Notorious

by Allison Brennan

  Dru moaned again.

  “Ms. Revere?” the dispatcher said over the cell phone.

  Max could barely hear Dru with the noise coming from her phone, so she cut off the dispatcher and said, “Hey, Dru, it’s Max. Take it easy.”

  “S-s-sorry,” Dru breathed.

  “Don’t talk, kid. Help’s coming.” Max could hear the sirens in the distance. “Who hurt you?” she asked.

  She shook her head, then cried out in pain.

  Max wished she could make her comfortable. “Don’t talk, conserve your strength.” Max didn’t know if it was good or bad news that Dru was awake.

  “Wore. Mask.”

  The man returned with a blanket and Max motioned for him to cover Dru’s body. She didn’t want to let up on the pressure.

  “Ask.”

  “Shh.”

  “J—Jace—the trees. Holes in the trees.”

  The sirens were louder, and Max saw the red lights reflecting off the concrete walls of the underground garage before she saw the ambulance turn down the ramp. The woman motioned the emergency vehicle over to the two cars, and the man waved his arms.

  “The cavalry has arrived,” Max told Dru, but the girl was unconscious again.

  Holes in the trees? What the hell did that mean?

  * * *

  Max watched as Dru was loaded into the ambulance. The responding officer ran her license through the system. He’d already talked to the couple who had shared the blanket, and taken Max’s statement, but she had to wait for the detective.

  She stared at the blood on her hands. Dru was young and strong and healthy, but there had been so much blood.

  While the cop was occupied, she called Detective Nick Santini.

  “Santini.”

  “This is Max Revere. Your witness was just stabbed—Dru Parker.”

  “Where?”

  She told him. “She called to meet with me and I found her unconscious and bleeding in a parking garage. She’s on her way to the hospital.”

  “Stay put.”

  “I don’t think the police are going to let me leave,” she said and hung up.

  The officer said suspiciously, “Who were you talking to?”

  Max almost made a flip comment about calling the police commissioner, but decided to say, “It’s personal.”

  “Detective Gorman is on her way, I need you to wait for a couple more minutes.”

  “I’d like to clean up.”

  The officer looked skeptical, and Max said, “Really? You want me to stand here covered in that girl’s blood and wait for your detective to get her ass here?”

  “I don’t have a female officer to escort you to a restroom,” he said.

  “I’m not under arrest. I’ll come right back.”

  “I need you to stay. The detective may need your clothes for evidence.”

  Max’s adrenaline was fading, leaving only a worse headache. If she was at her prime, she would have walked away and let the cop either arrest her or let her go. She had no tolerance for bullshit. Making her stand here with blood all over her hands, arms, and dress was making her both queasy and ornery. She mentally wrote an article. Asshole cop forces witness who saved victim’s life to sit in blood for nearly an hour.

  Her editor would edit out asshole. No matter how accurate the adjective was.

  She forced herself to regain her composure. The cop was just doing his job. What she really wanted to know was: Were there security tapes? Had someone witnessed the brutal attack on Dru Parker? And dammit, why? If she’d just gotten here sooner. If she’d told Dru to stay put in Starbucks where there were people and some degree of security. If she’d looked for her immediately rather than waiting upstairs.

  She pulled out her phone again and called David. “My witness was attacked,” she said.

  “Dead?”

  “Not yet. Unconscious, being taken to Sequoia.”

  “I’ll get her status.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I can be there in an hour.”

  “No.” She’d have to tell David what happened eventually, but she didn’t need him here now. “This has nothing to do with me.”

  She didn’t want him postponing his trip with Emma. Brittany was such a bitch she was practically a nutcase about his visitation rights.

  David had been hired as her assistant, but he often acted like a bodyguard. Or, at least, a protector. Max didn’t want a bodyguard, but after a particularly violent trial she covered eighteen months ago that instigated death threats, Ben had hired David. And he’d saved her life in Chicago when a wacko went after her. Now Max depended on him more than anyone else in her life, which made her uncomfortable. Maybe if she’d had sex with him it would be different—she tended to maintain the upper hand once she’d slept with a guy—but David was gay and sex was out of the question. He took both parts of his job—as her assistant and as her bodyguard—seriously. She sometimes missed being completely independent—of the show, of Ben, of an occasionally overprotective assistant.

  David said, “Whoever attacked her knew she was meeting with you.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Don’t be dense.”

  Max watched an unmarked sedan with government plates drive into the parking garage. A female detective—Gorman—stepped out of the car and talked to the officer who’d irritated Max earlier. They looked over at her. “I’m fine, David. Ben hired you to protect me when I’m working for the show, and this is personal. Really. The cops are here, all is well in the world.” She was being sarcastic, but she was tired and worried. “I was just calling to keep you in the loop and ask you to follow up on Dru’s condition. If something changes, let me know. But you’d damn well better be on that plane to Hawaii tomorrow.”

  The detective strode over to where Max had been told to wait.

  “If you get yourself in trouble, call,” David said.

  “If I get myself into trouble? Ha.” She hung up. David knew her well. She followed trouble because that was her job. But she didn’t want him here. She needed the freedom to do her own thing.

