Shattered

by Allison Brennan

  “Leo. And I don’t have anything else on Kincaid or Rogan, but C. J. is on it. You don’t have to remind me that you need all the information you can get before you go into this meeting. But remember, this is a good case. Caldwell’s theory makes sense—the story is compelling.”

  “Now it’s compelling? You didn’t even want me coming out here.”

  “I’ve reconsidered.”

  “Found a commercial angle to the deaths of four little boys?” she snapped.

  “Fuck you, Maxine.”

  She sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am. Really, Ben, this whole thing with Kincaid has thrown me for a loop. I don’t like surprises.”

  “Apology accepted—once you return and let me take my pick from your wine cellar.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “I just have good taste—and know you do, too. In fact, I’ll go over tonight and help myself.”

  “I should never have given you a key.”

  “Did you break it off with Nick?”

  “No.”

  “You should. He’s turning you into more of a bitch than you already are.”

  “And here I thought you accepted my apology.”

  “You hurt me.”

  “You don’t sound hurt.”

  “My heart is broken. You haven’t seen Nick since Thanksgiving, why the hell haven’t you just told him to kiss your ass?”

  “How do you know I haven’t seen him?”

  “I know everything about you, Max.”

  She didn’t have a good response to that. Ben did know her better than anyone—part of the curse of working with someone who knew you from college. She and Ben hadn’t even liked each other for years, but for their mutual best friend Karen—the mediator, they used to call her—they forced themselves to remain civil. Most of the time.

  And after Karen disappeared and was presumed dead, Max didn’t have it in her to hate Ben anymore.

  But he still annoyed her.

  “You’re taking your frustrations out on everyone here, and it needs to stop. Stanton’s single, I’ve seen his photo. He’s your type. Maybe a little older than you usually go for, but attractive and smart. Screw him and get it out of your system, because God knows Nick isn’t giving you what you need.”

  “Don’t be so crude. Since when have I dated anyone over the age of forty?”

  “Marco.”

  “He was thirty-two when I met him. I draw the line at ten years.”

  “Then maybe you should find a twenty-two-year-old boy toy you can toss back into the pool when you’re done.”

  “Good-bye.”

  She hung up. Why did Ben think she needed to have sex? She didn’t need sex. She needed Nick Santini to stop being an ass.

  Maybe he’s not worth it.

  She was tired of talking about her love life with Ben. He just wouldn’t let it go. Maybe because he enjoyed seeing her fail at something. Max succeeded in everything she did, except relationships.

  She and Nick should have split after that first weekend they spent together. They’d had fun, they were very compatible in bed, and for a while the coast-to-coast relationship had worked perfectly for her. No commitment because they both had careers and lived three thousand miles apart, yet there was a warmth and contentment she enjoyed in the bicoastal affair.

  Except Nick had an off-limits subject—his ex-wife—and Max didn’t do off-limits subjects. Secrets were kissing cousins to lies and Max didn’t tolerate lying. Especially in her relationships—friend, family, or lover. And Ben was right about one thing: she’d let her relationship impact her work. That had to stop.

  She pulled up to the roundabout and checked her rental car in with the hotel’s valet service. Max fell in love with the US Grant hotel as soon as she stepped into the lobby. She knew exactly why her grandmother stayed here. The staff was impeccable but discreet, the lobby was stately but subdued—not excessively ostentatious. Eleanor Revere liked quiet money. Flaunting wealth was unbecoming and crass.

  The hotel desk clerk knew her by name even though she’d never stayed there.

  “Welcome to the US Grant, Ms. Revere. We have your suite ready for your early arrival.”

  Max appreciated good service, and was happy to pay for it.

  * * *

  Max didn’t take the time to unpack her clothes—a chore she rarely put off when she checked into a hotel because she loathed living out of suitcases. But she needed the time to prepare her timeline and read over everything Ben had sent on Lucy Kincaid, as well as refresh herself on the Kincaid family.

