“And where are you going?”
“It’s time I meet Tommy’s mother, Jenny Wallace. I have enough information at this point. Let’s drive back to the hotel. I’m sure the manager will let you borrow one of the company cars again. I’ll take the rental.”
“Better yet,” said David. “I’ll get you a driver for the rest of the day.”
“I’m not in the mood, David.” Max didn’t have a good track record with rental cars. Sometimes the damage wasn’t even her fault, but tell that to the insurance company. Still, she loathed being teased about it.
“Then don’t argue with me,” he answered.
Chapter Seventeen
Before David, Max had always hired drivers, especially in New York City. But she’d become spoiled having David in the chauffeur’s seat. She could bounce ideas off of him, talk through theories while generally enjoying his company. The driver he hired for her today was thin and wiry and didn’t speak much. His name tag read: Richard.
Max sat in the back and reviewed her notes while Richard drove her to Jenny Wallace’s workplace. Max’s staff had pulled up most of the information last week, and the rest she’d filled in since she’d arrived in Marin County.
Jennifer Heston had met Bill Wallace in grad school. They’d dated three years while Bill was studying law at UC Berkeley after getting his degree at UC Davis. The year before they married, Jenny had received her master’s degree in architectural history. She was originally from Los Angeles, Bill from Piedmont, a wealthy suburb of Oakland close to Berkeley. They both found jobs in San Francisco—Jenny restoring historic buildings and Bill as a lawyer for a prestigious civil law firm. When Jenny became pregnant with Tommy, they bought and renovated a house in Corte Madera. She’d won awards for her work on many projects, and shortly after the birth of her daughter, Amanda, who was two years younger than Tommy, Jenny became a partner in a San Rafael architecture company that specialized in historic renovations for both businesses and private homes.
Max had a copy of their divorce settlement—some people were stunned to find out that nearly every legal filing was available to the public unless sealed by the court. Jenny retained the house—which had more than quadrupled in value since they purchased it—and Bill retained his 401K. Jenny had custody of the two kids, Bill had liberal visitation rights.
Though the settlement seemed amicable on paper, it was the initial filing that was the most interesting. According to Jenny’s statement, Bill had been having an affair with Paula Lake for nearly two years. He’d been traveling to Seattle often, ostensibly for work, but a chance encounter with one of his partners resulted in Jenny finding out the Seattle project had ended months before. After Jenny hired a private investigator, she learned about her husband’s affair with Paula Lake. At first, there was extensive animosity—hence the initial rash and revealing filing—but on paper during the settlement, it seemed that they’d resolved their differences.
Once a cheat, always a cheat. Max couldn’t imagine that Bill Wallace didn’t have another mistress or two around the country. Why change his behavior? He’d already lost custody of his children—though there was no record of him fighting for them. In fact, there was no record of him doing much of anything other than agreeing to the terms of the divorce decree. He didn’t counter Jenny’s claims and didn’t argue that he hadn’t had an affair.
As far as Max was concerned, he was a cheating, lying prick who didn’t deserve what Jenny had given him. Perhaps that was unfair.
But it wasn’t unfair, Max decided after giving the situation a minute of thought. Bill allowed his new wife to banish his son from his house. Whether it was because he wasn’t around enough to argue with her, or because he was complicit, Max didn’t know and frankly, she didn’t care. The end result was that Tommy felt ostracized and unwanted.
Nonetheless, she wanted to talk to Bill Wallace, even if she didn’t expect it to go well. Maybe, if she was being honest with herself, she wanted a good, old-fashioned confrontation. She was in that sort of mood after speaking with Paula that morning.
She called Justin Brock at Stanford a third time; no answer. She left another message, ending with, “I would prefer to speak with you directly rather than stating that you and your family have no comment.” It was hardball and she almost felt bad about it, considering what happened to Justin’s sister. But there was a killer in Corte Madera.
And, she didn’t like being ignored.
