Compulsion (Max Revere Novels Book 2)

by Brennan, Allison

  He frowned. “Hmm. That might help. Do you know what kind of insurance he had then?”

  “No, but his mother worked for the City of Hartford.”

  “Hmm.”

  He opened another search window and typed rapidly. “Bingo,” he said. “All city employees have the same provider. But wouldn’t Bachman have insurance through the college? I got that, because it was cheaper than being on my dad’s plan, since my dad’s self-employed and pays through the nose.”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  “Because your dad is a cop, and he probably could cover you cheaper than if you got it through Columbia.” Again, Kyle typed. “Okay, the college plan at BU would only cover services through campus health.”

  “He wouldn’t have gone there,” she said, fairly confident based on everything Max had shared with her. “He would want to be away from college. He told his roommate he needed a break from school.”

  “Then we’ll stick to the City of Hartford plan. Let’s see what I can find out about it.” He was quiet for a long while. He held up his empty beer bottle without a word. Riley sighed, grabbed it, and returned with another for him. He took it, guzzled a third of it down, and put the bottle aside. He typed, read, typed, read, and Riley paced. She stared out the narrow windows into the lights that were New York City. Kyle lived in a one-room studio only a few blocks from campus. It was a great location, but the building was old and the studio small. She tried not to think that his couch was also his bed. She didn’t think that way about Kyle. Much.

  “I got you a list,” Kyle said, excitement in his voice. “Unless he paid out-of-pocket, the City of Hartford insurance plan would only cover expenses for these three facilities.”

  Three! She grabbed the list. “How did you narrow it down? There must be hundreds in the state.”

  “No—not with the parameters you have. Many are for drug and alcohol addiction, so I took those out because almost all of them are used by courts for DWI convictions. There’s several that are inpatient only, and many that are outpatient only. There’s only three that fit the noncriminal, in- and outpatient criteria.”

  “So,” Kyle said, “what are you going to do now?”

  “Convince my boss to let me go to Connecticut.”

  * * *

  David had left at nine thirty, and Max had promised herself that she would give her mind a rest and read a book or watch television. And she did—for an hour. But she was compelled to go back and simply look at her information, to see if anything else came to her.

  Then she made the mistake of listening to the interview again.

  She called Sally O’Hara. It was late, nearly eleven, but Sally would still be up, Max was sure. Like Max, Sally was a workaholic. And when she wasn’t working, she was with family.

  Max knew that she was putting her friendship with the cop at risk, but she needed someone on the inside who could get her information about Bachman.

  “Why did I know you’d be calling me?” Sally said when she answered.

  “You didn’t have to pick up the phone.”

  “With you, that never works. You’d probably end up on my doorstep.”

  “Thank you for working with David.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” she said. “Certainly did not help anyone in the media gather information.”

  “Bachman had a partner.”

  “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “Milligan won’t listen to me—”

  “Now that’s a huge surprise, that he doesn’t want the biggest trial of the year to blow up in his face when he’s on the verge of running for attorney general.”

  “Sally—”

  “I can’t help you. I appreciate the information you’ve passed my way in the past, and with the Palazzolos. I get it, Max. You care about them, you always do. But last time I stuck my neck out for you, I was transferred to Queens. I actually like my new digs here, I don’t want O’Malley to toss me to Brooklyn or, God forbid, the Bronx. When he heard we were still talking, he threatened to take me off missing persons. I like missing persons, even when it’s depressing. The wins make up for the losses. This is all I want to do.”

  “You’re good at it. O’Malley’s an ass.”

  “See? That’s why I’m your only friend on the force.”

  “You’re not my only friend.”

  “The only one who’ll admit it.”

  That might be true.

  “Can I just bounce some ideas off you? You think like a cop.”

  “I am a cop.” Sally sighed dramatically. “What about Kane? He’s a sharp guy.”

  “He is. And I have. But I need a different perspective.”

  “I don’t want to hear about your stupid-ass theory that Bachman has a partner. I’m more inclined to believe he killed the Palazzolos—and I don’t believe he did—than I am to believe that someone is helping him.”

  Max hesitated. She had to bring Sally over to her way of thinking, but she didn’t know how to convince her. “Have you seen the forensic reports of Bachman’s five victims?”

  “La-la-la, I’m not listening, la-la-la.”

  Max spoke over Sally’s chant. “There was minimal postmortem bruising.”

  “So?”

  “How could one person move a body without damaging it?”

  “I can think of a half-dozen ways. Wheelbarrow. Lift. Strong guy. Wrapping the body with a tarp. I see what you’re getting at, Max, and if you even breathe a word of this, Bachman’s attorney is going to get his damn reasonable doubt.”

  “If there’s another killer out there, the police have an obligation to pursue the theory,” she said, increasingly irritated that no one in law enforcement was taking her seriously.

