Shattered

by Allison Brennan

  “No, sir,” Max said. “I’ve reviewed all of Detective Katella’s reports and he investigated Justin’s murder not only to the full extent of the abilities of his team, but went above and beyond. There were simply too many variables they couldn’t have known at the time. It was random on the one hand and highly personal on the other.”

  Interesting way to analyze the case, but Lucy concurred with Max.

  Ken came back into the room. “We may have a break. When we got Sharpe’s name yesterday, we ran her. Clean record, no criminal record. We ran all DMVs in California—got a hit. She has a driver’s license renewed in Sacramento, and owns a black Honda Accord registered to the same address. I have agents already en route to her house.”

  “Good work, Ken, and everyone.” Causey asked Katella if he would work with a detective to bring them up to speed, and then dispersed the team. “Ken, do you need my office?”

  “No, sir, I’m going to head back to headquarters. Kincaid, can you join me?”

  Lucy glanced at Max, then Carina. She had a few things to do first. “Yeah, give me a minute.”

  “I’ll meet you out front in five minutes.” He walked away, again on the phone.

  “Give me a minute with Carina, okay?” Lucy asked Max.

  “Take all the time you want.” Lucy watched as Max pulled Andrew away from the group and out of the room. Lucy couldn’t worry about either of them. She went over to her sister who looked frozen. There was no other word. She hadn’t spoken the entire meeting, hadn’t asked a question, just watched and listened.

  “Are you okay?” Lucy asked.

  She nodded. “You and Max built the case. It’s solid. I didn’t think it could be done … I’m floored.”

  “Fresh eyes,” Lucy said. She sat down. “Carina, you can’t go back. You weren’t a cop then, you did everything you could. Don Katella did everything he could, believe me. At the time, there was no way of knowing that Danielle Sharpe had killed Justin. No evidence, no witnesses, no connection to Andrew or Nelia—except a tenuous connection at the district attorney’s office. She fixated on the family but except for one incident at work, she never did anything to tip her hand.”

  “Incident?”

  “Andrew can explain. Then she left months later and waited years before she killed again.”

  “You did an amazing job, Lucy, really. And I guess you get along with that reporter.”

  “She’s very smart. She thinks like a cop, but doesn’t have to follow the rules.” Lucy realized that she didn’t always follow the rules, either. Maybe she was a little jealous of Max’s freedom. Except that while Max could expose a killer, only Lucy and other law enforcement agents could bring a killer to justice.

  “I don’t know if Mom and Dad are going to be satisfied,” Lucy said, almost surprising herself.

  “I’ll talk to them. Nelia did, but they worry.”

  About Nelia and Carina, Lucy thought. Did they worry as much about her? After what her father said, she realized she had a different place in the family than she’d thought. There were some things that couldn’t be forgotten, some things that—maybe—would never be forgiven. Lucy had made peace with what happened on her high school graduation. It had taken her years, but she was stronger now. Maybe her father was right and it changed her in a fundamental way. But she couldn’t go back. She couldn’t undo the past. She was who she was because of how she was raised—if she hadn’t been raised as she was, would she have been able to overcome her attack?

  “I’ll come by before I leave San Diego,” Lucy said.

  “When are you going back to work?”

  “After we find Danielle Sharpe.”

  Max was waiting for Lucy when she walked away from Carina. “I’m not cutting you out,” Lucy said. “But this is now an official FBI investigation. And I promise, they’re not going to drop it.”

  “Oh, I know that. And I have what I need from Chief Causey and from Andrew.”

  “What?”

  “Promises of quotes and interviews. An exclusive. And I talked to your brother earlier.”

  “Which one?”

  “Dillon. The one who doesn’t want to strangle me.”

  “You haven’t met them all,” Lucy said, trying to lighten the conversation.

  “I’ve done enough research to know I don’t want to be on the bad side of any Kincaid—or Rogan, for that matter.”

  “You’re not. Without you, we’d never have identified Danielle Sharpe and we’d never have known what really happened to Justin.”

  “We still don’t. We have theories, but you need to stop her. I have complete faith in you, Lucy. And I don’t say that to a lot of people.”

  “I appreciate it. I’ll let you know what’s happening.”

  “Thanks. And if my staff or I learn anything new, I’ll shoot it to you.”

  Lucy extended her hand. “Thanks for everything.”

  Max tilted her head. “I’m sure I’ll see you tonight or tomorrow.”

  “It might be a zoo, especially if we arrest her.”

  “Before you leave, I’d like to take you—and your husband if he’s back—out to dinner.”

  Lucy smiled. “I’d like that.”

  Lucy left the police station and walked outside. A brief horn alerted her to Ken’s location parked in a red zone. She slid into the passenger seat.

  “Where are you staying? Your parents’?”

  “The US Grant.”

  “Wow. They must pay you better in San Antonio.”

  “Why?”

  “You need to pack a bag, just in case.” He pulled rapidly from the curb and immediately into traffic. “I always have an overnight in the trunk—been stuck too many times in the boondocks.”

