“It’s, oh goodness, I don’t think I should say—we take privacy issues very seriously.”
“Privacy?” David snapped.
“Well—Riley did sign a waiver agreeing to keep Ms. Revere informed of her progress. For employment purposes.”
“Start at the beginning,” David said through clenched teeth.
“Were you aware that Ms. Revere and Ms. Butler were here Wednesday to tour the facility?”
“Yes,” David said, but Nick was pretty certain this was the first David had heard about Max’s excuse for visiting.
“Ms. Butler checked in yesterday. She has a history of addiction, and the stress of her job was creating problems. And though we search our clients, she managed to sneak in drugs. She overdosed last night and her counselor found her this morning in her room. We immediately called 911. I can give you the hospital she’s at.”
“Please,” Nick said.
They followed Jackson back to the foyer. David left the building without comment while Nick waited for Jackson to retrieve the information. He wondered what he was getting himself into. Had Max sent a young intern into a dangerous situation without backup? What had she been thinking? He knew she was reckless with her own life, but reckless with the lives of others?
Ms. Jackson returned and handed Nick the information. “Here’s the hospital, and Doctor Duvall’s cell phone. I’ll make sure he knows that you’re looking for him.”
“Thank you.”
Nick walked out, expecting to see David on the porch. He wasn’t. He’d brought around the car to the main doors and barely waited for Nick to get in before he sped off.
Nick said, “Did Max send that kid here? Does Riley really have an addiction or was that a lie to get her inside?”
“Max wouldn’t have done it. Not like this.”
“She takes risks, David. We both know that.”
“I called Ben. He said Riley went completely off the grid yesterday afternoon, and he tracked down a friend of hers who isn’t talking. I have his name. He’ll damn well talk to me.”
“Let’s go to the hospital first,” Nick said. “We need to talk to this girl, find out why she was here. Did she really have a drug problem? Or was that a cover?”
“I don’t know. I did the background on her. She’s had a clean record at least since she turned eighteen. Her dad’s a cop. Her mom’s a doctor. I’m going to have to call them.”
“First, let’s see what she knows.” Nick had given parents bad news before. He preferred to have all the facts before they called the Butlers.
Chapter Twenty-four
“I can take you back to FBI headquarters,” Marco said to Arthur Ullman as they left the morgue. They’d confirmed that it was indeed Adam Bachman who’d killed himself. He’d made a shiv out of a toothbrush and slit his wrists. He was found unconscious and died en route to the hospital. The M.E. said it was clear that the wounds were self-inflicted.
“I’d like to talk to Bachman’s attorney as well,” Arthur said. “Did the D.A. give you the visitor logs?”
“No one has been to see him since I talked to him yesterday,” Marco said. “The last time he saw his lawyer was Thursday after court recessed.”
“And the only time Maxine spoke to him was on Monday?”
“Yes. There have been no other visitors. Max, his lawyer, David, and myself.”
“From my limited view of the information, he doesn’t seem to be suicidal. I listened to Max’s recording of the interview.”
“She recorded the interview? Why didn’t I know?”
“When we’re done with the lawyer, you can listen, but she wrote the key points on her wall.”
Marco frowned. “He said something odd yesterday, but I thought he’d been threatened.”
“What did he say?”
“I suggested that if he cooperated and helped us identify and locate his partner, that I could get him into a federal prison. He said he’d be dead. I offered protection, asked who’d threatened him. He didn’t answer.”
Arthur didn’t say anything and Marco squirmed. “Did I miss it? Was it that obvious?”
“I honestly don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
“He looked like death warmed over.”
“Was your interview with Bachman recorded?”
“By the D.A.”
“We should listen, see if there’s something he said that could have a dual meaning. Another set of ears.”
Arthur was the expert. Marco was certain he’d missed something, and that comment about how nothing he could offer would matter because he’d be dead? That definitely took on a whole new meaning now that Bachman was dead.
“Let’s hope his lawyer will be forthcoming.”
They’d already checked out the lawyer’s small office near the courthouse and he wasn’t there, so they drove to his apartment on the Upper East Side where Gregory Warren had lived in the same small, ground-floor apartment for ten years.