If Max needed to go to Stanford to see Justin Brock, she might be able to stop and see Nick. They wouldn’t have a weekend, but one night might satisfy her.
Nick’s voicemail picked up. She frowned, then left a brief message to call her.
She was making little progress. Two full days and she’d pissed off the detective, made an enemy of a local reporter, and lost the support of the victim’s mother.
And she couldn’t even talk to the man she called her boyfriend.
“Win-win all around,” Max sarcastically muttered while pulling out the file David had created of Ivy’s photos and posts.
Something Travis had said yesterday was bothering her, so she went back over the timeline. Ivy had Instagram accounts under two names—one for four years, and one for less than six months, the latter started shortly after Heather Brock committed suicide. There had been no claims that any of the photos Ivy had posted were fake, except the photo of Travis smoking pot.
One rather tame example was a photo of a jock with his arm around a cheerleader. The comment: Interesting. Carl dumps ugly smart Gina Dole for the pretty dumb Ashley Adams.
A distant photo of a blonde on her knees giving a blow job to a guy. Nothing explicit could be seen, but it was obvious what she was doing. The guy’s face was clear; Max didn’t know who he was, but anyone who knew him would. The girl wore a distinctive blue sweater with white stripes, but it didn’t matter if she was recognizable in the photo: Ivy outed her. Whoops! Tish caught with something in her mouth under the bleachers.
A photo of a science test in someone’s backpack. It meant nothing to Max until she read the caption: Now we know why Vince gets As in science.
On closer examination, the test was in fact an answer sheet.
The comments mostly piled on to whatever Ivy had written. Some people were angry—including Vince who wrote: Bitch. You’ll be sorry.
Hmm. Who was this Vince and why hadn’t David flagged him? She sent David a note and asked.
It only took him a minute to respond.
Vince Gustafson graduated the month before Ivy’s murder and enlisted in the marines. He was in basic training in North Carolina when she died.
That explains that. She needed to remember that if there was something to see, David usually saw it.
“We’re here, Ms. Revere,” Richard said from the front seat. “Would you like me to wait for you or escort you inside?”
“You can wait here, thank you, Richard.” Max said. As she got out of the car, Graham Jones from NCFI sent her a text message.
I’m on the road with Ruby and Hunt. Will meet you at the crime scene at three, provided traffic isn’t hell.
She responded: I’ll be there. FYI: There may be a problem with the locals, but I’ll fix it.
When he didn’t respond right away, she worried he was going to pull out. Graham didn’t like working without the support and permission of the local police. A minute later he texted: Don’t know what you did, but I have everything I need. Detective Grace Martin e-mailed me the crime scene photos and measurements, and I received the autopsy report from you. Is there a new problem?
Max immediately told him no problem and wondered how and why Grace had a change of heart.
She entered Jenny Wallace’s office building in San Rafael, only fifteen minutes from Sausalito. Jenny was a partner in an architectural design firm located in a contemporary building featuring attractive sculptures and elegant furnishings. It was a pleasing blend of old and new, likely an example of the type of work done by Jenny’s company
.
The firm took up the top two floors of a six-story building. Max took the elevator to the fifth floor and checked in with the receptionist. Fortunately, she didn’t have to jump through hoops. A few minutes later, Jenny came out to the reception area and said, “Ms. Revere? I’m Jenny Wallace. How may I help you?”
Max handed her a business card. “Is there someplace we can talk in private?”
Jenny looked at the card a moment before she said, “Sure, my office is right this way.” She glanced at her watch. “I have about fifteen minutes before a meeting.”
“I won’t be long.”
Her business was spacious, sparsely decorated, and each staff member had a large work area. Jenny’s office was in one corner and included two desks, a drafting table, and a wall of blueprints to famous buildings. She was a minimalist, but her desk had three framed pictures: one of her with her two kids taken when Tommy was about thirteen, and one each of Tommy and Amanda, both recent shots. While Tommy looked more like his father, with blond hair and light blue eyes, Amanda’s brown hair and dark blue eyes resembled her mother.