  Ben wouldn’t like her working on the Jason Hoffman murder because it would take time—time he wanted on the Bachman trial. Also, the Hoffman case wasn’t “sexy” enough for him. Ben had been trying to get her to write about Lindy’s murder and Kevin’s trial—if he knew that Kevin had contacted her four months ago, they’d have argued every day about whether she should pursue it or not. So she never told him. And she wasn’t going to tell him now—he’d insist she do a show, and she’d have to tell him to go to hell. She didn’t want to quit.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Detective Gorman glared at her. “Who were you talking to?”

  “A friend.”

  “About what?”

  Max checked her temper. “It’s personal.”

  “Do you understand the seriousness of this situation?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then you should know better than to talk to anyone until you give your statement to me, got it?”

  She bit back a sarcastic comment. “Yes, Detective.”

  Max didn’t like Gorman. One of Max’s faults—if one listened to Ben—was that she formed knee-jerk opinions of people. Her opinions were based on her experience coupled with the first impression package. Gorman’s first impression package was: tough female detective, angry, competent, chip on her shoulder. From her attire Max suspected she was in debt—cheap shoes and clothes, but with a fondness for jewelry. The diamonds in her ears, for example, were real.

  What really irked Max was Gorman’s approach. She watched as Gorman waited for Max to elaborate. It was a technique cops loved, letting the silence hang to get a suspect to continue talking—hopefully to send him to prison.

  It took Gorman ten seconds before she spoke. Not very patient. Max had remained silent with cops for upwards of two minutes when she’d been questioned in the past. Two minutes was about Max’s threshold. That’s when she’d say, “I’m leavin
g.” They’d either let her go or ask more questions.

  “Do you know the victim”—Gorman looked at her notes—“Dru Parker?”

  “Not well.”

  “But you know her.”

  “I met her for the first time today.”

  “So you don’t know her.”

  “I said, not well. I met her at her place of employment, Evergreen—”

  “This is rather a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “What?”

  “That you just show up here and find her bleeding on the ground.”

  “She called to meet with me. She picked the place—”

  “You’re telling me that a girl you barely know, who you just met today, agreed to meet with you in a parking lot in the middle of the night?”

  “We agreed to meet at Starbucks. She wasn’t there, so I started looking for her. It seemed—”

  “Why did you start looking for her?”

  “Because an employee said she had been in, but left.”

  “How’d you know she was in the parking garage?”

  “I didn’t see her car in the lot outside, so I came down here. She’d mentioned she was going to take the train to her mother’s in San Francisco, and I thought—”

  Gorman cut her off. “You barely know the girl, but you seem to know a lot about her plans.”

  “Stop cutting me off!”

  “You’re telling me how to do my job?”

  “Someone has to,” Max snapped.

  Gorman bristled. “Why did you have a weapon?”

  “My Taser?” Max counted to three. “Here’s my statement. My name is Maxine Revere. I’m a freelance reporter. I was asked to look into the cold case of Jason Hoffman, who was murdered at Atherton College Prep at the Evergreen construction site last November. I met Ms. Parker at the site this morning, asked her to call me if she wanted to share information related to Jason’s death. She called and asked to meet me here. When she wasn’t in Starbucks like we’d agreed, I came down here and found her car. I called her cell phone, heard it ring, took my Taser from my purse, turned it on, and followed the sound. I had the sense that something was wrong. I found her lying, bleeding and unconscious, between those two cars.” Max gestured. “Then, from that parking space”—she pointed to the spot across and one over from where Dru had been—“a dark, probably black sedan flashed his brights, peeled out of the space, and nearly hit me. The rear driver’s side hit the white car,” Max pointed, “when he fishtailed, and then he left. I couldn’t see the license plate because the high beams temporarily blinded me, but I believe B was the first letter and the last number was eight or three. I then called 911 and administered first aid until the ambulance arrived.” She took a deep breath. “You have my contact information if you need to reach me. I’m going back to my hotel now.”

  “I’m not through,” Gorman said.

  “I am.”

  She turned and found herself staring at another cop, this one also in his mid-thirties, with a conservative haircut but unshaven jaw, and sharp green eyes. Six feet two inches, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. Part of a U.S. Marine Corp tattoo was visible on his bicep. His badge was clipped to his belt and so was his gun. It looked like a .45, but Max couldn’t be certain. David was teaching her about guns since she obtained a permit to have one in her New York City apartment. Threats were part of her business, and none of them were viable, but they seemed to keep coming, and David said unless he could be with her 24/7 she’d damn well better learn how to protect herself in her own apartment.

  The cop lifted his badge for Gorman, but didn’t take his eyes off Max. She couldn’t read his expression. Her first impression package was: ex-military, tough, immovable. A man of few words who would take shit from no one.

  “Santini, Menlo Park,” he told Gorman. To Max he said, “Five minutes.”

  She wanted to argue with him—she was tired, hungry, crabby, and her head was about to explode. But she didn’t. She stood there and watched as Santini pulled Gorman aside. Santini positioned them so he could see Max, but Gorman couldn’t. Did he think she was going to leave?