  Patrick Kincaid, Senior—retired army colonel. Rosa Kincaid was a few years younger, had been a stay-at-home mother. With seven kids, Max supposed you’d have to stay at home. It would drive Max crazy, but she admired women who could keep a house and raise a family. And apparently, Rosa Kincaid had done an exemplary job—all seven of her children had been successful. Considering they lived on one modest government income, they’d managed fairly well, had no outstanding debt, and still lived in a 2600-square-foot house they’d purchased twenty-four years ago when Patrick, Sr., was stationed in San Diego.

  That’s a lot of people for a house that size.

  The oldest, Nelia Kincaid, had been in law school when she married Andrew Stanton and gave birth to Justin four months later. It was pretty clear they married because of the child—not unheard of, especially nearly thirty years ago. After Andrew—who was a year older—graduated, Nelia went back to law school, then took a job as a corporate lawyer for a defense contractor. After her son was killed, she resigned and moved to Idaho. She worked from home for a law firm reviewing contracts, which seemed tame and completely uninteresting, but after losing her son she had never returned to a regular nine-to-five position.

  After Nelia, Rosa had twin boys—fraternal, according to Max’s research team. Jack Kincaid had enlisted in the army when he turned eighteen, never went to college, then after fourteen years left the service voluntarily and honorably discharged. He had numerous medals and accommodations. He became a mercenary—that was interesting, Max thought. She wished she had more time to delve into his background, but it didn’t seem relevant when he’d been deployed in the Middle East when his nephew was murdered.

  Now, however, Jack Kincaid was married to an FBI agent in Sacramento—an SSA, same rank as Max’s ex-boyfriend Marco—and he was a principal in the security company of Rogan Caruso Kincaid … that must be the same company that Agent Kincaid married into.

  Dr. Dillon Kincaid was a forensic psychiatrist who lived in Washington, D.C. with his wife, an FBI agent who taught cybercrime at Quantico. Max had hoped to speak with Dr. Kincaid at some point, but he had been in medical school when his nephew was killed, and it didn’t seem that he would have any relevant information—except for his expertise working with criminals and the criminal justice system. Max hadn’t asked her staff for anything except the basics on Dillon and Jack Kincaid because they hadn’t been around during Justin Stanton’s murder, but now she wanted to know more. She sent Ben a note to that effect. Interesting that both twins married FBI agents.

  Connor Kincaid was the middle child. He was a private investigator, though he had been a cop for ten years first. He resigned after a public trial where he testified against a corrupt cop. Max had to admire him for that—it took a lot of courage to stand up against one of your own, even when one of your own had done something illegal and morally reprehensible. He was married to an assistant DA, the independently wealthy Julia Chandler. Max was familiar with the Chandler Foundation—they were generous in their philanthropy.

  Carina Kincaid had been in college when Justin was killed—but afterward she dropped out and joined the police academy. She became a uniformed officer at the age of twenty, then made detective before she was thirty. She’d been married to Nick Thomas—former sheriff of Gallatin County in Montana—for nearly eight years. They had a seven-month-old son, and Nick was now
a PI in the same business with his brother-in-law, Connor.

  And because it seemed everyone in the Kincaid family—except the oldest, Nelia—was in some sort of law enforcement, Max hadn’t been surprised to learn that Patrick Kincaid had also been a cop. Again, he had been lower on her list because he lived in Washington, D.C., but as she reviewed the file on him, her curiosity was piqued. He’d been a detective with San Diego PD until he was injured and in a coma for nearly two years. Nothing in the file said how he was injured—was it on the job? A year after he recovered, he joined Rogan Caruso Kincaid Protective Services.

  That company again.

  She sent another note off to Ben to dig deeper into Patrick Kincaid. Just because she was curious—his injuries were sustained nearly nine years ago, they had nothing to do with Justin’s murder or the investigation—but information was king. It was better to know everything than to make assumptions.

  More than ten years after Patrick was born came Lucia “Lucy” Kincaid, born two weeks before her nephew, Justin.

