Shattered

by Allison Brennan

  It might be only a matter of hours.…

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  SUNDAY

  Lucy didn’t go to church as often as she used to, but being back in San Diego where she grew up, she felt a need to reconnect with a part of her life that had always been clear. Even through tragedy—Justin’s murder, then when she was raped at the age of eighteen—she’d found a peace within the walls of God’s house. It wasn’t something Sean shared with her, and that was okay—her prayerful life was as private as she wanted to keep her personal life.

  She went to the earliest Mass, knowing that her mom always went to a later Mass. She didn’t want to see her family. Not yet. She wasn’t certain Nelia would be able to change their minds about what Lucy was doing, but that the one person she thought would hate her for her actions actually thanked her meant more to her than anything else. She and Nelia would never be close—but for the first time Lucy felt a true connection to her oldest sister.

  She sat in the last pew and left as soon as the priest gave the final blessing. She’d seen several people she recognized from her parents’ circles—it was hard to walk into a church you attended most of your life and not recognize people. The last thing she wanted was small talk. As soon as she turned her phone back on, she had a text message from Max.

  My staff came through. Come upstairs ASAP.

  Lucy called Max as she drove back to the hotel. “I got your message.”

  “Sleeping in?”

  “I was at church.”

  Max didn’t speak. Odd, Max had a comment about everything. Lucy almost laughed that she’d stumped her.

  “Okay. Well, I have news. Danielle Sharpe—and you were right, Sharpe is her maiden name—was married to Richard Collins. They had a son, Matthew Collins, a year after their marriage. When he was eight, he disappeared from his bedroom—while his father was with his mistress, Danielle at work, and a babysitter watching him. Both parents were interviewed extensively but ultimately cleared by police. At least according to the press reports. A week later Matthew’s remains were found in an open field—police arrested a known sex offender, who ultimately pled guilty in exchange for a reduced sentence.”

  Lucy felt ill and angry. “How reduced?”

  “Twenty-five to life.”

  “It’s a special circumstances homicide—you said sex offender—why would they do that? He could have been eligible for the death penalty.”

  “I don’t have the case files, all I have are press reports. His name was Paul Borell and he died in federal prison. You could probably get the details faster than I can. Danielle filed for divorce shortly after Matthew’s funeral. Uncontested.”

  “Do you have the autopsy report?” Lucy asked.

  “No, everything I learned about Matthew’s disappearance and murder was in a couple of articles and two newscasts my staff dug up from the era—not easy, by the way, because it was a small affiliate outside of major media markets.”

  “Your staff is obviously good.”

  “They are the best,” Max concurred. “I learned that Danielle worked for the city attorney in Tallahassee.”

  “And she was working late at night?”

  “She was a legal secretary for the city attorney but going to law school part-time at night. She had classes that night, they got out at nine thirty. She went to the library to study until it closed at midnight, then she went home and found her son was missing.”

  “I assume the police verified her alibi.”

  “We can assume, but in my line of work, I never make an assumption like that. Still, they arrested Borell and he pled.”

  “And the father?”

  “A businessman. Some sort of high-end insurance broker.”

  “Was Matthew’s body found close to the house?”

  “About five miles.”

  “Why did it take them a week to find the body?”

  “I don’t know, the press reports were vague on the details, likely because there was a sexual component to the crime. My guess is that maybe Borell kept the boy prisoner for a while. Again, it’s a guess, and not something I’m going to run with until I get it confirmed.”

  “I’ll see if I can track down the autopsy report,” Lucy said.

  “Is it important?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.” Yes, but Lucy didn’t say it. It was important because she needed to know everything Danielle Sharpe knew about her son’s murder. To lose a child to violence was awful, but what had turned her into a killer? “Did you learn anything about Danielle’s family? Her parents?”

  “That’s been more difficult. During the investigation, her mother was quoted in one of the papers—Natalie Hoover of Orlando. Big city, common name, we haven’t found her yet. And that was nearly twenty-five years ago. She could have died, been remarried—”

  “I get it. It might not be important. What about her ex-husband?”

  “More there—Richard Collins moved to Denver a year after the divorce was finalized. Remarried, though I don’t know when. He and his wife bought a house fifteen years ago in a Denver suburb. Property records have them still owning it.”

  Lucy’s gut twisted. “Kids?” Danielle would certainly go after Richard Collins’s kids.

  “His new wife has two kids from her first marriage, both now adults.”

  “We need to talk to him. You have his contact information?”

  “Yes, but this is the one time I’m going to suggest that you’re better suited to make this contact. He has no reason to talk to a reporter, and you have the authority to compel him to talk.”

  “I have no authority.”

  “All you have to say is you’re an FBI agent investigating a crime.”

  Max was right—it wasn’t an outright lie, but it was deceptive. Still, this was the closest they’d gotten to Danielle Sharpe.

  The woman who killed Justin.

  “Let me think about how to approach him. We may want to see how it goes, work together to get the information we need. I’ll be back at the hotel in ten minutes.”

