“My grandmother will kill me.”
“When has that stopped you from annoying her in the past?”
True, but tattoos were permanent. “Lindy, your mom will kill you.”
“They don’t have to know. We’ll get them on our ass.”
“I’m not getting a tattoo on my ass.”
Lindy pouted, but it was exaggerated. Max and Lindy had talked about getting tattoos together for years. It was forbidden and exciting. They’d looked at pictures and picked out favorites. Max didn’t know if she’d go through with it, but it was fun to imagine what she’d get.
“I had one specially designed for you, for your birthday,” Lindy said.
Lindy was used to getting her way, no matter what it cost, so their age and lack of parental consent was glossed over. She asked the owner—whose muscular arms were canvases for his art—to show the girls his sketches.
Max had been expecting something wild and fun like Lindy. What she saw left her speechless.
Lindy sounded worried when she said, “You don’t like it?”
It was a small dandelion with wisps flying away and turning into birds. It was tasteful, both delicate and bold at the same time. There was a sense of movement as well, because the birds were in different stages of flight.
“I love it.” Sometimes, Max wondered if Lindy listened. Now she realized that Lindy knew her better than anyone. “Are you getting the same thing?”
Lindy laughed. “Oh, no. I’m getting something far more dangerous.”
The tattoo guy showed Max another sketch. It was of an angel, a beautiful angel, with both a halo and a devil’s tail.
Lindy said, “I was going to get an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, but this seems more like me, don’t you think?”
“It’s definitely you.”
Max stood under the shower far longer than she needed, washing and rewashing her body until she could face the rest of the day without the cloud of bittersweet memories. Water rejuvenated her as well as cleansed her.
As soon as the water was off, she heard a knock at the door. She slid into the hotel’s white terry robe and tied the sash. She looked through the peephole.
William.
She wasn’t surprised that the family had chosen William to confront her; she was surprised that he acted so quickly.
She opened the door. “Five hours since my flight landed. This must be a new record.”
William walked in and closed the door behind him. “Why didn’t you call?” he said.
“Good to see you, too, cousin.” William hadn’t changed since high school, other than filling out in the shoulders and a few hairline wrinkles around the eyes. He was impeccably dressed in a custom-tailored navy chalk-stripe Huntsman suit: only the best for the son of Brooks Revere. Max wondered how many of the pricey British suits her cousin owned. She’d never seen him wear anything else, because his father never wore anything else. But William fit the suit, in style and substance. He was smart, a sharp corporate lawyer, and attractive.
But she’d never forget the teenager who so desperately wanted to have fun, even though he rarely found time for it. On those few occasions he relaxed, Max adored her cousin above all others.
She smiled. “Seriously, it is good to see you.”
She hugged William, and he said, “You’re wet!” But he accepted her embrace and kissed her on the cheek. “It’s really good to have you home, Maxine.”
“You caught me getting out of the shower.” She crossed the room and sat on one of the two oversized chairs in her suite. She motioned for William to sit on the love seat across from her. He sat and leaned forward, his arms on his knees.
“You didn’t just come here to say hello,” she said.
“Are you here for Kevin O’Neal’s funeral?”
She sighed. So much for catching up and enjoying William’s company. What did she expect? The memories of Lindy and her childhood had clouded her judgment. She should have known why her cousin had come. “Someone told you I had coffee with his sister.”
“It’s not like no one in town knows you.”
He didn’t tell her who’d leaked her arrival.
She and William had been close growing up. Partly because they were the same age and went to the same schools, partly because she’d lived with his parents, Uncle Brooks and Aunt Joanne, when her grandmother was angry with her, which was often, and partly because Max had dated his best friend, Andy Talbot, most of high school. They hung out with the same people. Did the same things.
But they didn’t always see eye-to-eye on family matters, and he’d been the first to jump on the “Kevin O’Neal is guilty” bandwagon after Lindy’s murder.
“Yes, I’m going to Kevin’s funeral tomorrow.”
“But he killed Lindy! I don’t get how you can forgive him so easily.”
“He wasn’t convicted.” William knew that, but it beared repeating.
“Dammit, Maxine! The jury was deadlocked. There wasn’t enough evidence, but we all know he did it.”
Max tilted her chin up and stared William in the eye. “I never believed Kevin killed Lindy.”
“Lindy’s murder has been hanging over the town like the plague,” William said.
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Maybe now, with Kevin no longer stirring the pot, we can finally move on.”
“Are you upset that I’m here for the funeral, or that you think I’m investigating Lindy’s murder?”
“Are you?” he asked pointedly.
“I didn’t come here to investigate,” Max said. “I promised Jodi I would look at the evidence in Kevin’s suicide. The girl needs peace, William. Kevin was a recovering drug addict. He had a drinking problem. She believed he was sober, but she’ll accept the truth if I can give it to her.” Max paused. “I can’t turn my back on his sister.” Maybe, she thought, because she’d turned her back on Kevin.
“Why didn’t you call me? I could have run interference for you with Dad and Grandmother.”