  Max quickly did the math … Rosa Kincaid would have been forty-three or forty-four when she had Lucy. Not unheard of, but not common.

  There wasn’t much on Lucy Kincaid. She graduated from Georgetown University in D.C. with a dual degree in psychology and criminal justice, and then earned her master’s in criminal psychology from the same school. She’d served as an intern in several capacities, but the longest stint was thirteen months at the D.C. medical examiner’s office. She was a certified assistant pathologist—that seemed odd for a federal agent. Had she considered going into the field? She also held a certification in underwater search and rescue through the Commonwealth of Virginia. It would probably have been updated when she joined the FBI, they had their own underwater training program, but Max couldn’t access Kincaid’s FBI records.

  Max continued to stroll through the original documentation her team had put together.

  Lucy would be twenty-seven next month—young to have such a weighty background. Seemed she did a little of everything. Dabbled? Overachiever? Undecided? Flighty? What little Max knew about the Kincaid family told her that they were all overachievers, at least when it came to law enforcement careers. But as the youngest in the bunch, maybe Lucy Kincaid didn’t know what she wanted so tried a little of everything.

  Max didn’t have much time before she needed to meet Stanton and Kincaid, so she checked her e-mail to see if Ben had uncovered anything else. He had sent her an e-mail with several attachments.

  Max—

  Federal agents rarely make the news, but I’ve pulled all the articles referencing the San Antonio Field Office over the past year.

  Kincaid graduated from the FBI Academy a year ago December and was assigned to the San Antonio Field Office. She and her then-boyfriend Sean Rogan bought a house in an established neighborhood (property records attached).

  As you know, most federal agents stay out of the press, and Kincaid is no exception. I learned that she was part of Operation Heatwave (details in the article from the SA Press) and she was part of the task force during the manhunt for escaped prisoner, former DEA Agent Nicole Rollins. It appears she’s been involved in several major cases during her first year as a rookie agent, but according to my friend in the N.Y. office, the San Antonio office has been short-staffed. Maybe an all-hands-on-deck situation?

  Now here’s the interesting point—when I talked to my contact in N.Y., he told me off-the-record that Kincaid had been involved in at least two investigations in N.Y. before she was a federal agent. She was a consultant for the Cinderella Strangler investigation, which seems odd considering she wasn’t even in law enforcement at the time. While she was at the FBI Academy, she consulted on the Rosemary Weber homicide. Both cases were NYPD investigations, but the same FBI agent liaison worked with the police. My contact either wouldn’t or couldn’t give me more details, but it seems interesting to me that someone prior to graduation—especially a young recruit like Kincaid—was consulting with the FBI on major criminal cases.

  I’m reaching out to the liaison to see what else I can learn.

  I’m asking C. J. to dig into Kincaid’s husband, Sean Rogan. He’s a principal with Rogan Caruso Kincaid Protective Services, but everything we know is from their Web site and a few articles. And you’ll probably remember from the previous documentation that Jack Kincaid and Patrick Kincaid both work for RCK. It seems they stay well below the media radar. I’m going to reach out to the media contact there and see what I can learn.

  If Stanton wants Lucy Kincaid’s blessing, it may not be for obvious reasons. Maybe he thinks she’s the only one he can convince to help—he made it clear during our conversation yesterday that the Kincaid family would put up a major roadblock in our investigation into Justin Stanton’s murder. Stanton’s reasons were vague. Emotion? Bad blood?

  You never know who might be hiding what. You taught me that—so I’m reminding you to tread carefully. We’ll go back further and see what we can learn. I’m copying in David—since David was an Army Ranger, maybe he can get more information on Jack Kincaid. Their service didn’t overlap, but maybe David has some inside knowledge or knows where to get it. Hint, hint, David.

  —Ben

  Max didn’t have time to review any of the attached articles, but she appreciated Ben’s quick analysis and sent him a thank-you. The thank-you would also serve as a second apology for her comment about commercializing the murders of four boys. Ben did overstep the media angle on occasion, but he wasn’t an asshole, and he cared about the victims. It wasn’t fair of her to snap at him because he was thinking of her show and NET—that was his job.