  “There’s no proof that Bachman had anyone helping him. He had no close friends. No one claimed to see him with anyone regularly. The people he worked with said he was a pleasant loner. And I know you know all this. So what the fuck do you want from me, Max?” Sally was losing her patience. Max knew she was abusing their friendship, but for this case she had to. Maybe that’s why Max didn’t have many friends. She pushed and pushed until they stopped talking to her.

  Sally sighed, then said, slightly calmer, “I’m already allocating resources searching for the Palazzolos’ car.”

  “You’re doing that because you want to find them as much as I do,” Max said.

  “Dammit, you’re not making this easy for me.”

  “Life isn’t a bed of roses.”

  “Please.”

  “I want access to the files.”

  Sally laughed. “No way in hell am I doing that. I’d be fired, Max. I already risked too much just showing your guy Friday the Palazzolo files. Bachman isn’t even my case.”

  “The bodies were found in Queens. I know you have access.”

  “It’s in the D.A.’s office, sweetheart. You want them, you either kiss up to Charlene Golden or Milligan himself. Because I couldn’t get them if I wanted.”

  “But you can get the witness statements. I know they’re in the database.”

  “The witnesses will be part of the record once they testify at trial.”

  Max stared at her wall. What did she really want from Sally? From anyone? She couldn’t prove her theory, and she had no way of knowing where to start unless she had something to go on. A picture. A name.

  “Max, I know this is hard for you, but you have to let this one go.” Sally had lost her anger. Her voice was soothing, because she really did understand Max. That’s why they’d been friends for so long—even when they butted heads. “If we find the Palazzolos’ car, I suspect we’ll find their bodies, and it’s because you’ve been nagging me for so long that I think we have a chance. I’m looking at the case from a different perspective than I did before. You care about finding them as much as I do. If I thought you had an ulterior motive, I wouldn’t be talking to you. I promise—if I find them, I’ll let you know. And if there’s anything connecting them to Bachman, I will do
everything in my power to not only give you something for your show, but make sure the D.A. looks at the evidence.

  “But listen to me when I tell you this: nothing good will come from you pursuing this ridiculous theory that Bachman has a partner. No one believes it. And if anyone did? They wouldn’t breathe a word. There have been no like crimes in the five boroughs since Bachman was arrested. No similar patterns of missing people. If he had a partner, that guy isn’t doing anything, and that means you’re searching for a ghost. I know how you get when you’re obsessed, Max. It ain’t pretty.”

  Sally paused, but Max didn’t have anything to say.

  “Max? Take a breather. Cover his trial. Run your interview. Do what you do, just don’t fuck with the case.”

  “Thanks for going back to the Palazzolos,” Max said and hung up.

  Sally had given her an idea.

  There are no other like crimes in the five boroughs.

  If Bachman had a killing partner, what if he had a different fetish? Bachman used the victim’s own cars, suffocated them at an unknown location, and dumped their bodies where they would be found; what if there were actual missing people who his partner was responsible for? What if there was another common denominator?

  She rubbed her eyes. Where could she possibly start? There were hundreds of missing people from New York City. Bachman’s partner could be working out of New Jersey or Connecticut or upstate New York or even farther away. But serial killers had a common methodology. What she needed to do was tap into the FBI database and find unsolved serial crimes, then compare the timing.

  And, in fact, she already had something. The Palazzolos. What if the partner’s methodology was to destroy the bodies? Or to kidnap in pairs? Or target people over fifty?

  It might not get her anywhere, but it was a place to start. And that was all Max needed.

  She didn’t realize that two hours had passed until after one in the morning when her computer beeped at her. She had an incoming Skype call from Nick. A jolt of anticipation hit her, and a tinge of regret. She missed him.

  Detective Nick Santini. How had they gotten so comfortable with this long-distance relationship so quickly? They’d only met six weeks ago in California. They’d worked a case together—she was pretty certain he didn’t consider her involvement as “working together,” but she did. Max had a thing for smart cops and Nick was both smart and hot. After he arrested the killer, they’d spent the weekend together. Most of it in bed.

  They were more than compatible. Max found herself thinking about Nick when she had downtime, and they talked via Skype several times a week. She’d flown to California for an overnight two weeks ago, which was somewhat foolish because of the long distance. She hadn’t told Ben because he would have had a fit that she’d left while they were preparing for the Bachman trial. The whirlwind day and night of being a tourist in San Francisco, eating at Fisherman’s Wharf, taking in a show, and making love past dawn in a suite with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge had left her satiated, satisfied … and lonely. Because she had to leave him and return to her world and her work.

  She put her notes aside and shut down the computer search engine. She’d already sent messages to her researchers at Maximum Exposure and asked Riley to tap her resources—namely her family—to help with the missing persons database.

  She clicked answer on the computer and smiled when she saw Nick’s face on her monitor.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you up,” he said. Then he really looked at her. “You’re working.”

  “Was working. I need a few hours’ sleep. Perfect timing.”

  “You look tired.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “I read your article online. You didn’t tell me you had an interview with that killer.”

  “It happened last minute.”

