Compulsion (Max Revere Novels Book 2)

by Brennan, Allison

  “A counselor? A psychiatrist?” Nick suggested, gesturing toward Max’s board and her list of names.

  “Possible. Someone who had been working closely with doctors for years, especially someone who was smart and driven, could learn about these drugs and how they interact through watching and reading, asking the right questions.”

  “Assuming you’re right,” Marco said in a tone that told David he was still skeptical, “did Max tip someone off? Maybe her trip to Greenhaven?”

  “I couldn’t say, but the timing would suggest that.”

  Practically required reading.

  “No,” David said. “That wasn’t it.”

  The three men turned to him. David needed to think his analysis through. He wasn’t driven by instincts like Max. He liked evidence he could see and touch and smell. But he never discounted the “gut feeling” some of the guys in his Ranger squad had. There were times when his acute senses had picked up on danger for no tangible reason. So David tried to articulate this gut feeling he had about why Max had been kidnapped.

  He said, “I think Max was a target from the beginning.”

  Marco said, “The beginning of what?”

  “I don’t know how far back, but Bachman said something that I haven’t been able to shake. He said that Max’s books were ‘practically required reading.’ Why would he say that?”

  “It could mean anything,” Marco said.

  “The day before Bachman agreed to the interview with Max, Detective O’Hara found the empty container of sodium hydroxide.”

  “That’s a thin connection.”

  “Yes, it is,” David said, irritable. “Nothing that could stand up in court, but I don’t care about court. It proves to me that Bachman lured Max in. He implied that she would never find the Palazzolos, and then three days later, Sally O’Hara found the bodies. Because Max pushed her.”

  “Maxine pushes a lot of people,” Marco said. “She gets obsessed with these cold cases, to the point where she makes mistakes. I’ve known her a lot longer than any of you, and a lot better.”

  “Knock it off, Lopez.” David narrowed his gaze. “You’re hardly unbiased when it comes to Max. You didn’t even want to come here because she refused to apologize for embarrassing you on the Garbena farce.”

  “You have no idea, Kane, what I had to clean up there.”

  “Then go, Marco. I don’t need your shit right now.”

  Arthur Ullman cleared his throat. “I think we can all agree that Maxine obsesses about missing persons cases. That doesn’t mean she’s blind. I need to speak with Mr. Bachman. I listened to his interview, and as David said, Bachman knows more about Max than a cursory interest. It’s hard for me to make a psychological judgment based on limited information and third party analysis.”

  Nick said, “David, are you suggesting that Max was abducted because Detective O’Hara found the dead couple?”

  “I don’t know,” David admitted. He rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. Now was the time he wished he could think more like Max and less like a soldier. He sometimes didn’t know how she made the connections she made, pulling seemingly unrelated facts into a truth no one else could see until she laid it out.

  Arthur turned to Marco. “Can you get me in to talk to Bachman? The sooner the better.”

  “First thing in the morning,” Marco said without hesitation. David didn’t know if Arthur had convinced him or if Marco came to the conclusion himself or if Marco was simply placating the rest of them. David didn’t feel at all confident in their investigation if Max was ultimately the target. Maybe she was their endgame.

  “I also suggest you find a way to subpoena Greenhaven records. Start with Adam Bachman’s file.”

  “You know that’s going to be next to impossible.”

  “There’s precedence. I can help you with that.”

  Nick said, “Doctor, go back to the third individual involved. How are they working together? Like a killing team? Or that Bachman and the unsub were a pair, with a … a master for lack of a better word, directing them?”

  Arthur didn’t say anything for a moment. He looked at Max’s wall, at the time line, and the facts.

  “I don’t know if they worked together, but I believe based on what we know, that three people were certainly privy to the details either before or after each of the murders. It’s clear from the evidence I’ve seen that Bachman killed those five people, but I concur with Max that he didn’t move the bodies. He had a partner to help him dispose of the bodies, like he helped his partner dispose of the Palazzolos. And there may have been more before them. There are too many unknowns at this point.

  “But I think it’s clear from Bachman’s interview with Max and from your conversation with him today that she has been on his radar for far longer than she’s been involved in this investigation. And without the why it doesn’t make sense.” Arthur waved his hand to Max’s wall. “There is nothing here that suggests that Bachman has a personal connection with Maxine. She would have picked up on that. But the interview she had with him tells me he knows a secret about her. I can’t explain exactly why, but she’s at the center of this somehow.”

  David didn’t want to believe it, because that meant not only was Max being stalked—either physically or through digital media—but he hadn’t known. He hadn’t even picked up on the threat.

  Arthur continued. “Bachman’s comment to you was odd, David, truly unusual. Have you looked into her old investigations? People she may have butted up against?”

  “Ben has the research unit reviewing her files, but it’s a vast landscape.”

  “Excuse me,” Nick said, “but if her kidnapping is related to a past case, how does Bachman fit in? She would have known him from the start, or she would have figured it out along the way. His life was turned inside out by the police and by Max herself.”

