Indefensible (10 page)

Saturday, 8:25 a.m.

A
laska's tail went up as soon as Kate opened the car door. He hopped out, sniffing the grass edging Randall's driveway. “Come on, boy,” Kate said, tugging his leash. She hurried up the walkway to Randall's house, looping Alaska's leash around a column by the front porch. Alaska watched her, his ears pricked.
What about our walk?
his eyes asked.

“Don't worry, you'll get it.” Kate rubbed his ears, then slipped Randall's house key from her pocket. “We're not too far from the park.”

Randall lived in the deep south end, an exclusive and expensive area of Halifax, close to Point Pleasant Park. But if his neighborhood didn't surprise her, the house did. She was expecting something modern and severely stylish in its aesthetic. It was modern, but not severe. The glass-and-wood exterior sported unpainted shingles weathered to a silver-gray. Lush green foliage, orange and yellow daylilies and a Chinese dogwood flanked the stone path to the front porch. The main door was
glass. When Kate peered into it, she could see all the way through the house to the back garden.

She unlocked the door, noting how easy it was to turn in comparison to her old, uneven lock, and disarmed the security system with the code Randall had given her.

A dog whined. She hurried into the kitchen. Charlie was in her crate, her ears erect at the stranger. She barked. Kate smiled at the dog, murmuring encouraging words as she bent down and unlocked the Lab's crate. The dog stepped out hesitantly. Kate held out her hand, letting Charlie sniff her. She knew she'd have Alaska's scent on her, which would intrigue the dog. She pulled out a biscuit from her pocket, blessing the Lab for being so trusting, and watched her enjoy the treat. Then Charlie gamboled out into the back garden.

It was definitely a garden. No, it was more than that. It was a respite, a work of art. A sanctuary.

Kate had not intended to follow the dog outside, but when she glimpsed the landscaping, she couldn't resist exploring. A path curved under a large arbor covered in grapevines. She marveled at the mature hostas, lilies, roses, echinacea and bee balm. A faint scent of lavender grew stronger as she neared the stone patio. Comfortable-looking garden furniture sat in a patch of early morning sun. Kate imagined Randall lounging there on a Sunday morning, reading his paper with Charlie at his feet.

She pushed the image away. It seemed too intimate. And intrusive, given what was happening in Randall's life right now. She looked around for Charlie. The dog squatted in a patch behind the stone wall and then trotted toward her.

Kate was impressed. She never knew when Alaska would obey her commands. Maybe Labs were just born obedient, she thought.

“Time for brekkie,” she told the dog. Charlie ran back into Randall's spacious kitchen, Kate hurrying behind her. The kitchen was everything she wanted and could never afford: a large stone-topped island, bleached wooden cabinets that had room to spare.

On the walls hung a series of paintings in deep blues, grays and white. They were stunning—abstract and yet with enough form to discern that the paintings represented the ocean in its infinite moods. Kate peered at the signature.
P. Barrett.
Someone in Randall's family was talented.

Charlie stood by her food bowl. For the life of her, Kate couldn't remember if Randall had told her where to find the dog's food. So she opened the stainless steel fridge, scanning the shelves. It only took her seconds to realize that all the perishables had been cleared out in anticipation of Randall's sailing trip. Just condiments remained. Her mouth quirked at the jar of caviar, the specialty relishes, the Thai fish sauce, the designer barbecue marinades. An oversize bottle of ketchup—almost empty—clownishly towered next to a half-opened bottle of wine with a label that Kate didn't recognize but guessed was very expensive.

It looked like an upscale version of her own fridge.

Feeling like a snoop, she opened all the cupboards, secretly fascinated by her glimpses of Randall's simple white china, his cut-glass crystal wineglasses that she guessed were individually hand-blown by Nova Scotia Crystal and the gleaming bottles of single-malt scotch.
After investigating the pantry with no luck, she found Charlie's kibble in a custom-built pull-out drawer next to the dog's bowl.

Hello, Kate. Welcome to the modern kitchen.

