Notorious

by Allison Brennan

If anyone questioned her, she would simply saying she was jogging the five miles down to Cañada Road—she checked her map and while it was three miles as the crow flies, it was definitely longer with the twists in the road. She was pretty certain they’d had trespassing joggers and bikers on this narrow road—so narrow that there were stretches where two cars couldn’t pass.

  She spent so much time on a treadmill at the gym she forgot how much she enjoyed running outdoors in fresh air. She kept an easy pace, not knowing what she might encounter.

  She heard no one, saw no cars or people or bikers or joggers. She was twenty minutes from Redwood City, but she felt like she was in the middle of nowhere. It was truly awesome, yet at the same time a bit disconcerting. She’d broken one of her rules—loose as it was—that she’d always let Ben or David know where she was headed when she was following an investigative trail. A few times she’d been in sticky situations, but she’d always managed to get herself out just fine. She was smart and resourceful, and this was her life. She knew it the minute she started the journal when Karen disappeared in Miami. In fact, the anniversary of Karen’s disappearance had just passed while she had been with Marco in Miami. Karen was never far from her thoughts, which both bothered Max and comforted her. If she didn’t forget what happened to Karen, if she was still looking for evidence, still looking for her remains, then Karen would never be forgotten.

  The road Max ran down gently inclined, with a few slight hills and steeper dips. Nothing she couldn’t handle, but she had to watch her step. The road wasn’t well maintained and there were potholes and rocks in her path. Worse, there was a steep drop-off to her right. Max wouldn’t say she was afraid of heights—she was more afraid of falling.

  Max turned along a forty-five-degree curve and saw a steep driveway up the north side of the mountain. It, too, had a gate on it and no address, but based on her map this was the Cross property.

  There was barbed wire fencing along the top of the gate, making it impossible to climb. There was no easy way to get around it.

  She walked down the road until the mountainside was less steep. Looking carefully for poison oak—it was common here, she remembered from her youth—she found a place she could scale without too much effort.

  There was fencing here, too, but most of it had fallen down. Still, Max was careful as she climbed over the half-buried barbed wire.

  Five minutes later she found herself looking down onto the curving driveway. The trees on this side of the mountain were dense, providing a natural canopy, while the mountain side wasn’t as steep as on the south, making the land easier to access.

  Max wasn’t an expert on the drug trade, but she knew that pot farms were big business, especially in the far northern reaches of California. Here, so close to a big city, it was rarer to find outdoor farms, which made this area strategically located. They’d need a storage shed that could be used for drying out the plants when harvested. Which meant electricity or generators.

  She suspected that there would be some sort of surveillance system unless Cross and Potrero had a caretaker. Or both. She wanted to find evidence of the pot farm, take some pictures, and then get out of here. Confronting drug growers wasn’t a smart move.

  She listened to her surroundings. It wasn’t as quiet as she originally thought. Birds mostly, a distant motorbike or quad that faded away to a faint echo as she listened, and the rustling of trees as the breeze gently moved the air. Fortunately, she’d be able to hear any vehicle long before it approached, so she felt confident about walking along the driveway.

  Max scrambled down the side and started walking along the narrow, unpaved road, hyperalert for any sounds. She was startled when she soon came upon a small, rustic cabin. She pulled back into the redwood trees and surveyed the place. No cars, no people, nothing to suggest anyone was here.

  Confident she was alone, she left her hiding spot and walked up the porch. All the blinds were closed. Through one narrow crack she made out a table and chairs, a couch, a door on the left. She heard a faint hum and, for a time, thought it came from the house—but it sounded too loud to be a refrigerator. She walked around the house then noticed a barn on the far side of an overgrown clearing, half-concealed by redwoods and birch trees of all sizes. She approached the barn and the hum grew loud enough that Max recognized it as a generator.

  The windows on the barn were better camouflaged; they were all painted black on the inside. There was also a heavy-duty chain on the door. She walked around and found a second entrance in the back; it was locked from the inside.