  She quickly changed out of her travel clothes then went downstairs a few minutes early. She wanted to assess the group when they walked in—body language and first impressions were important in how she would handle the conversation. Her goal was simple: she wanted Stanton’s help, and if Kincaid had any insight or information, she wanted her help; but she didn’t want them involved on the investigative level. Having a federal agent to consult was good; having a fed breathing down her neck was bad. Been there, done that.

  When she stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby, she saw Andrew Stanton walking in through the main doors. He looked almost exactly like the photo on the DAs Web site, even wearing a similar gray suit.

  But he was alone. Maybe Agent Kincaid couldn’t get away from San Antonio. That would be a relief.

  Andrew recognized Max a moment later. “Ms. Revere,” he said.

  “Max,” she said and took his hand. “Good to meet you, Counselor.”

  Conservatively cut light brown hair, pale green eyes, and trim to the point of being on the thin side. But she was surprised he was so tall—at least six foot three—and though she knew he hadn’t been a cop or in the military, he had a cautious, suspicious manner about him.

  But he’d come alone. Without Agent Kincaid, an assistant, or an entourage. That took guts, in her experience. Politicians didn’t like speaking to reporters without a witness or three. And even a DA, who was ostensibly law enforcement, was a politician at heart. She’d known enough of them.

  “I wanted to talk to you before Lucy arrived. They’re driving in from the airport now, we have a few minutes.”

  So Kincaid hadn’t backed out.

  Max led the way into the lounge. Because it was the middle of the afternoon, they had their choice of tables. Max selected one in the far corner, where they would have privacy.

  The bartender approached almost immediately. Max wanted wine, but asked instead for coffee. Andrew said, “For me as well, and keep it coming.”

  When the bartender left, Andrew said, “You didn’t sound pleased over the phone when I told you I was bringing in Lucy.”

  “Right to the point. I like that.”

  He smiled briefly. “I need a Kincaid on board.”

  “But I don’t.” She leaned back, assessed him. “I want your help, but I can and will investigate on my own. Just
so we’re clear.”

  “You won’t get anywhere.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I know your reputation.”

  “If that were true, you would know I don’t back down. Ever.”

  “I also know that you don’t investigate cold cases when the family doesn’t want you involved.”

  So he had done a bit of research. “Usually. But this case is different. This isn’t one crime. This is four separate cases that may be linked.”

  “Yet, you need my help.”

  She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything as the bartender brought over two cups of coffee, cream, and sugar. When he left, she doctored her coffee and said, “I’m quite resourceful, Counselor.”

  “So I’ve heard. But you do not know the Kincaids like I do.”

  “What, will they destroy evidence? Threaten witnesses?”

  “Carina was babysitting the night Justin was taken.” Andrew paused, lost briefly in a memory. “She’s now a detective with SDPD, is well-liked and has many friends. If she doesn’t want you looking at reports, you won’t see them.”

  “That’s where you come in.”

  “The Kincaids don’t like me. Lucy is the only one who will talk to me outside of work. Carina has to work with me because I’m the DA, and her brother is married to one of my prosecutors, but it hasn’t been an easy nineteen years.”

  “You’d think a cop family would love a DA in the fold.” She sipped her coffee. “What, they’re holding your affair against you?”

  “You read the articles. I was with another woman the night my son was murdered.” He cleared his throat and stared into his coffee.

  It bothered him, as well it should. “The police verified your alibi with your mistress, who was a prosecutor from Orange County, correct?”

  Andrew nodded curtly. “What wasn’t publicized in the newspaper—but the Kincaids know—is that Nelia and I had an understanding. We married because Nell got pregnant. We knew it was a mistake, but we were in law school and were best friends and it just happened. We loved Justin. We didn’t love each other. We were friends. And marriage made everything … awkward. Nell knew I was seeing someone else. She didn’t ask for details, it wasn’t spoken, but she knew. And she blames herself as much as me for not being home that night.”