Compulsion (Max Revere Novels Book 2)

by Brennan, Allison

  Max wrote it all down. Then she said, “Most people I spoke with said that Adam had no friends, but I have a source who tells me he had a male friend who may have visited him here at work.”

  Melinda considered, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess he did. A big guy. Not fat, just tall with broad shoulders like he worked out a lot.”

  David said, “You have a good memory.”

  “I do,” she said. “You have a problem with good memories?”

  “No, but it’s odd that you remember this now.”

  “No one asked me before. I didn’t think of it.”

  Melinda sounded defensive. Max smoothed it over with, “That’s why I wanted to follow up. Sometimes I don’t ask the right questions the first time around. When did this guy come in?”

  “Every once in a while. Always sat at the bar. I never saw him when Adam wasn’t here.” She paused, glanced down for a moment, then looked at Max. “In fact, I haven’t seen him in months.”

  “This is a busy club. Maybe you didn’t notice.”

  “I’m the bartender. I notice everyone. He could have come in when I was off. The guy wouldn’t be hard to spot. He has tat sleeves. Nice work, too. Not bad-looking, until you really look at him, then he was scary as hell. The way he looks at you. And that’s why I remember him. Adam was one of the most clean-cut guys in the joint. Immaculate. And he hung out with this guy covered in tats? It made no sense to me. But they were chummy. I thought they might be gay, asked Jesse what he thought—he’s gay, he can usually tell. He said no way.”

  “Did Adam ever introduce you?”

  “No. But once I said something like, ‘Is your friend from out of town?’ because it was obvious they had known each other for a long time. And Adam said, ‘He just moved here from New Haven.’ And, like, nothing else. You know—he was much better as a bartender, chatting people up, but he never talked about himself. It was like a show, you know? He acted like a great bartender, but it didn’t translate when he was offstage, so to speak.” She glanced at the bar. “I gotta get back to work. But let me know if you have more questions. I want to help.”

  The bartender rose, then said, “You told me back then that I was the only one who flat out didn’t like Adam, and I guess that bugged me for a while because some people think I’m judgmental. But my entire life, I’ve watched people. My neighborhood was tough, I learned to assess situations real quick. Like, I can tell you that the couple at table thirty-three are about to break up and the big, loud guy at table nineteen is harmless, but I’m keeping my eye on the prep at table twenty-four because I think he’s planning on having sex with the girl he’s with, whether she says yes or not. I read people. And the minute I met Adam Bachman, the hair rose on my skin and I can’t for the life of me explain why. But to everyone else? He was a nice guy. Kept to himself. Clean, did a good job, punctual. And that’s why no one has anything bad to say about him. He blended into the background, and that’s where he wanted to be.”

  “I like her,” David said when Melinda left.

  “I should have followed up earlier,” Max said. “David, what am I doing?

  He simply looked at her and sipped his water.

  “All this”—she tapped her notepad—“I should have known months ago. I should have talked to Arthur earlier about my theory. I should have followed up with Melinda before now. I should have been the one to go to Adam’s hometown and talk to his former neighbors, not my staff. I should have talked to Chris Gibson myself, rather than send in Riley. I screwed this up.”

  “In the last year, you’ve investigated or reported on more than thirty different cold cases for the show and for the Web site. With what time would you have done all these things?”

  “That’s the thing—none of those cases have received my undivided attention. I’m losing control.” Max nibbled on a grape. “I’m letting people down.”

  “Ben is happy—as happy as someone like him can be. Ratings are steadily increasing. You’ve resolved more of those cases than not. You let yourself down because you expect more from yourself than anyone can give.”

  “I used to remember everything about a case I worked. Not only what to do and who to talk to, but I remembered the names and faces of the victims and family and suspects. Now? I have to really think about the last case I reported on. I don’t want to forget anything.” Or anyone.

  “Take a break.”

  “Really. Wasn’t that what I did in California?”

  “You call your trip to California a break?” David smiled. He was a handsome guy when he smiled, which was rare. Not that he was bad-looking, just that he had that hard edge and deep scar that made him unapproachable to anyone who didn’t know him.

  “I spent three extra days doing nothing but relaxing.” And handling the fallout from her investigation into the murder of her high school best friend. “I’m planning on visiting Nick if the trial ends on Thursday. He’ll be a nice weekend distraction.”

  “Hardly relaxing with two cross-country flights.”

  She smiled. “He’s worth it.” She paid the bill and drained her wine. “Let’s go. I’m better now. I just needed to wallow in self-pity for a minute.”

  David followed her as she got up and headed away from the table. Max did feel better, but she still hadn’t solved the fundamental problem that she needed more time with each investigation she committed to. She didn’t know how that was going to go over with Ben. Because as soon as this trial was over, she was going to have a heart-to-heart with him about what she would—and would not—be doing for the show.

  “Isn’t that Ava Raines?” David said as they walked through the restaurant.

  Petite blond kidnapping victim Ava Raines was having dinner with another young woman in one of the booths against the wall.