  But this was her only chance of confirming her theory. She found a rock and broke the window next to the door. Though the window here was also painted, a thick curtain had been nailed over the opening as well. She pulled the curtain from the nails and it fell aside.

  The barn housed a full drug operation—thick bunches of marijuana hung upside down to dry under low-wattage heat lamps, fueled by the generator that was operating next to her behind the barn. There were tables for cutting and sorting and whatever else they did with the dried pot.

  She snapped several pictures with her phone camera, sent them to her cloud server, hoping they went through with the sketchy cellular connection, then pocketed it. She considered crawling through the window, but she’d then be trapped if anyone came. And what she had documented was good enough for the authorities.

  Because she was right next to the generator, she didn’t hear anyone coming until a motorcycle had driven up to the barn. She dropped down from the broken window and flattened herself against the back of the barn.

  Shit.

  She peered carefully around the corner. Behind the motorcycle was a truck with a camper shell. The motorcycle was a black BMW bike, property of DLE and ridden by J. C. Potrero—confirmed when he whipped off his helmet and started yelling at the woman driving the truck. “We don’t have time,” he said.

  “You’re being paranoid,” the female said.

  “That reporter was in your house. She found me, we don’t know what Dru told her. The cops talked to Becky this morning. We’re clearing out.”

  “We still have another crop to cut—” the girl said.

  “Dammit, Amy, leave it. If they find this place, they can’t prove we knew anything about it. It’s only Becky’s name on the title, and she hasn’t been up here in years. She’ll deny knowing about it, and no way can they prove she did. And if they don’t find it? We’ll come back in a couple months for the rest.”

  The chains on the front of the barn rattled and the doors opened. She didn’t know how long it was going to take for them to clear out; she needed to get the authorities up to the mountain fast. No way could she go back using the driveway—at least not until she cleared sight of the house.

  She checked the cell reception on her phone; none. That meant the pictures hadn’t been uploaded either. She’d have to get back up to Skyline in order to call the police.

  She didn’t want to wait, but she also didn’t want to get herself killed. She looked around. Behind the barn was a wide, worn path that disappeared down a gentle slope into a copse of trees. She didn’t see where it led—probably to the remainder of their crop. She didn’t much like the idea of trying to get back to Skyline via the mountain side. She had no idea what kind of terrain she was looking at, but it would be uphill most of the way, some of it steep—possibly too steep to walk.

  Max had one option that seemed the most viable—walk around the opposite side of the barn and into the trees, keeping to the shade, and going back up the hillside toward Phleger Road. She would be exposed for a short distance, but she didn’t see an alternative.

  Ticktock, Max, make a decision.

  “J. C. come here.” Amy’s voice was right on the other side of the broken window.

  Her imminent discovery made the decision for her. Max moved quickly around the side of the barn and back toward the house. She grabbed her Taser and flipped it on, just in case, and stopped only when the house blocked the vie
w from the barn. She had to wait, hoping they hadn’t seen her.

  She heard commotion at the barn. Max could only make out a few words, most of which had to do with J. C. barking orders at Amy to hurry; he wanted to be out of here with or without the pot.

  Then J. C. started toward the house. He unlocked the front door, Max just on the other side, her body up against the wall, making herself as small as possible. Hard to do when you were five feet ten and a half inches tall.

  She heard his voice. There must be a landline inside, because Max still had no service on her cell phone.

  “No, it wasn’t a fucking tree branch. The curtain was pulled out,” J. C. said. He was standing inside the house, right on the other side of the wall.

  As much as Max wanted to listen to the conversation, she knew this was her best chance to get to the tree line and escape while there was still time to bring the police in to stop them.

  Staying as low as possible, she ran toward the trees and up the slope.

  J. C. spotted her.

  “Stop!” He shouted behind her. She didn’t stop; she ran as fast as she could up the hill, her hamstrings burning.

  Please don’t have a gun, please don’t have a gun.