  “That’s an excellent point,” Arthur said. “Which is why identifying the two partners needs to be a priority. There’s a personal component here.”

  “Why do you say that?” David asked. “Personal how?”

  “I keep going back to, why Max? If Bachman deliberately pulled her into the investigation, baited her with the interview, it isn’t a simple game.”

  Marco leaned forward. “Wait—so you’re thinking that one of these two unidentified individuals has a personal beef with Max? Do you realize how many people she’s pissed off in her life?”

  “Stop,” David said. He was beginning to hate the fed. “Marco, you need to either be on board with Arthur or leave. We don’t have the time to debate every single point. If Arthur says this is personal, it’s personal.”

  He stood in the doorway and looked, across Max’s open bedroom, through the windows to the dark Hudson River beyond. Personal. Of course it was personal. They hadn’t received a ransom letter, they hadn’t received any demands at all. And they hadn’t found her body.

  “I’m having a hard time buying into the theory that Bachman and the unsub killed five or seven people in order to lure Max into their case,” Marco said.

  “Gentlemen,” Arthur said, “it’s probably not that. Meaning, these people would have been dead no matter what. But at some point, they wanted Max involved and knew how to draw her in. Like I said, there’s too many unknown variables.”

  “I’m going to call Ben,” David said. “He’s known Max longer than any of us. He might have an idea of where we can start.”

  “Start with her four books,” Arthur said. “Bachman specifically mentioned books to Max, and she’s better known for those than she is for her journalism. The ‘required reading’ comment makes me think of books as well.”

  David left Max’s office to get some distance from the others. Arthur gave them a direction, and while the information made the task ahead of them seem daunting and the situation in some ways shocking, David had something to do, and that made him think they’d find her.

  Because if he didn’t have something to focus on, all he
’d be able to do is picture his best friend dead.

  * * *

  Riley waited until it was quiet and close to midnight before she snuck out of her room and walked along the perimeter of the Greenhaven property to where she’d parked her car. There was a private security patrol that drove through the property several times a day, but she’d quickly realized they weren’t there to keep patients in so much as to make sure the property itself was secure.

  She retrieved the small laptop and her cell phone, then went back to her room. She saw no one.

  Her stomach flipped as her nerves hit her. Her dad would have her head. He didn’t like that she was working for Max. Not specifically Max, but any reporter. He didn’t like reporters, on general principles. But this was what she’d always wanted to do, from the day she wrote an article in third grade for the classroom newsletter arguing in favor of longer recesses. The administration had come back with an article about how students needed to be in school a certain number of minutes a day, and Riley had countered with an article she’d clipped from one of her mom’s early childhood education magazines, citing that kids needed playtime in order to be more productive in school. In the end, the administration extended lunch by five minutes. A small victory, but one Riley had cherished.

  She wanted to make a difference. She wanted her words, her ideas, to change people’s minds, no matter how small.

  What she was doing now wasn’t small. It was huge. It would save lives. It would save Max. She was certain the answers were here, she just had to find them. She had to put herself in Max’s head and figure out what her boss—her mentor—would do in this situation.

  By the time she left the city earlier that afternoon, they still hadn’t been able to ID the guy who’d kidnapped Max. Max had been positive Adam had met him while here at Greenhaven. That meant she needed to get a list of all the patients who were here at the time Adam was here. Logical. Yes, it was a felony. Yes, she would get in big trouble if she were caught. So she had to be careful and not get caught.

  But hadn’t Max done similar things? When she investigated the elder care facility in Miami, she’d worked with someone on the inside to gather information. Riley didn’t know all the details about the case, but she’d read the articles and the subsequent book. Max had won awards. She’d also once gone undercover in a women’s prison to expose systemic abuse when she wasn’t much older than Riley.

  Now or never.

  Grow up, Riley. You can do this.

  Kyle had created a program on the minilaptop that could help her break into any computer. She’d lifted a card key from one of the staff, and planned to leave it somewhere when she was finished so that the individual would think they’d dropped it.

  She took a deep breath. Max had always told her to have a clear objective when researching, but to be open to new ideas if they presented themselves. Her objective was to ID Max’s kidnapper. If they could find him, that would bring them one step closer to finding Max. And, if Riley was going to be perfectly honest with herself, prove that she was indispensable to the team. That she could gather information just like Max, that she could crack a case wide open. Maybe even solve the Palazzolos’ murder at the same time. Prove that she belonged.

  Riley exited her room. The hall was quiet, except for a light snore coming from the room next to hers. She left through the side door, wincing as it clicked shut behind her.

  Though it was the first week of June, it was cold here at night. She had a sweatshirt on, the small computer hidden in the front pocket. She had an excuse if caught. Going for a walk. Needing fresh air. Unable to sleep.

  But no one was around. No security guard, no patients, no staff. She could see why addicts would come to a place like this. Away from the city. Away from stress and family and people with expectations. Riley had recognized when she was fifteen that her addiction came from her own brutal expectations, to be the best at everything. To go, go, go, do, do, do, never slowing down because she didn’t want anyone to think she was lazy or dumb.