Carrying Charlie's water bowl to the sink for a fill-up, Kate saw the first item out of place in Randall's immaculate kitchen: a crystal glass holding the remnants of an amber liquid sat by the drain. She sniffed the glass. Scotch.

She put it back and filled up Charlie's water bowl.

The phone rang, startling her so much that the water sloshed over her hand. “Damn!” she muttered, wiping her hand on her shorts. She searched the kitchen for the phone, discovering it on the wall by a cleverly inset computer desk. The phone rang again, insistent.

She hesitated. Should she answer it?

What if Randall was calling her?

She hurried over to the phone. “Hello?”

“Randall Barrett, please.”

Kate's heart sank. She had an awful feeling she knew that voice. She just hoped the woman on the other end wouldn't recognize hers.

“He's not here. May I take a message?” Kate fumbled on the desk for a Post-it note and pen.

“It's Nina Woods. With whom am I speaking, please?”

Kate almost groaned. She didn't want to admit to Nina she was here, in the managing partner's home, early on a Saturday morning. After he began vacation. It seemed way over the line.

“Uh…” She cleared her throat. “Nina, it's Kate. Kate Lange. How are you feeling?”

Kate could tell that she'd shocked the partner. Nina's voice was even brusquer than usual. “Better. What are you doing there?”

“Randall asked me to look after his dog.” So far, the truth. She hoped Nina was buying it.

There was a pause. McGrath Barrett's newest partner was mulling over the mendacity of the statement. “How did the rest of the discovery go on Friday?”

“Fine. It wrapped up quickly.”

“Good. I want you to do Tuesday's discovery. I've got some matters to handle.”

Kate's headache returned full force. She swallowed. “You aren't going to be there?”

“That's right.” Kate closed her eyes.
Just her and Curtis Carey going head to head.
The thought made her sick. “Tom Werther thought you did a fine job.” There was a note of grudging respect in Nina's voice. “And besides, you won't be doing the questioning.”

“Sounds good.” Kate knew she should be pleased Nina trusted her enough to handle the discovery with one of Nina's carefully cultivated clients, but she didn't.

Nina paused. “I'm calling because I heard about Randall's ex-wife. Where is he, by the way?”

“He's at the police station. Giving a statement.”

“I see. Tell him to call me as soon as he comes home.” The phone clicked in Kate's ear.

“O-kay,” Kate said, grimacing to the dog.

But the Lab wasn't there.

Kate spun around. Charlie was not in the kitchen.

She checked the patio door. It was closed. The dog couldn't have gotten outside.

Where was she?

She heard the faint jingle of dog tags.

Sounded as if they were coming from upstairs.

She began climbing the curving wood-and-metal stairwell leading to the upper level. It seemed to float between the two floors. Behind it, a multistoried window ran the full length of the house, showcasing a stunning view of the terraced garden.

“Charlie.” Although the stairs felt solid under her feet, she couldn't escape the feeling that she was about to take flight. She wouldn't want to walk down these stairs in the dark.

The tags jingled again.

The dog was definitely upstairs.

She glanced in each room as she hurried down the hallway. Two bedrooms, one decorated in royal blue and very masculine, the other in pale greens and soft blues, sat untouched, but ready for visitors. She guessed they were for Randall's kids. Opposite them was a full bath with seaglass-colored tile, and an office, in burnt orange and cherrywood, lined with books, navigational charts and ancient maps.

A thump at the end of the hall announced Charlie's whereabouts.

Darn. The dog was in Randall's bedroom. It was one thing to look around his kitchen, it was another thing entirely to check out where he slept. Or made love to other women.

A flush warmed her chest as she walked into his bedroom. She hoped she wouldn't see his underwear on his tallboy. But then wondered if he wore boxers or briefs.

Get a grip, Kate. You need more ibuprofen.

As she guessed, the dog was lying on the bed. A low, king-size platform bed, finished in ebony wood, it was spare. Manly. Incredibly comfortable looking. Creamy-white linens in Egyptian cotton, with a thread count that had to be written in exponents, looked crisp against a simple yet elegant headboard of ebony wood. In contrast, the deep rich nap of the chocolate duvet begged to be snuggled under. Kate eyed it, envious of the bliss it seemed to invite. She hadn't gotten much, if any, sleep last night.