  Max strode over and said, “Hello, Ava.”

  The girl looked up at her, at first confused, then recognition crossed her face. “Ms. Revere. Hi.” She glanced at her friend. “This is Ginger. She’s my moral support this week.”

  Max nodded to the girl, then said to Ava, “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “I don’t want to be scared all the time, you know? This whole thing was a fluke. It doesn’t even feel real anymore.”

  Ginger said, “Ava, remember?”

  Ava bit her lip and looked at Max. “The prosecutor told me I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about the trial until after it’s over. I’m sorry.”

  Max handed Ava her business card. “Remember, we’re going to talk after the trial.”

  “Right.” The way she said it made Max think she had no intention of calling. Maybe she wanted this all to end. Maybe she was planning on selling her story, like Bachman’s lawyer—it wouldn’t be the first time a major player in a trial sold an article, a story to the tabloids, or even a book deal.

  “Call me after the trial, I’ll make the time. I’m glad you’re doing well, Ava. Truly.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Revere.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “No, no, no,” Ben said early Wednesday morning after Max told him she was driving to Hartford with Riley. David sat in her guest chair, watching the conversation as if it were a sporting event.

  “Ace is happy to sit in the courtroom for NET today. He wanted it from the beginning. Really, Benji, you’re the one who told me to work harder to get along with Ace, and now that I’m his new best friend you’re giving me grief?”

  “You—argh!” He paced her small office. “You know that’s not what I meant. Ace doesn’t pick up on the nuances.”

  “This is important. Riley found a good lead—”

  “How do you know?”

  She hated being interrupted, especially when Ben wasn’t looking at the bigger picture.

  “Ben, get over it. I’m going. I already have an appointment with the facility director.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Ben said, shaking his head.

  “Dammit, I’ve been pushing this angle from the very beginning
, ever since I learned Bachman skipped a semester in college. What did he do those four months? We know he wasn’t living with his mother—we talked to the neighbors. We know he didn’t leave the country. We know he didn’t have a girlfriend he was shacking up with. One facility. Riley and C. J. narrowed the list to one. It’s worth my time.”

  “If you think Riley is the next Maxine Revere, send her up alone!”

  “If I thought that Bachman was going to take the stand, I might just do that. But he’s not. Riley is still new at this, I need to go with her.”

  Ben turned to David who had, wisely, stayed out of the conversation.

  “I can’t believe you’re letting her do this.”

  “Letting me?”

  David winced. “You’re not helping your case, Lawson.”

  Max was on the verge of losing her temper. When she was in New York, Ben tried his hardest to direct and control her. “I’m an investigative reporter. That is what I do. Riley uncovered something that needs looking into, and I’m going to be the one to do it.”

  “It can wait until the trial is over.”

  “Can it? If I’m right and Bachman has a partner, this is the lead that will get us the name. My gut tells me there’s something here because Bachman has done such a great job of hiding this part of his life.”

  “Maybe because it doesn’t exist!”

  “There’s still a missing couple out there!”

  “They’re not going to get any less dead.”

  She stared at him, mouth open, unable to speak after that comment.

  “Max—” he began, softer.

  “If you don’t like the way I do this job, fire me.”

  She grabbed her bag and walked out.

  Riley was sitting in her cubicle. It was obvious she had heard everything, but she smartly said nothing.

  “Did you pick up the car?” Max asked.

  “Yes. But it’s costing more because I’m not twenty-five—”

  “Trust me, if I was driving it would cost twice as much. Let’s go.”

  “Why isn’t David driving?”

  “Because he’s working another angle.” That had been another tough conversation. David wanted to go with her for security reasons. Now that Arthur Ullman had convinced him her theory was right and Bachman did have a partner, he didn’t want to leave her side. But she argued that this trip was spontaneous, she’d make sure they weren’t followed out of town, and she would keep in contact. He wasn’t happy, but he also knew that his plan to help Sally O’Hara today was just as important.

  Riley’s brows creased inward. “But I thought he was your bodyguard.”

  The elevator doors closed, leaving them alone. “Yes and no.” Max was irritated, but figured it was the residual anger over her conversation with Ben. Riley was simply curious. “He’s my right hand. When he needs to be a bodyguard, he steps up and does it. When I travel, he handles security. If there’s a threat, he takes care of it. But he’s not just muscle.”

  “I guess I’m still trying to figure out how things work here.”

  “Ben is constantly trying to make me into something I’m not and sometimes we argue.”

  “Well, I think he’s wrong. You don’t need to be in the courthouse. You should be able to do whatever you want. You’re the star of the show.”

  The doors opened into the basement parking. Max stepped out, but stopped walking until Riley looked at her.

  “I know what you’re thinking and you’re not even close, Riley,” Max said. “Ben is your boss just like I am. He is damn good at his job, it’s his passion, and I respect that. Just because I disagree with him on occasion doesn’t mean he’s wrong. He’s one of the smartest people I know—I just don’t always want to do what he wants me to do.”