  She still had the overachiever gene, but she’d hoped she’d tempered it with age. She didn’t crave drugs like she used to. She still worked hard. She still demanded a lot from herself. But that was okay, because she was doing it without artificial help.

  Her heart raced. The first hurdle was getting into the administration building; her purloined card key worked. She breathed easier. If the individual had reported it missing, it might have been deactivated; fortunately, she was in the clear.

  A low hum of computers and printers in sleep mode. A settling of the building. The faint buzz of lighting. It wasn’t pitch-black; a low glow from intermittent lights illuminated the halls.

  She took the carpeted stairs to the second floor.

  She found the main records room. She feared the key she had wouldn’t access it. She held her breath as she pressed the key against the access panel.

  Click.

  The door unlocked, and she slipped inside. Now she felt more confident, secluded in this room.

  There were file cabinets, two desks, and a computer. She carefully closed the venetian blinds hoping they would block the light from the computer.

  She turned on the computer and plugged Kyle’s decoder into the USB port. As the computer booted up, Kyle’s minicomputer flashed a couple of lights and the small disk drive inside spun.

  Please work, please work.

  She bit her thumbnail as she waited. And waited. It seemed to take forever, but only ninety seconds passed before a bunch of stuff flashed on the screen. She feared she’d crashed the system, then suddenly the desktop appeared.

  It worked!

  She sat down and quickly looked through the root directory.

  And quickly discovered all files were saved by number.

  No, no, no!

  There were far too many records in the database to download. She opened up a couple and skimmed them. They had everything she needed, but how could she weed through and find the people who were here at the same time as Bachman?

  Riley rubbed the back of her neck and considered her options. She knew the year Bachman had been here, so she sorted the files based on when they were created, then copied more than nine months’ worth of files—those created three months before, during, and after Bachman was here. She hoped that would be enough.

  She hoped this worked.

  When the files were copied to Kyle’s computer, she shut everything down and waited. Listened. Except for the low hum of equipment, it was quiet. Riley left the office and walked back the way she’d come. Down the stairs, out the side door, back to the dormitory-style rooms. She saw no one and heard nothing, and was grinning when she opened the door to her room. She’d send the files to Kyle and he could help her quickly sort through them. Once she knew she had what she needed, she’d leave.

  She shut her door and flipped on her light.

  A man was standing in her room. He was familiar …

  The courthouse. You bumped into him at the courthouse when you were texting on your cell phone.

  She turned to run out, but he grabbed her arm and held on so tight she lost her breath.

  “You think you’re smart, Ms. Butler. But you just signed your death certificate.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Max had been hungry before.

  In her early years, when her mother roamed the country in search of something intangible, Max had always been fed. There were lean times—which meant hamburgers and fries instead of steak and potatoes; fish and chips instead of sushi. And there were times that Martha had forgotten to make dinner or neglected to shop, but Max learned early on to keep a box of granola bars and a bag of dried fruit in her suitcase.

  When she was working, she sometimes skipped a meal and found herself starving at ten at night, searching for a decent restaurant because she hadn’t had time to go to the market, or didn’t feel like cooking. She spoiled herself, and she knew why: for years, her mother flitted about, meals a second thought, as content t
o dine in a five-star hundred-dollar-a-plate restaurant as McDonald’s. She had never cooked for Max.

  Max liked—she appreciated—good food well prepared. It’s why she’d learned to cook for herself.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed, but if her stomach was to judge, it was at least twenty-four hours. Longer. Forty-eight? The water her captor had trickled down her throat had long lost its freshness.

  She was going to die of starvation.

  No, she corrected herself, she’d die of dehydration. A human could survive a lot longer without food than without water.

  Something crawled up her leg.

  She let out an involuntary cry. Her voice was foreign to her. Weak and empty.

  But she’d been weak before. She’d faced death before.

  * * *

  She sat on the dirt floor of the prison cell, if that’s what her cage could be called. The bars looked out into a square full of light. It was hot, so hot, but she wasn’t sweating because she was so dehydrated. She’d be dead before the American embassy found her.

  If they even knew she was missing.

  If they’d even been told she was arrested.

  If they even cared.

  One bottle of warm water for each of three days. It could be worse. It could be the disease-infested water that ran through Mexico. For all she knew, they refilled her bottle from the river, and she’d die of diphtheria or worse.

  The smell of rot filled her. Her own filth, the smell of blood. Her blood. The dried blood of her informant. She didn’t know if he was dead or alive, but he wouldn’t live long with the gut shot she’d witnessed. She didn’t know where the rebels had taken him.

  There was no free speech in this hellhole deep in Mexico. Being a reporter meant nothing to the people who had arrested her. Arrested? Were they even the real police? More likely a private squad working for the bastard she’d been investigating. She’d be dead and no one would know. No one would find her.