  “In case of what?”

  “We have three departments working double time on this right now. Sacramento already reported back that Sharpe no longer lives in the house up there—the landlord said she moved out more than two years ago. They’re getting her rental agreement and interviewing the neighbors and talking to her former employer, but it’s not going to get us anywhere. So I followed up with the lawyer in L.A.—Gillogley? Donovan’s partner, the tax lawyer. She’ll talk to us, but only with a warrant. Gave us a bone—said the lawyer is in Los Angeles. My boss is working with the AUSA, we should have it in an hour or two.”

  “Andrew can expedite it.”

  “Yeah, but we have to keep him out of it from here on out.”

  “Then why am I involved?”

  “You’re not the kid’s mother. You were related to him, but it’s a degrees of separation thing.” He glanced at her. “Do you want out?”

  “No.”

  “Good. So we’re heading to L.A. If we hit the road now I’m hoping to miss most traffic, though it’ll still be a mess once we reach Orange County.”

  “Backtrack—why can’t the L.A. office interview Gillogley and her lawyer friend?”

  “First, it’s going to take time—I’ll take bets on whether we get the warrant before or after we hit the L.A. County line. We’re going to talk to Gillogley about whom she referred Sharpe to—the lawyer who called to thank her, according to your reporter friend. L.A. can handle it, but we’d have to get them up to speed, and then we have the not-so-sensitive information about this chick. That she may be stalking another family. It could take a day to put together a team from L.A.—why take the time? By the way, based on the timeline that referral call was only a short time after Sharpe left Sacramento.”

  “She’s built another nest,” Lucy muttered.

  “Nest. Sure, I guess. Whatever it is, it’s likely she’s still there. She stays two to five years in each place. I got another agent building on the reporter’s timeline with addresses, employment records, filling in the blanks. By the time we get to L.A. we’ll have a broad warrant. Talk to Chris Donovan’s mother, the lawyer, and follow up with what we learn. Boots to the ground and all that. Sacramento may have been a dead end—but if her MO holds, she’ll be entren
ched somewhere else. That’s what you said, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucy left Ken in the car and ran up to her room. She packed a bag, sent Sean a text message, and was back in the car in less than ten minutes.

  Sean responded.

  I’ll see you when you get back, Princess. I’ll make sure Maxine doesn’t get out of line.

  She rolled her eyes and almost laughed.

  “All good?” Ken said.

  “Good.”

  “Want to take that bet?”

  “About the warrant? It’s what, two hours to L.A.?”

  He laughed. “If you want.”

  “We’ll have it before.”

  “Or you buy dinner.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Max arrived back at the hotel and admitted to herself that she felt a little lost. She’d turned everything over to the police and now she had nothing to do except wait.

  She took her laptop to the hotel bar and ordered soup, salad, and a glass of wine while she started her article on the case. She believed the FBI when they said they’d give her the exclusive, but sometimes even when they had the best of intentions, they let information slip. She wanted to be ready to run with the article as soon as they arrested Danielle Sharpe, and she could fill in the details—hopefully with solid quotes—on the fly.

  Her phone rang, it was John. Why was he calling her? He had made it clear he wanted her to no longer pursue the case he’d put in her lap. He’d avoided her calls all weekend. And now, here he was.

  She almost ignored his call. But she couldn’t do that—she owed him something, didn’t she? Except she couldn’t give him what he wanted—peace of mind.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “Hi, Max, it’s John.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “I haven’t been able to sleep. I promised Blair I wouldn’t contact you, but I need to know—have you found anything?”

  “I tried calling you this weekend. I had questions, but you didn’t answer.”

  “Blair had been with me. She’s so stressed—the trial starts in a week. I didn’t want her to know we were talking, further upset her.”

  “We’re not doing anything wrong,” she snapped. “I’m trying to get answers.”

  “For me. And I appreciate it.”

  “No, for Justin Stanton and the other victims.”

  “And? Do you have answers?”

  “Yes, John.” She paused, considered what she should say and how to say it. Tact wasn’t her strong suit. “I don’t know if they’re the answers you want.”

  “Anything will help—I’m at my wit’s end.”

  “Why? Honestly, John, why? Blair’s attorney is competent and he thinks the prosecution isn’t going to be able to make the case. Me? I’ll give it fifty-fifty. Circumstantial cases are hard to prove, but not impossible.”

  “But I have to know who killed my son. We’ve been over this, Max—I have to know. I can’t sleep. I can barely eat. The last nine months have been hell. Peter is dead. My son—” His voice cracked. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “I understand grief, John.”

  “Then tell me what’s happening.”

  “I solved Justin Stanton’s murder, John.”

  “Oh, my God—Max, that’s great. Who?”

  “I can’t tell you yet. I promised the police I wouldn’t talk about the case until they give me the okay to release the information.”

  “This is me, Maxine! What am I going to do with the information?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “This person killed my son!”

  “No, John, the person who killed Justin Stanton and the other boys didn’t kill Peter. It’s not the same person.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “It’s not. I can prove it to you, but not until I get the okay. You’re going to have to trust me on that.”