“Sweetheart,” Max said with a lighter voice, “I’m not going to put you on the firing line. You live here, you need to keep the peace. I appreciate your offer, but I’ve grown up.” She didn’t like gossip as a rule—most of it was based on lies—but William was pretty good at discerning fact from fiction. “Anything I should know before I surprise Grandmother Dearest?”
He scowled. “It’s those kind of comments that get you in trouble with her.”
“Eleanor has a far sharper tongue than I do,” Max said. She’d received the brunt of her grandmother’s verbal lashings many, many times.
“How long are you staying?”
Max had interviewed enough people to know that most questions had a dual purpose. William had come here impulsively, probably had just learned she was in town and checked the Stanford Park Hotel first because this was where she always stayed. But the way he asked about her stay made her think he was nervous, and nerves made her suspicious.
“I haven’t decided.”
“Don’t you have a career in New York?”
“Really, if you want me to leave, just tell me.”
“N-n-no, not that, it’s just, it’s complicated right now.”
“You stutter when you’re nervous.”
He frowned. “Maxine, I would love to spend time with you, you know that. I guess I’m irritated that you haven’t been home to see me or the rest of the family in two years, yet you drop everything for the guy who killed Lindy.”
“Kevin is dead, William,” she said bluntly. “I came for Jodi.” But what he said stung because it had a hint of truth. She added, “Launching the cable show took more time and energy than I thought.”
“But you still wouldn’t have visited.” He sounded more sad than angry because he knew why it was hard for Max to visit. The arguments about the family trust, the lawsuit that the family had waged against her when great-grandmother Genie Sterling’s will gave Max her missing mother’s
share of the estate, the constant friction and disagreements between Max and William’s father, her uncle Brooks, that went back years.
William added softly, “Lindy was your friend, too.”
“William, don’t start. Please.” Because Max had sided with Kevin, she’d nearly lost William’s friendship. It was only because they were family that William stuck it out. Over time, they’d mended fences—William was the closest person to a brother she had—but Kevin’s suicide had reminded both of them about that horrible time.
“Fine. I tried to help—”
“Help? By telling me what I already know? It’s always complicated when I come home. It’s why I rarely do. I love my job, I love New York, I’ll never move back. But for better or worse, I’m a Revere, and you and Brooks and Eleanor and everyone else in our big, messed-up family is stuck with me.”
William frowned. “You’re not being fair. I’ve always stood up for you.”
She stared at him, almost not believing he could lie so smoothly.
“You’ve always stood up for me?” She asked it bluntly, and he had the good sense to back down.
“Don’t look at me like that, Maxine. I don’t always agree with you, but you’re family.”
She sighed. Family. William was the most loyal to family, out of all the Reveres, and he included her in there as well. It was, perhaps, ironic that he always stood up for her when it wasn’t a family matter, but as soon as they closed the doors, he slipped comfortably into his role of the good son.
Arguing a subtle point that she wasn’t sure he even understood wasn’t going to make her stay easier. “Truce. Okay?”
He nodded, then smiled. “Come to my house for dinner.”
She wrinkled her nose. For some reason, Caitlin Talbot—now Caitlin Revere—had always considered Max a rival. Everything was a competition with her. Sports, grades, boyfriends, college acceptances—and Max, who was naturally competitive, had contributed to the rivalry. Lindy had been the mediator, though she, too, was competitive. With everyone except Max. But at some point the competition between Caitlin and Max had turned unhealthy and Max had cut ties. Hard to do when the Talbots and Reveres were longtime family friends.
And then William married her. Which wouldn’t have been a problem for Max because she lived three thousand miles away—except when she visited, Caitlin scratched at old scabs. She had rewritten history to the point that Max could barely have a civil conversation with her. If Caitlin was to be believed, she’d been Lindy’s closest friend and confidante, her best buddy, they never fought. On the contrary, Lindy put up with Caitlin because she was part of their group. Nothing more.
“Caitlin would serve hemlock with my salad.”
William laughed, spontaneous and genuine, and Max smiled. “Neutral ground then.”
“I don’t think tonight—” Max began.
“Grandmother’s,” William said.
“Hardly neutral.”
“She won’t poison you.”
“True. She’s afraid I have secrets about the family that will be revealed on national television when I die.” She’d have to go home at some point, but not tonight. Not when she was tired from a full travel day and still had work to do before the close of business. “Tomorrow,” she said.
“I’ll talk to Grandmother.” William stood. “I need to get back to work.”
She walked him to the door. “By the way, do you know anything about this construction guy, Jason Hoffman, who was killed at the site of the new ACP gymnasium?”
He shook his head. “I was stunned when I heard. A robbery or something, right? Construction is a loss-intensive business.”
“They’d just broken ground. There was nothing to steal.”
“I didn’t know the guy—but I do know Jasper Pierce.”
“That name sounds familiar. Why?”
“He graduated from ACP a decade before us. He’s one of the two major donors on the gym—the other is Uncle Archer. They’re calling the building the Sterling Pierce Sports Center.”
“I really have been out of the family loop.”
“Your choice, Maxine.”
He was right.
