacAdam to you.”

  She lifted her chin. “It didn’t seem there was anything to report.” What she didn’t say, but he’d seen it in a flash of her eyes, was that he’d be the last man on earth she’d come to for advice.

  Hurt—unexpected and unwelcome—stabbed him. It startled him, threw him off his stride. Making his next words harsher than he intended. “You mean the fact that you had a client who was concerned her granddaughter was endangering herself and you didn’t think that was worth reporting? If not to me, then to Child Protection?”

  She paled. “She told me that she had no proof.”