  She heard a gun go off. Of course he had a gun. But she still had distance in her favor, and she appeared to be in better shape than her pursuer. She hoped. He was ten years younger.

  The slope was too steep for her to keep going in a straight line; she began to slide backward, losing ground. She turned and went up at a diagonal, using the trees to brace herself as needed. She spared a glance back and couldn’t see J. C., but there was another gunshot and Max didn’t slow down to figure out where it came from. She didn’t see the bullet hit anything around her. Was he shooting to scare her? Had he recognized her?

  Max kept going at a brisk pace, even though she didn’t hear anyone pursuing. Her lungs and calves burned. Then, in the distance she heard a motorcycle, and that’s when she stopped and gave herself a minute to catch her breath.

  She willed herself to control her racing heart. She took out her water, drank half of it, and bent over, taking long, deep breaths. She was light-headed and dizzy, but knew that would fade. While her run had been steep and treacherous, she’d run much longer in marathons. Too bad she hadn’t been in the middle of training for a marathon, she’d probably have been able to take the mountain with no problem. But it had been years, and it showed.

  The echo in the mountains made it difficult to gauge the direction of the bike, but she guessed he was on the driveway going from the house to the road. Either he was making a run for it, or he was attempting to intercept her.

  She used the sound to help her with direction. Soon she found the trees she’d marked when she first left the road, then she went through the broken fence. She no longer heard Potrero’s bike, but she sat behind a tree and listened for several minutes before she felt comfortable leaving her hiding spot.

  She walked briskly up the road, toward where she parked her car, and pulled out her cell phone. She had one bar. She tried calling Santini, but the call wouldn’t go through. Instead, she sent him a text message, knowing it was easier to get one through than a call.

  On Phleger Road in Woodside, heading toward Skyline Boulevard where I left my car. Found a pot farm and drying facility at Rebecca Cross’s property. They’re clearing out now. They spotted me, but I lost them. Get the authorities up here before they disappear with the evidence.

  She then forwarded him the photos that she’d taken. They were going through very slow, and she pocketed her phone.

  She walked fast instead of running, because if she spotted J. C., she needed to be able to sprint.

  Like you can outrun a motorcycle. Just don’t be spotted.

  She could see the headline now: INVESTIGATIVE REPORTER MAXINE REVERE FELL TO HER DEATH AFTER UNCOVERING A MARIJUANA FARM.

  She pushed the macabre thoughts of dying from her head as she approached the gate that led to the main road. It was closed, which meant he had gone east, or he’d taken the time to lock it behind himself.

  She hopped the gate and turned toward the restaurant where she parked her car.

  That’s when she saw J. C. Potrero’s motorcycle partly hidden behind a thick tree.

  Earlier, cars had passed her intermittently on Skyline Boulevard. Right now, Max saw and heard no one, and a killer was waiting for her.

  She looked around, her Taser in hand. There was a house up the road in the other direction, but the chances that someone was home in an area that was mostly weekend cabins was thin. She didn’t want to be trapped, and had to assume that J. C. knew this area better than she did.

  She heard a car coming from the north. She didn’t want to endanger anyone else, and she didn’t know how stable J. C. was—would he kill an innocent bystander just to get Max?

  She went toward her car. There was another house between the restaurant and the gate, but there were no cars in front and it didn’t look like anyone was home.

  “You fucking bitch,” a voice said behind her.

  Max slowly turned around. J. C. Potrero had a gun pointed at her. He heard the car as well, and lowered the gun, keeping it in front of him so the driver wouldn’t be able to see.

  “The police already know.”

  “Like hell they do.”

  “Why did you kill Jason Hoffman?”

  He stared at her, seemingly baffled. He might be innocent of murder; it had most likely been Rebecca Cross who’d stabbed Dru.

  “You know that’s why Dru was meeting with me, to tell me something about Jason Hoffman’s death. I didn’t know about any of this until your girlfriend nearly killed her.”