  “I don’t. I don’t trust you! It has to be the same person!”

  He was losing it. “John,” she said in a calm, quiet voice. “I don’t have the answers you want, but I’m still looking. You need to go into this trial with your eyes open.”

  “They are. Max, I’m dying here. I don’t know how to keep it together. I need to help my wife.”

  John was clinging to these cold cases because he wanted proof that his wife wasn’t a killer. But deep down, he had doubts.

  “I have to go,” he said and hung up.

  She put her phone down and asked the waiter to bring her a martini.

  When he returned with her drink, she thanked him and saw a familiar face in the doorway.

  Sean Rogan.

  He walked over to her and sat down. “Hello, Max.”

  “Lucy isn’t here.”

  “I just talked to her. She said the meeting today went well and she’s on her way to interview the suspect.”

  “Did you just fly in?”

  “Came right from the airport.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “I could use food.”

  Max signaled for the waiter and he took Sean’s order. At least the PI ordered a beer so Max wasn’t drinking alone. Not that she cared.

  “Did Lucy fill you in?”

  Sean nodded. “We talked last night, after you two put together the presentation. She asked me to cut you some slack, that you had developed a symbiotic relationship.”

  “I suppose we did. But I don’t care if you cut me any slack, Sean. I’m not fragile.”

  He smiled. “No, you’re certainly not.”

  They didn’t talk anymore about the case, and Max was relieved. Sean asked about some of her other cases, and admitted he’d read a couple of her books while he was in Sacramento. He particularly liked her last book, which she’d written about a nursing home director who had killed several patients.

  “Why that one?” she asked, curious.

  “First, the subject matter. You made me laugh with some of the antics of Lois Kershaw and her band of octogenarian sleuths.”

  Max smiled. “Lois is a hoot. I visited her a couple of weeks ago after she had surgery. You’d think she was getting younger.”

  “And the way you stood up to the local police. I have a healthy respect for law enforcement and some deep distrust. You seemed to balance that well.”

  “It’s like the nursery rhyme.”

  “What is?”

  “When the police are good, they are very, very good; when they are bad, they are horrid.”

  Sean laughed. “I like that.”

  Max considered pumping Sean for more information about his wife, but realized he’d recognize any ploy she came up with. Instead, she sipped her drink.

  “What is it you want to ask?” Sean said.

  “Everything, but I won’t. And—I’m not digging around. I did, before your threats, and I’m curious about a lot of things, but I can let it go.”

  “You can? That doesn’t seem to be in your personality.”

  “I have a lot of respect for your wife, and I don’t say that about a lot of people. On the one hand, I am curious. I’m curious how Lucy became involved as a consultant for two major cases in New York before she was ever an FBI agent. I’m curious about why you were expelled from Stanford. I’m intrigued by the cases the staff dug up that Lucy worked last year in San Antonio.”

  As she spoke, Sean didn’t move. He didn’t change much of anything, except he was watching her closely. Trying to assess her angle? Her game plan?

  “Yes, I want to know what makes Lucy tick, but I realized it’s just because I hate not knowing anything. I like facts and proof and truth. But I’m really okay not knowing. Maybe for the first time in my life.”

  “Why?” he asked sharply.

  “Because whatever brought Lucy here, to this point in her life, isn’t an unsolved mystery. It’s not a cold case. Justice doesn’t need to be served, because it already has been. So it’s really only me, Maxine Revere, being curious just be
cause I want to know.”

  Sean didn’t say anything, and Max ordered another round of drinks. She wasn’t positive he believed her, but she didn’t care. She believed herself. That she wanted to know didn’t mean she had to know, and for the first time she was really okay with that.

  When the drinks came, Max took a long sip, then ate one of the three olives. “You read my books, you know about my mother.”

  “You don’t hold back.”

  “Rarely. I don’t like secrets and hidden agendas and people I don’t understand. I never understood my mother—why she moved all the time, why we never had a home, why she even had me in the first place. I created all these fantasies in my head about her being a spy, a fugitive, in witness protection—I had an active imagination. And then I find out she has a huge trust fund and lived on the money my great-grandparents had worked so hard for. The Sterlings came from nothing and made something wonderful. I didn’t know any of it until I was nearly ten and my mom left me with my grandparents and never came back. And my mother? She did nothing for it except to be born. Because I believed so many lies growing up, I’m skeptical of everything now.”

  “Did you ever look for her?”

  “On and off. She used to send me birthday cards—I was born December thirty-first. She said my birthday would always be a party. But I don’t even know if that’s my real birthday, I don’t have a real birth certificate. My grandparents had one filed with the courts—I mean, I exist—but even they don’t know where I was born or what day. They didn’t know about me until my mom left me with them.”

  “So you solve cold cases because your life is one big cold case.”

  “Pretty much.” She ate a french fry. “I know you and Lucy want to stay off the grid, as much as you can, and I will continue to respect that wish. Like I said, I have a lot of admiration for your wife, and I don’t want to blow her trust.”