Jenny looked younger than her forty-seven years. She wore little makeup and had the long, skinny frame and movements of someone who rarely stopped moving. “When Crystal said there was a reporter here, I was surprised. Usually I would have you make an appointment through our media rep, but I had a few minutes.”
“I’m not here about your business, though I’ve read up on some of your historic renovation projects—what an interesting career. Long ago, I wanted to work at a museum. I love art, and so many historic buildings are works of art.”
“I can’t imagine doing anything else. I only get to work about half my time on historic structures, but they’re my favorite.” She paused, smiled, curious but not suspicious of Max’s motives. Max’s gut first impression was that Jenny had a lot of nervous energy, but she was generally open, friendly, and trusting.
“I’m the host of an investigative crime show. We’re running a segment on the murder of Ivy Lake, and I’ve been talking to everyone who knew her.”
Jenny blinked. Her voice was flat. “She’s my ex-husband’s stepdaughter. I rarely saw her.”
“But your children knew her well. They were over at your ex-husband’s house often. I’m trying to get a sense of how well you knew her, what you think might have happened, where the police should have been looking.”
“I have no idea,” The light had gone out of Jenny’s eyes. She no longer was curious. She just wanted Max gone.
“Your son and Austin Lake are close,” Max continued.
“How do you know that?”
“I spoke with them yesterday.”
“You have no right to talk to my son without my permission.”
Tommy was eighteen, and even if he were a minor, there was no prohibition with him talking to the media. There were ethical rules about publishing photos or interviews with minors, but Tommy was neither a suspect—nor a child.
Max wanted to tell Jenny about the letter Tommy had sent her, but decided to hold back for now. Instead, she said, “Though the police ruled out Tommy as a suspect, Paula Wallace has a different opinion. Do you know why?”
“Out.”
Max didn’t budge. “I’m trying to see the big picture.”
“By accusing my son of a heinous crime? Just because he’s a little slow?”
What a leap. “I didn’t accuse Tommy of any crime. I’m asking why Paula Wallace banned him from her house. It seems harsh, considering the police had no reason to think Tommy had anything to do with Ivy’s murder.”
“Paula Wallace is a lying, manipulative bitch, just like her daughter.”
Wow. Jenny had gone from friendly and sweet to full-on attack.
“You need to leave,” she continued.
“With or without your cooperation, I’m running a segment tomorrow night. Without any evidence, Paula seems to think that Tommy killed her daughter, and—”
Jenny cut her off. “Paula thinks Tommy isn’t perfect. She doesn’t want anything imperfect to touch her perfect life.”
“Mrs. Wallace, please—I’m trying to help your son.”
Her voice rose. “Tommy doesn’t need your help!”
Max had been prepared for animosity, or denial, or cooperation … but blatant hostility was over the top. And Jenny wasn’t listening.
“Tommy wrote me a letter,” Max said clearly.
Jenny opened her mouth, then closed it. “You are either lying or mistaken.”
Max reached into her briefcase and extracted a copy of the letter that Tommy had written. “Austin helped him, but Tommy told me the thoughts were his own.”
Hand shaking, she took the paper from Max, then spent several minutes reading it over and over. She sat heavily on a leather chair next to her desk. Max took a seat on the couch across from her.
“I don’t understand,” Jenny said quietly. “How—he doesn’t think like this.”
“Jenny,” Max said softly, “Tommy is hurting because he feels like half his family has been taken from him.”
“He told me he couldn’t see Bella, but I didn’t know it was this bad.”
“He told you what exactly?”
“That Paula didn’t want him at the house anymore, that she didn’t want him playing with Bella. He never said that she thought he killed Ivy. That—it’s absurd. Bill would have told me.”
“I came to California from New York because Tommy wrote me this letter. He doesn’t deserve to be ostracized from his stepbrother and half sister. I know this situation is difficult for you, but I need your help. I planned to interview Paula, but she and I had a fundamental disagreement over how the interview would proceed.”
