What was Max thinking? That she was going to solve Lindy’s murder? She would be here for weeks if she was going to do it right, and she wouldn’t have any cooperation from the police or prosecution or survivors wanting the peace of knowing who killed their loved one. She never took on an assignment unless someone involved wanted her there. She’d gone against that rule once, and though she learned the truth, it had come with a hefty price.
Was she willing to let her own personal involvement and interest drive this investigation? Did she have a stake in the resolution?
Maybe she did. Maybe Lindy had been haunting her, just like Caitlin had wanted her to.
“And, and—” Jodi couldn’t stop the tears when Detective Harry Beck blustered into the back of the room. The sight of the cop froze the college student.
Beck looked around and sneered, then caught Max’s eye. Max knew exactly what he was doing—kicking Kevin at his own funeral. To make sure that everyone here knew that the police still thought Kevin was guilty—that he’d gotten away with murder.
And Jodi knew it.
Max couldn’t bear to see the girl fall apart. She rose from her pew and walked up to the altar. She put her arm around Jodi to walk her back to her seat.
Jodi looked up at her with damp eyes. “Say something,” she whispered. “P-please.”
Max wanted to shake her head and leave the pulpit with Jodi, but this was Kevin’s little sister. The same little sister he’d adored. Jodi hadn’t done anything wrong. And funerals were for the living, not the dead.
What could Max say to make Jodi feel better?
“Sit,” Max said and motioned toward the closest pew. Then Max stood behind the simple wood pulpit, adjusted the small mic upward, and looked out at the audience. She caught Helen O’Neal’s eye.
“I haven’t spoken to Kevin in twelve years,” Max began, “but I came here for the same reason most of you came here—because his sister Jodi asked.” She looked at William, who couldn’t hide his stunned expression that she was speaking for Kevin.
“Kevin moved to Atherton when he was eleven, into the house down the street from my cousin William. I’d only been living here for a year, and I felt a kinship with Kevin. Two outsiders in a small town that didn’t care much for outsiders.
“I don’t know who Kevin was the day he died. But I know who he was growing up. He had a wonderful, wicked sense of humor. One year, right before the championship basketball game, William, Kevin, Lindy, Andy, and me”—Max didn’t realize she’d said Lindy’s name out loud until it came from her lips—“broke into the Crystal Glen high school gym, our rivals, and filled it with four thousand helium balloons in blue and silver, our school colors.” She smiled at the memory.
“And for Halloween when we were thirteen and too old for trick-or-treating, Kevin converted his garage into a haunted house. I was the Grim Reaper. Lindy did my makeup and it was damn good. Kevin was the killer clown. Andy was the executioner, William lured people in with his Ted Bundy charm, Lindy played a ghost.” Suddenly, the humor from that night, five years before Lindy died and Kevin was accused of her murder, disappeared. “We raised money to buy turkeys for Thanksgiving for the food bank in Menlo Park, and Kevin gave his allowance for the month. Kevin never had a lot of money, and that he’d given what he really couldn’t part with meant something. And then William, in true fashion, donated his allowance—much more than Kevin’s. But it didn’t hurt as much.”
Max caught William’s eye and wondered if he remembered that as well.
“The Kevin I knew would give you the shirt off his back. He helped everyone who asked, and even some who didn’t. He never bragged about his accomplishments or that he mowed his next-door neighbor’s lawn because her husband lost so much money in the stock market they couldn’t afford maintenance. He wanted to fix everyone’s problems, and he usually did it with humor. If you were sad or angry, he’d lighten the mood to where the pain was bearable or the anger extinguished.”
Max wanted to say more, but there was no need to bring up the trial, or that she’d always believed he was innocent, or why she hadn’t spoken to him in twelve years. None of that was relevant to the fact that he’d killed himself because he’d never recovered from the trial that destroyed his life.
“Kevin was a good person and a good friend.”
Max left the altar and sat next to Jodi who looked at her with adulation that Max didn’t want or deserve.