Charlie lay curled by Randall's pillow. Her head rested on her paws.

“Come, Charlie.”

The dog lifted her head, one eye lazily surveying her.

“Here, girl.”

Charlie wagged her tail.
Join me,
she seemed to be saying.
You know you want to
.

Kate gave the dog a wry smile. “You don't realize what you're asking.” She deliberately turned her back to the bed. It was too unsettling. Too tempting. She wasn't Goldilocks.

She scanned the room, waiting for her breathing to slow down. Near invisible blinds hung from the back windows. They were open, and sun streamed early morning warmth onto the cream walls.

She turned—and gasped at the sight of a woman standing in the corner, eyes glinting at her.

It was her reflection in the mirror. “You are really going cuckoo, Kate,” she muttered. But she couldn't resist glancing back at herself. The scar on her thigh looked as bad at a distance as it did up close, so she
quickly moved her gaze upward. Her face was drawn, not what one would hope after spending a night with a guy like Curtis. The only glow she could claim was the nervous sweat she'd broken into when she walked into this room.
Nice
. Just the way she wanted to look in Randall's bedroom. At least her butt looked good.

Fortunately, Randall would never know she was in here unless—

She spun around, eyes searching the corners of the ceiling. Please don't have security cameras in here, she prayed.

She exhaled in relief. Randall's room did not have cameras—and as rational thought overrode her guilty conscience, she realized how weird it would be to have security cameras in your bedroom, although Randall's room did have a lot of high-tech entertainment equipment. A massive built-in wall unit housed the requisite large-screen plasma TV. Under it sat a sophisticated stereo system. She was sure the whole room was wired for sound, high speed and whatever else divorced managing partners of boutique law firms liked to play with when they drowsed in their king-size platform beds.

She waited for a beautifully modulated woman's voice to speak from some hidden computer and ask her for a drink order. Like in
Star Trek.

She shook her head.
Alaska is waiting for his walk.

She turned to Randall's dog. “Right,” she said, her voice brisk, striding toward the bed. “Time to go, Charlie.”

The dog breathed a deep, shuddering inhale of pleasure, rubbing her nose against Randall's pillow. Kate wondered if Randall's sheets smelled like him.

Time to go, Kate.

The dog wagged her tail again.
Come on
, she seemed to be saying,
why fight it?

The phone rang. Kate jumped, her usual startle reaction compounded by her guilty conscience. She felt as if she'd been caught red-handed. Standing in Randall's bedroom. Wondering about his underwear, his sheets.

Her cheeks flushed.

The phone rang again. Could it be Randall?

And where, in his technologically advanced bedroom, was his phone? It rang again. Close to Kate.

She lifted the pile of magazines that were stacked haphazardly on the side table. They revealed a crystal tumbler sitting in a ring of liquid, but no phone.

Then she saw the cradle for the phone, hidden under a guidebook titled
Exploring Nova Scotia's Waterways.

But no phone receiver.

The phone stopped ringing.

Damn, it must have gone to voice mail.

Charlie stretched and Kate saw the phone receiver, lying half under a pillow, as if it had been thrown there.

What if Randall had been trying to reach her? She picked up the phone. Maybe he had left a message on voice mail.

Seven missed calls,
the call display informed her.

Should she check his messages?

No. She couldn't violate his privacy like that.

Glad to see you have some standards, Kate, after snooping through his kitchen and checking out his bedroom.

Seven missed calls.

But what if he
had
called her? She could just check the caller list. If one of the callers was Randall, she'd listen to that message.

She skipped through the phone numbers. The first one had a Toronto area code. The second one was a different number with a Toronto area code. The same person then called two more times. The rest of the numbers were local calls. But none of them were Randall's cell phone number.

So he had not tried to reach her. But it looked as if his family had been trying to reach
him
.

Kate returned the phone to the cradle. She picked up the crystal tumbler, leaning over to wipe the ring left by the scotch with the edge of her T-shirt.