Jenny shook her head. “Watch yourself with her. She’s vicious.”
“I can handle Paula Wallace,” Max said. “But without Ivy’s mother, it’s going to be more challenging to engage my viewership. I have a seven-minute slot. Me talking and showing B-roll isn’t going to cut it. I want to put Tommy on camera.”
“No.”
“I promise you I’ll treat him with respect and will edit the program to make sure it puts the best possible light on him.”
Still staring at Tommy’s letter, Jenny seemed lost in thought. Max had to get through to her. “When I was in high school,” Max said, “my best friend was murdered. Her ex-boyfriend—another friend of mine—was arrested. But without any evidence, the police couldn’t make the case. Still, the accusation stuck with Kevin his entire life, until he killed himself after spiraling into a life of drug addiction. He was innocent, but everyone in town thought he was guilty.”
Max paused and waited, but Jenny didn’t respond. Max said, “I know you don’t want that for Tommy.”
“All he wants is to be a family,” Jenny said, sorrow shaking her voice. “My divorce from Bill—it set Tommy back. The only thing that helped was, truly, Austin. He’s no angel. He has a mouth on him, and I’ve had to make sure Tommy doesn’t pick up Austin’s bad habits. And Austin has been lying to Paula about how much time he spends at my house.” She paused. “And I let him. It was a small way I could get back at Paula for destroying my family.”
“She didn’t destroy your family,” Max said. “You have two children who love and need you.”
“You’ve talked to Amanda, too?”
“No, but I’d like to.”
“Amanda, though she was only nine, understood that her father left us for another family. It was that family that bothered her more than the divorce. Ivy was only a year older than her, and once Amanda told me that she thought Bill wanted a normal son. I lost it with her—I didn’t mean to—but I won’t have Tommy thinking he’s anything but wonderful. He’s not so severely mentally challenged that he can’t learn or go to school. I let him ride his bike everywhere he wants—he’s responsible and trustworthy. But he also understands when people tease him for stuttering or saying the wrong word or not understanding something. And that’s why I’m
nervous about letting him speak on television. People won’t understand. They can be cruel.”
“It won’t be live. This will work because I have this very moving letter from Tommy.”
“You’re going to read this on the air?”
“I wasn’t going to—until Paula Wallace cut me out.”
“She won’t like that—it might make the situation worse. She’ll never let Tommy see Bella. He’s already devastated.”
“Maybe it’s time you have a heart-to-heart with your ex-husband about what is going on with his son.”
“Bill and I—we haven’t been able to have a civil conversation since the divorce. I just stay away. We are cordial when the kids are around, but that’s it.”
Max was treading into unfamiliar territory. Just like Nick and his ex-wife Nancy, she didn’t understand why Jenny didn’t just tell Bill exactly what she thought and how he had affected their children. Why walk on eggshells? Tell Bill he’s an asshole and fix it.
“If you prefer, I won’t read the entire letter,” Max said, capitulating in part. “I’ll leave out the part where Tommy says Paula believes he killed his stepsister. Truthfully, Ivy wasn’t a well-liked person and I don’t see any viewer reaching out to help if I recite all of the sordid details. I need someone on camera that people will respond to, and I think—I know—that they’ll respond to Tommy. He’s a terrific young man.”
“I don’t like it.” Jenny stared at the letter, her brows turned in. “If Tommy wants to do it, I won’t stop him. But I’m not going to encourage him either.”
It was the best Max would get. “Thank you. I’m going to ask Austin as well, which should help Tommy feel comfortable.”
“Paula will never allow it.”
“I wasn’t planning on asking her permission.” Max glanced at her watch. It was getting late, and she needed to meet Graham at the crime scene. “I was hoping I could meet your daughter later tonight or tomorrow morning—she was Ivy’s peer, she might have some insight.”
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