Had she truly been a friend of Kevin’s, she would have forgiven him for lying to her. But lies were the one thing Max had a hard time forgiving. Hard? Impossible. Her mother had lied to her. Kevin lied to her. Marco lied to her. Even Lindy, their senior year, might not have outright lied, but she’d been keeping secrets. There was nothing she wanted more than to say it didn’t matter, but it did matter, and Max couldn’t change the way she felt. She wanted to, sometimes, because the darkness that filled her, a deep despair she never showed—that she could trust no one—tormented her.
Then she hadn’t cared as much about who killed Lindy as supporting the person who hadn’t.
Now she wanted to know the truth. About everything.
She wanted the truth for herself, and she was willing to live with whatever secrets she uncovered. She could expect no less from herself than she asked from the people who wanted her to find their truths.
She looked out at the audience again and William was gone. Mrs. O’Neal was silently crying. But Detective Beck glared at her. She stared back. He turned away first.
Max wondered what he knew about Lindy’s murder that she didn’t. And how she could make him talk to her.
* * *
Max pulled Jodi aside after she said good-bye to the few visitors. “Are you joining us at Mrs. Gonzales’s?” Her tone was hopeful.
“I can’t,” Max said. She pulled the key from her purse. “Does this key look familiar?”
Jodi took it, looked at both sides, then returned it to her. “No. Why?”
Max put the key back into the zippered compartment inside her purse. “I found it at Kevin’s yesterday.”
“Does it mean anything? Maybe he had evidence and the people who killed him couldn’t find the key and—”
“Jodi, I’m still looking into it, but Kevin committed suicide.”
Jodi’s bottom lip trembled. “But—you said—”
“I said I would find the truth.” She didn’t show her the letter Kevin left. Max was angry at Kevin for doing this to Jodi, to his mother, to the people who cared about him. He was hopeless, maybe, but killing himself hurt his family more than him.
It was a coward’s way out.
“Did Kevin rent a storage unit?”
“Not that I know about. I can look—”
“I’ll do it.” Max didn’t know what she’d find inside, but she’d rather locate the facility herself. Especially since someone else was interested in whatever Kevin was doing.
“Go with the others, Jodi. I have some things to do.”
“Thank you for everything.” Jodi spontaneously hugged her, then walked back into the church.
Max had a long list of things to do, starting with checking out the Evergreen construction company, calling Detective Santini, and visiting Olivia Langstrom Ward.
She wouldn’t call Olivia. The woman would no doubt avoid her. Best to show up on her doorstep. Max could more easily tell if someone was lying or obfuscating if she was face-to-face.
Detective Beck was getting into his unmarked sedan, but it was an official car according to the plates and the police lights in the grille. Max strode over to him and said, “I need a minute, Detective.”
He closed the door on her, then rolled down his window. “You’re a piece of work, Ms. Revere.”
“So I’ve been told.” She looked down at him through the open window. “You’re on duty but you came to Kevin’s funeral. For work?”
“To say good riddance.”
“You could have done that at the morgue.”
&nbs
p; “You talked a good game in there, Maxine, but your friend was a killer. No sugarcoating that.”
“He didn’t kill Lindy.”
“Case is closed.”
“Technically, it’s not.”
“As far as I’m concerned, it is.”
“Maybe that’s why no one’s in prison. You only looked at the evidence you wanted to see. I told you twelve years ago after the trial that Kevin was with Olivia Langstrom the night Lindy died. You never followed up on any other suspects.”
Beck pushed the door open and Max stepped back. He pulled his hefty girth from his seat and said, “I don’t need a big-shot New York reporter coming in here and fucking with my case. Kevin had no verifiable alibi, he and Lindy fought the night before, and several people testified that Kevin was livid that Lindy was involved with someone else. Classic if-I-can’t-have-her-no-one-else-will punk attitude. I’ve seen it many times. I’m sure you have too.”