  * * *

  Max didn’t like eating in her room, but the suite at the US Grant was spacious, and there was a separate dining area, so she didn’t feel like she was eating in bed. She had room service bring up a nice buffet of food and extra coffee. It was ready before Lucy returned.

  David walked in in his typical pressed polo shirt and slacks. He took one look at the food and said, “Are you having a party?”

  “We have work to do. Any word from Ben about Danielle Sharpe’s current location or employer?”

  “I’m supposed to tell you that they worked all night to track down the information about Richard Collins and his son and you can go to hell.”

  “And?”

  “They’re working on it.”

  She knew she was asking a lot of her staff, but she constantly rewarded them.

  “Ben wants to know when you’re going to let him hire you an assistant.”

  “You’re my assistant.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She did. She had gone through a half-dozen assistants during the first two years she’d been with NET. Then she found one she liked, but Riley left after six weeks. Max had been trying to entice her back—Riley had so much potential. But she’d also nearly been killed during one of Max’s investigations. Max had gone to visit her in Boston and while Riley spoke to her—a first since she left—she said that investigative reporting wasn’t her “thing.” Whatever that meant. Even though Max insisted that danger was rare, Riley didn’t budge.

  “I’ll think about it,” Max said.

  “Office staff. Not field staff.”

  “I said I’ll think about it.”

  She was getting testy, and she knew both David and Ben were frustrated that she refused to bring on anyone else. But what happened with Riley had affected her. Max was willing to risk her own life—and even David, because he was trained for it—but she’d unwittingly risked Riley’s life. It didn’t matter
that Riley had gone off on her own, she’d done it because she thought that’s what Max would have wanted. Having that kind of influence over a young, impressionable reporter made Max nervous.

  Lucy was more than ten minutes, but Max didn’t say anything. She looked like she’d had about as little sleep as Max, but without Max’s skill of hiding her fatigue with makeup.

  “I ordered up extra coffee,” Max said.

  “I need it.” Lucy walked over to the small buffet and seemed surprised. “Coffee and breakfast.”

  “Hope you didn’t eat yet.”

  “No, thank you for thinking of it.”

  Lucy poured coffee and dished up a small plate of food. She looked preoccupied.

  “Bad news?” Max asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re a million miles away.”

  “Thinking.”

  “About?”

  Lucy sipped her coffee and sat down at the conference table. “Whether Richard Collins has any loyalties to his wife. Whether he’s still in contact with her, and whether he’ll call her as soon as I hang up.”

  Max had to admit, she hadn’t thought of that. But she wasn’t a cop—she was all about information.

  “Would that be a problem?”

  “Yes. We have no probable cause to detain Danielle Sharpe. If he alerts her, she could disappear.”

  “Not easy to do. She hasn’t changed her name—she may not be able to up and disappear.”

  “We don’t know that she hasn’t changed her name, but I agree, it’s likely she’s still using the name because of her work history. Still, just because she worked for three people who all lost a son while she was there is still circumstantial. A good lawyer would stonewall a police investigation, and Sharpe has gotten away with murder for twenty years. She has an exit plan. I want to take the direct approach, and honestly over the phone isn’t going to work.”

  “You want to hop a plane to Denver?”

  “Yes. I know it’s asking a lot, but in my experience, face-to-face is the only way we’re going to get answers. I spoke to Sean, and he says he could fly us, but it would take him a few hours to get down here, and I had a feeling he was still working.”

  “Don’t worry about the plane, I’ll get us there.” She looked at David and he picked up the phone. “Did you think I wouldn’t like the idea?” Max poured fresh coffee. “I much prefer face-to-face interviews. It’s easier to know if someone is lying.”

  Lucy smiled. “We agree.”

  “But we’re not going unless I can confirm he’s there—David is working on it now.”

  Lucy excused herself—ostensibly to call her husband—and Max waited until David was off the phone. “I have a local PI checking out the Collinses’ residence, he’ll get back to us within an hour. In the meantime, I have reservations on a twelve thirty flight, which only gives us two hours to get to the airport. Puts you in Denver just before four local time. I also got you a driver.”

  “I don’t need a driver.”

  “You need someone who knows the area and is used to driving in snow.”

  “Good point. I’ll pack an overnight bag just in case, but I expect to be back here tonight.”

  “It’s snowing. Or were you not listening to me?”

  “I still want to come back tonight.”

  He sighed. “I have you booked on the last flight out, but don’t blame me if you get stuck at the airport all night.”

  * * *

  By the time Lucy and Max arrived in Denver, it was no longer snowing, but the roads were slow going. Getting from the airport to Richard Collins’s house in the suburbs took well over an hour. Max talked to Ben, the research staff, David—he’d landed in Phoenix before Max and Lucy arrived in Denver—and proofread the article she’d written on the plane. Not about this case—she always had an article up on Monday mornings about something of interest to NET viewers. The articles were available through the wire and often got picked up by newspapers, but NET subscribers received them in their e-mail the night before public release.

  Max hadn’t thought there’d be so much interest in crime issues on the Internet—while she was tech-savvy, she didn’t track consumer data like Ben did. He’d had a vision, and it had more than been fulfilled. While Max enjoyed most of what she did for the network, she had grown frustrated that she couldn’t always work the cases she wanted, she didn’t have the time to spend on the ground like she used to, and while her name and face weren’t a household name, she had enough recognition that going undercover like she’d done before the television show was now impossible.