  She wanted to. But the night had drained her and she had no more energy. She didn’t even think she could handle another confrontation with Gorman.

  The conversation between Santini and Gorman lasted less than three minutes, and Gorman walked over to the officer who was standing near the couple who’d stayed to help. Santini walked over to Max.

  “Please don’t tell me I have to go through this all again.”

  He shook his head. “I heard everything after you called Dru Parker’s cell phone.” He handed her the Taser the officer had taken when he first arrived.

  She smiled and put it in her purse. “Thank you.”

  “Gorman doesn’t like you.”

  “I doubt we’ll be getting pedicures together anytime soon.”

  He cracked a half smile. “We need to talk.”

  “Okay.” She glanced around, looking for a place to sit.

  “Why don’t we go up to Starbucks and you can clean yourself up? I promised Gorman I’d get your clothes for evidence before she leaves.”

  Max raised an eyebrow. “What’s the indecent exposure law in this county? Can I walk around in a thong and lace bra?”

  “I wouldn’t arrest you.” Santini grinned. “Follow me.”

  Max followed the detective up the staircase, which opened into a courtyard. Everything was closing around them, even Starbucks. Santini knocked on the door and showed his badge. “Can Ms. Revere wash up? Five minutes.”

  It was the barista from earlier. Her eyes were wide with curiosity, but she nodded and let them in.

  Santini turned to Max and said, “I’ll be back in one minute. Don’t leave.”

  Max went into the bathroom and turned the water on hot. Looking in the mirror she realized she was a horrific sight—there were blood smears on her pale face, her eyes were bloodshot and droopy, and she looked as crappy as she felt.

  There was a knock on the door. “Max,” Santini said.

  She opened the door and he handed her a large paper evidence bag, plus a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. “It’s all I have. I need your shoes, too. And the thong and lace bra.” He winked.

  She took the clothing and bag and shut the door. Nick wasn’t as hard-nosed, tough military commando like she first thought. He had a sense of humor. She liked the contrast.

  The paramedics had taken her scarf. She removed everything and dropped her clothing in the bag. She wasn’t planning on wearing any of it again.

  She cracked open the door. “Santini!” she called out.

  He stepped in the corridor. She dropped the bag in front of him and closed the door again.

  Naked, the tile floor cold on her feet, she washed her hands, arms, face, and neck as best she could with the water from the sink and paper towels. She still desperately wanted a shower. She pulled on the sweatpants—a little big, but workable—and T-shirt. USMC. It was faded, but smelled clean, and fit comfortably.

  She breathed deeply, splashed cold water on her face, and felt human again.

  Nick Santini was waiting for her, holding two cups of coffee and a small bag. He must have passed the evidence bag off to Gorman.

  “I told them to make whatever drink you had earlier,” he said. “There’s also water and a muffin in the bag.”

  She was surprised and impressed with his thoughtfulness. “Thank you.” She took the coffee he offered. “How did you know I was starving?”

  “Your stomach growls quite loudly.”

  She laughed and they walked out. The barista locked the door behind them. “I’ll answer any questions, but I can drive myself back.”

  Nick opened the passenger door of a Ford Bronco. “In.”

  She obliged. He closed the door and walked to the back and opened the back door. She didn’t know what he was doing, but when he finally got into the driver’s seat, he tossed her a pair of white gym socks. “They’re clean
.”

  “Thanks.” She slipped them on, surprised at his thoughtfulness.

  “Tell me what you didn’t tell Gorman.”

  “Parker called me at quarter to eight. She sounded scared. She specifically asked why you showed up at her house.”

  “So because I wanted to interview her again, she called you, a reporter? Why would she do that?”

  “My experience has been that people are intimidated by the police when they think they’re going to be questioned and they have something to hide.”

  “What was she hiding?” Santini was asking himself almost as much as Max.

  “She wouldn’t tell me on the phone. She planned on going to her mother’s in San Francisco—that’s why I went down to the parking garage, thinking she’d left before I arrived. She said that the week before Jason died, there were some strange things going on. Now she thinks they might have been connected to his death.”

  “Any idea what those strange things were?”

  “I’ll find out.” She bit into the muffin. Her stomach rumbled in appreciation. “She said one thing before the ambulance took her away.”

  “Identify her attacker?”

  “I would have told Gorman if she had.” Max ate more muffin. “She said that Jason was concerned about something in the trees. ‘Holes in the trees,’ she specifically said.”

  “Holes in the trees? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. But he was spending a lot of time at Atherton Prep and he was there Saturday night for no known reason.”

  “Is that what she said? Holes in the trees?”

  “Yes. Those were her exact words.”

  Santini didn’t say anything. Max continued. “Why did you question Jessica Hoffman in January about her mother?”

  He looked at her with surprise. “Jessica told you that?”

  “She told her grandparents. She thought it was odd you were asking questions about her mother and Evergreen. What did you find?”

  He didn’t answer her question, and she hadn’t expected him to.

  “Does it have something to do with the financial situation of Evergreen prior to the contract with ACP to build the sports complex?”

  Santini had a great poker face, but a small dip of his eyebrow told her she was right.