“Don’t you find it odd that no one admitted to being involved with Lindy?”
“Kevin had a key to the pool house where Lindy was killed.”
“So did everyone on the varsity swim team.” Not to mention these were teenage boys and girls—it would be easy to lose a key, or steal, or borrow …
William had been on the swim team. Duncan. Caitlin. Lindy. Lindy’s older brother, who’d graduated several years before, had also been on the swim team.
“Stay away from this,” Beck said. “You’re not getting any cooperation from my office to dig into a closed case. I will not let you drag the Ames family though this shit again.”
“Lindy had been my friend, too,” Max said. Her voice cracked. She was too emotional. She had to find a way to step back, take herself out of the equation. She took a deep breath. “I don’t suppose you have an update on the break-in yesterday in Kevin’s apartment.”
Beck snorted and got back in his car. “Give it up. Kevin O’Neal killed Lindy Ames. Thirty years of experience tells me I’m right. Besides, I did talk to Olivia Langstrom. She said she was home, with her family. Face it—Kevin deceived you. Maybe you’re not such a fucking good reporter after all.” He drove off.
Jodi approached and said, “What was he talking about? Why did he come?”
“The detective is an ass,” Max said. “Don’t worry about him.” But her heart was racing and she felt hot and dizzy. Why would Beck lie about talking to Olivia? Had he really followed up? Had Olivia lied? Had Kevin?
“Do you think—do you think that the police might open up Kevin’s case? Do you think that they don’t care if he was murdered because they still think he’s guilty?”
Max didn’t know how to sugarcoat the truth, so she said, “Jodi, from what I’ve seen in the police report, the coroner’s report, and Kevin’s apartment, the evidence shows that Kevin killed himself. The police are right about this.”
Her bottom lip wavered. “But what about his laptop?”
“That’s not the only item that’s missing. I’m not leaving tomorrow, so I’ll figure out what happened to his things.”
“You think the key leads to his computer.”
“Possibly. But—”
“Then why the message? The death certificate?”
She was asking questions Max was only beginning to seek answers for. “I’ll find out,” she repeated. “Kevin loved you and you were probably the only good thing in his life.”
“He was so sad all the time,” she said quietly. “Haunted.” She took a deep breath. “Thank you for everything. I think—I think maybe I’m okay now.”
“Good.”
Jodi might be okay, but Max wasn’t.
Max said polite good-byes, slipped into her rental car, hooked her phone up to the Bluetooth, and left the church.
She was going to find out if Beck was telling the truth about Olivia Langstrom. If he was, then maybe—maybe—Max had been wrong. That Kevin was a killer and Max betrayed not only her family, but her best friend. How could she call herself an investigative reporter if she could be so easily deceived?
She’d also forgotten about the pool house and how the rules had been much looser on her small private school campus than on most schools. Max had played volleyball and had a key to the locker room. So did all the other athletes. Did the key Kevin left for her to find—because there was no doubt in Max’s mind that Kevin intended her to find that letter and the key—fit the pool house? Were they assigned keys? If so, would that matter? Did the locker room have the same lock as the pool house?
Which meant that anyone, including Lindy, could have unlocked the pool house where she’d been killed and dropped into the Olympic-sized indoor pool.
Lindy drowned.
According to the testimony, Lindy had been raped, strangled, and dropped into the swimming pool after death. The chlorine and chemicals had destroyed any physical evidence that may have been on her body. She’d been clothed, according to the testimony that had been made public. Had the killer dressed her after raping her? Why?
Max had time and experience on her side now. She needed the trial transcripts, and she knew where she might be able to get them over the weekend—if she could reach Kevin’s defense lawyer.
She first called the Menlo Park Police Department and asked to speak with Detective Nick Santini. She was a bit surprised when the receptionist said he wasn’t on duty and asked if she’d like his voice mail or to speak to another detective. Max happily left a voice mail, pleased she didn’t have to identify herself to the receptionist.