She wasn’t quite ready to talk to William about Hoffman’s case; she honestly didn’t think he knew much about it. “Can I drop your name if I want to talk to Pierce?”
“You hardly need to drop my name. Revere will get you in to see him. Why?”
“Nothing specific. Just curiosity. It was good to see you, William.”
He looked at her a moment too long, and Max knew he had something else on his mind. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he kissed her on the cheek and left.
William definitely had a secret.
Chapter Four
Max was cognizant of the fact that most cops didn’t like her. Much of the time it simply had to do with the fact that she was a reporter. Cops, as a general rule, shunned the media. But some in law enforcement downright hated her, particularly when she shined light on a faulty investigation or blatant incompetence. It didn’t seem to matter that she went out of her way to highlight good cops and skilled investigations, they only remembered embarrassments. She always walked in as a professional, but Max could and would play hardball when warranted.
She left the hotel at three impeccably dressed in her turquoise sheath and a short navy jacket. Accessories matched, makeup flawless, new notebook in her shoulder bag. She had an iPad and a laptop, but most of her research she wrote longhand. In her new notepad, she’d already jotted down basic research on the Menlo Park Police Department—clearance rates, political connections, crime statistics—it was best to be prepared.
The police station, hidden behind established trees and a wide expanse of lawn, bordered an older residential neighborhood. It hadn’t changed much since the last time she was here, when she tried to convince the police that Kevin had a solid alibi and they should try to find Lindy’s real killer. That hadn’t gone well.
Max walked through the public entrance. A small, clean, empty waiting area with a female desk clerk behind glass. Doors, accessed by a digital passkey, were behind the gatekeeper. Soundproof walls cut most noise from the main office, though a faint hum of machines crept through. Everything seemed smaller now than it had when she was a teenager.
She approached the window and slid her business card through the slot. A screen allowed her to speak to the trim, middle-aged woman on the other side. No uniform, likely a civilian clerk. Her nameplate read D. BELL.
“Maxine Revere. I need to speak with the detective in charge of the Kevin O’Neal death investigation.”
All nonattended deaths were investigated, even if it was a cut-and-dried accident or suicide. A suicide would not generally be confirmed as such until after the coroner’s report, even if the initial police investigation ascertained there was no evidence of foul play and the crime scene was consistent with suicide.
Bell picked up her card. “Do you have an appointment with the PIO?”
“I’d like to talk to the detective in charge of the investigation,” Max said.
“All reporters are required to go through the PIO. I’m sure you’re familiar with the process.”
Max couldn’t assess whether Bell was being particularly difficult or simply following the rules.
“I understand, but this is a personal matter, not professional.”
“Officer Corbett will make the decision whether to allow access to our investigators.”
Max could play games and kiss up, or threaten when needed, but she didn’t enjoy it. She much preferred straightforward communication. Unfortunately, most people, especially law enforcement and lawyers, expected the games.
Max conceded. “Thank you, Ms. Bell.”
Pick your battles.
Battling gatekeepers was rarely a wise move. Virtually every successful cold case she’d investigated, she’d first befriended the frontline staff—those who controlled information and access.
She stepped away from the wi
ndow but didn’t sit—she’d done enough sitting on the airplane. She’d also missed her morning run because she’d left Miami so early, which made her irritable. She took advantage of the waiting time to send an e-mail to her producer Ben, explaining that she hadn’t fired Ginger; the girl had quit. She supposed he had a right to think Max had axed her newest assistant—she’d done it to all the others.
You have until Friday to find me someone, Max typed. Or I’ll quit.
It wasn’t a hollow threat. She was independently wealthy and had never wanted to host a cable news show. But Ben Lawson was a visionary. He had a way of making her see the possibilities. He’d sold her on the idea of highlighting specific cold cases and high-profile trials that could impact the criminal justice system, a cause she’d embraced after her best friend in college disappeared during spring break, ten years ago.
“Think an in-depth ‘America’s Most Wanted,’” Ben had said, “focusing on the unknown killer and questions. Investigation. What the cops got right and what they got wrong. Cold cases that you solve.”
It was still the smaller, quieter crimes that she’d pursued for the newspaper before the show—like the murder of Jason Hoffman—that drew her in. The survivors, like Penny and Henry Hoffman, who only wanted the truth so they might have peace.
But, if she was going to be honest, Hoffman’s murder appealed to her mostly because it had happened on her high school campus—the same campus where Lindy Ames had been killed thirteen years ago.
Ben ran the ship and made sure she never had to deal with newsroom politics. As long as she could do what she wanted—investigative reporting in the field and not at a desk—she’d agreed to tape the monthly show. A competent assistant was critical to the part where she wasn’t required to sit at a desk.
Ben hadn’t responded to her e-mail before Ms. Bell called to her through the screen. “Officer Corbett will be out momentarily.”
“Thank you,” she said and pocketed her phone.
Whether Officer Donna Corbett intentionally made her wait, or whether she truly had been delayed, Max didn’t know, but it took another fifteen minutes before the PIO came out. “Ms. Revere?” she asked.
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