  “I have a feeling you left something out of the report. It seemed very—standard. And you don’t write standard.”

  Keen observation, but she expected no less from the detective.

  She hadn’t shared with Nick her theories about Bachman working with a partner. She had, of course, talked about the Palazzolos, but the partner—that was a topic she’d already received too much grief about, and she didn’t want to be mad at Nick. Especially since he was three thousand miles away and couldn’t help.

  “Bachman didn’t admit to killing the Palazzolos, but he came close. Nothing I could actually put in print.”

  “And?”

  “He said I’d never find them.”

  “That’s personal.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He said that you’d never find them. Not that the police would never find them or that they’d never be found. I’m sure David thinks it’s unwise to put yourself on a killer’s radar.”

  “He’s in jail.” Another good reason not to tell Nick about the partner theory. He’d worry, and telling him he didn’t need to worry because David had her back would irritate him.

  “They have a solid case?” Nick asked.

  “Yes. Unless something completely unexpected happens, he’ll be in prison for a long time.” She smiled. “I don’t really want to talk about the case.”

  “That’s a first.” Nick leaned back in his chair and grinned. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “What are your plans for this weekend?”

  “This weekend?”

  “If the trial is over on Thursday like the judge expects, what if I come and visit for the weekend? Are you working?”

  “I have Sunday and Monday off. I could probably switch with someone for Saturday.”

  “I need a break. Maybe a weekend in bed will do me good.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You plan to sleep the entire time?”

  She laughed. “Yes. Every minute I’m not using your body for my own personal pleasure, I’ll be asleep.”

  “You won’t hear me complaining.” He leaned forward. “Seriously, Max, you look exhausted. Get some sleep and we’ll talk before Friday, okay?”

  “Yes, Detective. Whatever you say.”

  He snorted. “I wish you were this easy all the time.”

  “No, you don’t.” She blew him a kiss and disconnected.

  Without looking at her notes again, she shut everything off and went down the half staircase to her bedroom. With a button she rolled down the privacy shades—she could still see out, but no one could see in—went into her bathroom to brush her teeth, stripped naked, and fell into her plush bed.

  Sleep came easy, especially when it started with a dream about her favorite detective from California, as naked as she.

  Chapter Eight

  “What the hell are you doing, Maxine?”

  That was Ben’s greeting when she stepped off the elevator Tuesday morning. She didn’t need his attitude. Her dreams had started out fabulous with a naked Nick in her bed, but they’d turned dark and cloudy as they inevitably did, waking her before dawn and leaving her with less than four hours of sleep.

  “Good morning, Benji,” she said, irritated that he had obviously been waiting for her to arrive. “What were you doing, watching the security monitors?”

  “I don’t believe you! I came in with assignments on the next case you’re covering and the entire research team tells me you’ve already given them work? On Bachman? We’re done. We’re covering the trial; then it’s over. All you have to do is the live cut when the verdict comes down and tape your monologue from the interview for the June show.”

  She put up her hand. “Stop.” She strode past him, down the hall and into her office. He followed and slammed the door. “God, Ben, I haven’t had enough coffee for this.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “You knew that before you brought me on board.” She walked over to her Keurig, grateful that the early morning receptionist always turned it on for her when she arrived at six. She popped out the old coffee pod and put in a new one, then pressed brew.

  “Max,” Ben said, forcing his voice d
own two decibels, “we have three cases for July, none are in the bag, and you’re working on old news.”

  “All cold cases are old news.”

  “Dammit!” His voice went up again.

  She took her time to prepare her coffee—a dollop of cream, a single sugar-free sweetener—and sipped. Better.

  She sat at her desk. “I’m meeting with Arthur Ullman this afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  “I want his insight.”

  “Will he come on the show?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Okay,” Ben said, calming down. Max had interviewed Arthur before, and his interviews had always gone very well. He had a gravitas that drew in an audience, and just enough charm to be attractive. “You’re not just placating me?”

  “I’ll ask him.” Maybe. Depending on how their meeting went this afternoon.

  “The research staff told me you have them looking into cases outside of New York and it’s too broad. Missing persons, victims over fifty years old, on the entire East Coast? Really? Do you know how many that is?”

  “Not the entire East Coast.”

  “Shit, Max—”

  “That’s why we have a research staff, right?”

  Ben was boiling again, so Max said calmly, “Ben, I talked to Sally O’Hara and she said some things that got me thinking about this from a different angle. I know I’m right about the partner. Richard isn’t going to listen, now or after the trial. Not unless someone else dies, and proving it’s connected to Bachman? Next to impossible. There are no like crimes to the Palazzolos’. Not in the area. We need to think bigger.”

  “Why can’t you have Riley do this? She’s your assistant.”

  “She’s covering the trial for me this afternoon.”

  His eyes got the squinty look when he suspected she was up to something. “What?”

  “I told you, I’m meeting with Ullman. This afternoon was his only free time because he’s teaching at NYU.”

  “You can’t have the entire research staff. Pick one.”

  “One?”