  The car passed and J. C. raised his gun.

  Max had her Taser up the sleeve of her windbreaker. She fired as she sidestepped. He didn’t get a round off, but fell to the ground, dropping his gun.

  She kicked the gun away and ran to her car. She got in, locked the doors, and pulled out her phone to call Nick Santini.

  Only then did she realize she had six missed calls. She’d had her phone on silent.

  “What the fuck is going on, Revere?” Santini asked.

  “Your suspect is down. Tasered. Don’t know how long he’ll be down.”

  “Stay away from him.”

  She glanced over to where J. C. was lying on the ground.

  “I kicked his gun away and he’s still down.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Outside the Bella Vista Restaurant on Skyline Boulevard. Nice place. Maybe we can have dinner here when I help you wrap up your case.”

  “You’re a piece of work.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She was trying to diffuse his anger, but it wasn’t working.

  “Stay put. And you might want to call your lawyer, because I’m planning on putting cuffs on you.”

  Max swallowed her sexy retort about how she didn’t do threesomes. Now she was pissed. “I broke your case wide open.”

  “You screwed my case. Don’t. Move.” He hung up.

  She glanced over to where J. C. was lying on the ground. He was trying to get up, but had no balance.

  A car was approaching from the south. She got out of her car and flagged them down. “Do you have any rope?” she asked with a smile.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Max ordered a second glass of wine as the Menlo Grill waiter took her plate away.

  The police had taken J. C. Potrero into custody and found Amy Benson still at the house with a truckful of marijuana. The evidence was solid. Rebecca Cross was being interviewed, and the detective in charge—not Santini—said that Amy was talking, and they should know in short order how the entire operation worked.

  Not bad for a day’s investigation.

  Nick Santini hadn’t spoken more than two words to her when he first arrived. They were, “Explain. Now.” She did. He wrote everything down and walked away. At least she didn’t need to call her lawyer. Arresting a reporter was never a
good idea—she would be able to control the public message.

  No one—J. C. or Rebecca—had admitted to Jason Hoffman’s murder or the attack on Dru Parker, but it was clear that Rebecca Cross’s car was the one that had nearly hit Max in the parking garage. Max hoped that the multiple jurisdictions didn’t mess with the case—the most important thing, from her point of view, was finding out who killed Jason Hoffman and why.

  She hadn’t picked up on much of anything—after taking her statement, Nick and the other cops had stayed away from her—but she overheard Nick tell someone on the phone that Dru Parker was cooperating. Max was pleased—she thought the girl was remorseful and she could use a fresh start. Punish her, but not where it would ruin her life. Her efforts to help catch her attacker and Jason’s killer would go a long way with a jury and judge. Max hoped she had a good attorney. She might be able to help with that. At least get her someone good, who wouldn’t put the girl in debt for the next decade.

  She didn’t think that Dru knew or even suspected that J. C. or Rebecca killed Jason until recently. Max liked to believe that Dru would have come forward, even though it was plausible she might have remained silent out of fear. Max certainly hadn’t pushed her hard this morning at the hospital for information, though nearly dying might have had something to do with her willingness to talk.

  The problem, Max realized, was that she had doubts that the drug money laundering scam was the root of Jason’s murder. Dru had seemed nervous around Roger Lawrence, the general manager of the Evergreen project, and Lawrence had been the one to send her on a worthless errand when Max started talking to her. Max wouldn’t have been surprised if Lawrence had been the one to knife her—that it was someone completely different, with no apparent connection to Evergreen, made Max skeptical that the two cases were connected.

  She didn’t want to be skeptical. Skeptical meant that she still had questions that hadn’t been answered. Questions she couldn’t even guess at.

  She couldn’t forget what Dru said on the phone. That strange things had been happening at Evergreen the week before Jason’s murder. And later Dru talking about holes and trees. And since the farm had nothing to do with the construction company—at least from what Max could tell so far—these “strange things” might not be related to the drug money, either.