  Riley was obviously confused. Max didn’t know how to explain it. “You have two brothers,” she finally said. “Do you agree with them all the time?”

  “No, but—”

  “And I’ll bet around the dinner table you give them shit and argue?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But if anyone outside of the family says a disparaging word about either of them, you’d bite their head off.”

  Riley twisted her lips together and nodded.

  “Consider your head bitten off. You’re new, you’re a rookie. Ben is my brother, metaphorically. We argue, sometimes passionately, but I will never say an inappropriate word about him in public, understood?”

  “Understood.”

  * * *

  It took nearly two hours for them to drive to Hartford from Manhattan. Max took the opportunity to review her notes and finish reading the research Riley and C. J. had pulled together on Greenhaven, the mental health facility where Bachman had almost certainly had himself committed.

  Greenhaven was founded forty years ago primarily as a drug and alcohol rehab center—one of the first of its kind. Situated on fifty acres on the outskirts of the city in the suburb of Farmington, it had expanded to include treatment of all kinds of addictions, phobias, and social disorders like anxiety. Though it apparently prided itself on its discretion, the tabloids had printed the names of famous people who had used the services—the daughter of a U.S. senator, several actors, and one prominent New York politician who had been outed as a sex addict.

  C. J. and Riley had put together a list of the individuals who were outed in the press as being patients at Greenhaven by date. The attached articles didn’t name names of who spoke to the press, but the time frame would work well if Max could access Greenhaven records, or find someone currently on staff who worked during those windows of time.

  Max used a variety of tricks to get people to open up. She could be friendly and understanding; she could also bully. But in a situation like this, she needed someone who was willing to talk off the record. Finding that person wouldn’t be easy. Max often spent days getting the lay of the land, researching staff, finding the weak link. Sometimes she’d work that person for a while to get the information she needed. Even more often she’d get some information, then parlay it with someone else for better information, and so on until she could see the complete picture.

  She only had one day.

  Truth be told, she could take more time. Ben had been right—she didn’t have to jump on this today. But now was her best chance at getting the whole story so she could talk to Bachman before he was sentenced and sent to state prison. Once he was in prison, it would be more difficult to set up an interview. She’d have to jump through hoops with the state prison authorities and her friendship with D.A. Richard Milligan wouldn’t help.

  Would Bachman even meet with her again? All she had to trade was how she portrayed him on Maximum Exposure. Wouldn’t he rather be known as someone who made mistakes, but in the end did the right thing by turning in his more violent partner? She could play on that theme—his mother, how it would make her feel to know that her son had helped the police put away a violent predator. Forgiveness, redemption, whatever it took to get Adam Bachman to give her a name.

  Also, time was an issue. The Palazzolos were still missing. Sally O’Hara had a lead, but if it dried up, she had dozens of other cases to focus on. Max had the cop’s interest now, but if she lost it, she lost, period. If Bachman ID’d his partner, the police would have a viable lead and could in turn get search warrants, track his whereabouts, interview him. Stop him before he destroyed another family.

  She rubbed her temples. She hadn’t gotten enough sleep in the last couple of weeks. In fact, since returning from California six weeks ago, Max had survived on roughly four hours of sleep a night. She could easily do it in the short term, but in the long term it crushed her.

  Sleep had always been difficult for her. She fell to sleep easily enough, but if she woke up at 2:00 or 3:00 A.M. after only a couple of hours, she was up for good. She suspected that the emotional toll of solving her high school friend’s murder six weeks ago was still disquieting. Knowing who was guilty, and how the truth had torn apart not
only her family but others, made sleep that much more elusive.

  She said to Riley, “We need an established goal for today. I may have jumped the gun on thinking we’d find all the answers.”

  “But you thought it was a good lead.”

  “It is,” she said. “But usually, if I needed to get information out of a place like this, I would commit myself or have someone undercover.” She’d done it once in a nursing home in Florida where an eighty-two-year-old spitfire had helped her end a decade-long case of elder abuse by living at the home and reporting to Max on the outside. The only good that came from one of the most depressing cases in Max’s career was that she shut down the facility and had earned a new best friend, Lois Kershaw, who was now eighty-five and living it up in an assisted living condo in Miami, enjoying her notoriety as the “inside man” for a Maxine Revere exposé.

  “I’ll do it,” Riley said. “You trusted me with Bachman’s college roommate. I can do this.”

  “We don’t have it set up. To go undercover, we need solid documentation and a set plan. When I did it in Miami, I pretended to be Lois’s granddaughter, so I had access. I can’t use a fake name anymore.”

  “I can.”

  “I don’t have documents for you. And while you have potential, you haven’t even been with me for two months. No way am I sending you into an unknown situation. We stick with the plan. Real names, real problem.”

  In high school, Riley had a problem with drugs—specifically oxycodone and other painkillers. She’d cleaned herself up, and had been drug-free since she was seventeen, but the backstory was true and would help Max sell their appointment with the Greenhaven director, Nanette Jackson.