She spent the rest of the drive tracking down Kevin’s defense attorney.
Gregory Q. Jones was no longer working for the legal defense company he’d started with. Now he was a corporate attorney, who would likely be moving in the same circles as William had he not relocated to Los Angeles.
His new law office refused to do anything but take a message, and Max didn’t want to wait until Monday for the information she needed. She hesitated a moment before calling David. She really didn’t want to disturb his weekend with his daughter, except he was a miracle worker in getting her the information she needed when she came up against a brick wall. Sometimes she didn’t know how he did it. She’d once accused him of being psychic and he’d laughed. A rarity.
“David, I need a phone number. I’m sorry to—”
“Tell me what you need.”
“Gregory Q. Jones. He’s with Blanchard, Dixon, and Grossman out of Los Angeles, a firm specializing in corporate law. He specializes in criminal law. The weekend receptionist did nothing but take a message, but I’d really like to talk to him before Monday.”
“Give me five minutes.” He hung up.
David would text her the information, so Max felt comfortable leaving her car when she arrived at Olivia’s house, instead of waiting for his call.
She didn’t know how connected Olivia was with the people from their hometown, but Max hoped she had the element of surprise on her side.
A long stamped concrete walkway framed by evenly spaced and pruned rosebushes led to the wide stairs and stately Craftsman-style home in an historic neighborhood near Stanford University.
According to the Stanford faculty Web site, Christopher Wallingford Ward was a European history professor specializing in the Georgian and Victorian periods. Originally from Montecito, California, a wealthy community near Santa Barbara, Ward got his B.A. in history from USC, his M.A. at Boston College, and his Ph.D. in Georgian history at Stanford. He had several books published in the field and had been a tenured professor for the last five years. He was forty-seven years of age, but with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, looked years older. Distinguished, but certainly not anyone Max expected one of her own thirty-something peers would marry.
The veranda was wide and had carefully placed cushioned outdoor furniture and potted plants that practically screamed staged. A little too picture-perfect for Max.
Or maybe she was reading into her recollection of the perfect Olivia Langstrom from the perfect home tha
t Max had learned was less than “perfect.”
Max rang the bell. Chimes, not a buzzer, rang through the house. Several moments later, the door opened.
Olivia Langstrom Ward had changed little in thirteen years. Her delicate features seemed more refined; her tall, willowy frame and pale hair suited her porcelain skin and gray, almost drab, conservative attire. But her ice blue eyes spoke the truth—she recognized Max immediately and knew exactly why she was here.
She looked scared. And angry. An interesting combination.
“Hello, Olivia.”
“Maxine—wow.” She glanced behind Max, toward the street. To escape or to determine if Max was alone?
“May I come in?”
“This isn’t a good time.”
“It’s a nice afternoon. We can sit here on the porch.” Max walked over to a chair and sat. Olivia stared at her as if she didn’t know whether to follow or bolt the door.
Olivia glanced behind her into the house. Was someone home? Her husband? Staff? A friend? A child? Max didn’t know what happened to Olivia after she left Atherton.
Olivia closed the door so quietly that Max barely heard it click shut. The skittish woman sat on the edge of the love seat, her long, slender hands clasped in her lap. “I don’t know why you would come here.”
“Your behavior is odd to me,” Max said. “Considering we used to run around in the same circles.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I have just one question for you. Why didn’t you tell the police you were with Kevin the night Lindy was killed?”
Olivia stared at Max, frozen. It was clear she hadn’t expected that question.
Max waited her out. She’d faced reluctant witnesses many times. Reluctant witnesses, scared witnesses, angry witnesses—people who didn’t do the “right thing” just because it was the right thing to do. People who needed poking and prodding and confrontation before they gave up the truth.
“I—I think you’re mistaken,” Olivia said, her voice barely audible. She looked beyond Max, her cheeks flushed, her right hand turning the narrow platinum and diamond watch on her left wrist around and around until Max wanted to slap her hand to make her stop.
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