  Give and take, she realized. Through NET’s Internet and television platforms, she’d been able to give a larger voice to crime victims than in the books and articles she used to write exclusively. That meant something.

  While Max worked in the car, Lucy was silent and stared out the window. She’d been quiet all morning, and on the plane appeared to be sleeping—perhaps to avoid conversation? Lost in thought? Max didn’t know. But something seemed to be going on with her partner.

  Max almost snorted at the thought. Partner? With a federal agent? She had worked with law enforcement in the past, but it was a grind. She’d expected the same with Lucy Kincaid—yet this was different. Maybe because Lucy was working off the clock. Maybe because Lucy had a personal stake in the outcome. Or maybe because Max liked her.

  More likely, you’re just curious.

  Max got a lot done in the car, and by the time the driver pulled up to the Collinses’ residence, she felt like she’d accomplished more than her fair share for the week.

  The Collinses’ well-maintained house matched all the other suburban houses in the neighborhood. It had been built fifteen years ago, and according to the property records Max’s staff had pulled, Richard Collins and his second wife, Patricia, had purchased it new. Not Max’s idea of home, but then again, she hadn’t had much of a home growing up—at least not until her mother dumped her on her grandparents.

  The Collinses’ side of the street backed up to the mountainside, the one thing that distinguished it from the other streets.

  “You ready?” Max asked Lucy.

  “Of course.”

  “You’ve been quiet.”

  “Thinking.”

  Lucy hadn’t dressed like a cop. She wore jeans with knee-high boots and a twin-set sweater. Max noticed she carried her gun—she’d checked it on the plane, which caused them some delay, but Lucy was a federal agent and everything went smoothly. Yet the gun was in her purse, not holstered, so Collins wouldn’t immediately think cop. Max hardly thought they’d need a gun, and when she commented on it, Lucy had ignored her.

  Chalk it up to another curiosity about Agent Kincaid.

  Neither Max nor Lucy had more than a light jacket—they’d left San Diego when it was eighty degrees. Max didn’t care—she preferred the cold—but Lucy was shivering.

  “Didn’t expect snow when you flew to San Diego,” Max joked.

  “I don’t particularly like the humidity in Texas, but I love the heat.”

  Max knocked on the door. A moment later an older woman answered. She was trim, fifty, with blond hair expertly dyed by a talented stylist. “May I help you?”

  “Patricia Collins?”

  “Yes?” She wasn’t suspicious. She looked like every other middle-class empty nester that Max could picture.

  “I’m Maxine Revere. I’m an investigative reporter from New York and I’d like to speak to your husband, Richard.”

  She stared at Max as if it took her a minute to process what she’d said. “A reporter? About what?”

  Richard stepped into the doorway. He’d heard Max, and he had a frown on his face. “What’s this about?” he said, perhaps more harshly than he intended. His hand was on his wife’s back and he put his other hand on the door, as if he would slam it on them without hesitation.

  “About your son, Matthew.”

  “I don’t speak to the press about my son. No one has eve
n asked about him in years. Why?”

  He was curious, as well as suspicious.

  “I investigate cold cases. I’ve been working a case in San Diego that is similar in many ways to your son’s disappearance and murder. That’s why I brought Lucy Kincaid with me—she’s the aunt of one of the victims and she’s been helping me with my research and investigation.”

  Max was prepared to argue her case. Richard was skeptical, and he couldn’t mask the pain in his eyes.

  “A pervert killed my son. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Lucy said, “Mr. Collins, I know talking about your son is difficult. And we don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to.”

  Max almost blew her top. Of course they needed to talk about Matthew Collins—what was Lucy saying?

  Lucy continued. “But it’s very important that we talk to you about your ex-wife, and in doing so, we’ll need to discuss your son’s murder. If you would give us just ten minutes of your time, you will help us find and stop a killer.”

  “Are you saying that Paul Borell didn’t kill my son?”

  “No, I’m not. All the evidence, including his plea agreement, confirms that he is guilty.”

  Patricia said, “It’s cold outside, Richard, let them come in.”

  He didn’t want to, but he listened to his wife. “Ten minutes,” he said. “No more.”

  Max and Lucy stepped in and he closed the door behind them. Pictures framed the entry—mostly of two people Max presumed were Patricia’s daughters. Photos of them as children and one of them in her wedding gown with the second as the maid-of-honor. They looked to both be in their midtwenties.

  There was one photo of Matthew. It was a picture of him and his father, when he was about six. They were smiling and each holding up a fish. Max noticed that Lucy looked at it for a long minute, then turned away.

  Patricia led them to the living room. It was the type of room reserved for formal guests. The couches barely looked used, though the style was more than a decade old. Through the open archway Max would see the family room—more cluttered, with comfortable furniture and many more photos.

  “Coffee? Water?” Patricia offered.

  “No,” Richard said. “Ten minutes—I’m not entertaining them.”