Marco parked illegally and placed an OFFICIAL FBI BUSINESS placard on his dashboard. They got out and Marco surveyed the building. The apartment was below street level, down six stairs to a small patio in a five-story building. Every house on the street looked the same. All apartments, all brick and stone, trees growing out of holes in the sidewalk. Marco had never understood what appealed to Max about New York. Miami was a big city, but it had beaches and sun and space. He needed the space. New York made him claustrophobic.
Marco knocked on the door. “Mr. Warren, it’s Marco Lopez with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We need to talk.” A little dog barked at them from inside.
Marco had misstepped with Max. Misstep was an understatement. He’d fucked up their relationship, but she had a big part in that, too. She’d never admit when she was wrong because she never believed she was wrong. She justified everything she did as if exposing the truth was a noble goal and could wash away any sin she committed. She never thought about the repercussions, to herself or to others. While he admired her determination and tenacity, he wished she would just listen to him. Sometimes, the truth should be shelved for the greater good. She never understood that, and he didn’t know how to explain it to her.
But dammit, he loved her. She made him crazy, but whenever they left things unsettled or—like last month—over, he felt the void. She didn’t just have a passion for the truth. She had passion for everything in life. Good food. Good fun. Sex—dear God, he missed having her in his bed. For all the craziness she’d brought into his life, that was the one area where they always did exceptionally well.
The new guy, Nick Santini, didn’t know Max, and he couldn’t possibly understand her. He’d known Max for a few weeks; Marco had known her for ten years. And when he found Max—and he would—Marco would make sure she understood that they were not over, that the Garbena fiasco six weeks ago was just one more road bump, but they would fix it, like they’d fixed all their other problems over the last decade.
“He’s not here,” Arthur said. The dog still yapped frantically.
“Where the hell is he?” Marco asked. “He wasn’t at his office, he’s not answering his phone.” He flipped through his notes and found the phone number of Warren’s office manager. A moment later, Ms. Walsh came on the line.
“This is Special Agent Marco Lopez. We spoke yesterday when I left a message for Mr. Warren.”
“Yes, Agent Lopez, how may I help you?”
“I still need to speak to him.”
“I gave you his cell phone number. He always answers.”
“He’s not answering, he’s not at the office, and he’s not at his apartment.”
“He must be there.”
“Could he have left town? Who watches his dog?”
“Biscuit? No one—he doesn’t leave town except to visit his brother in Virginia, and he’d take Biscuit with him.”
“Biscuit is barking up a storm.”
“Oh, dear. I haven’t spoken with him. He left Thursday and said he was going to work f
rom home while waiting for the verdict.”
“Do you have a key to his apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Can you get over here?”
“Twenty minutes.” She hung up.
The woman sounded worried.
The dog continued to bark.
Arthur said, “Something is definitely wrong.”
Marco put on gloves and tried the door. It was locked. “Does this place have an alley? A back way in?”
“Likely.”
“You good to wait here while I check the back?”
Arthur nodded. While he had been an FBI agent for thirty years, Arthur was retired and Marco didn’t want to put him in harm’s way.
Marco had to walk half a block, then down another half block, until he found an alley lined with Dumpsters that was barely wide enough for a car. He counted the buildings and stood behind Warren’s. No parking. Balconies off the upper three floors. Downstairs there was a tiny dirt yard—two doors led to it, one from below and one a few steps up. Both had screen doors with bars.
Again, how could people live like this?
He knocked on the lower door, the one that was Warren’s. Tried the doorknob. It was unlocked.
He had probable cause. Unlocked door, frantic dog, no one had spoken to Warren since Thursday afternoon.
He unholstered his gun and opened the door.
The smell of death hit him. The little dog, Biscuit, ran out into the small yard and immediately started peeing. It was a Maltese or some other kind of small white fluffy dog, only this one had dark tipped hair.
It’s blood.
Marco called out, “FBI! I’m coming in!”
But there was no one alive inside.
In the kitchen, Gregory Warren was sprawled facedown on the linoleum, the handle of a butcher knife protruding from his back. He wore sweatpants and a T-shirt that was now drenched in his blood. The blood beneath him was dry, but at some point the dog had walked through it, tracking little bloody paw prints through the house.
By the look and smell, he’d been dead for at least twenty-four hours.
Marco quickly checked the entire apartment—kitchen, living room, bedroom, bath, and a den smaller than Marco’s closet. Clear. He opened the front door and told Arthur, “He’s been dead for a while. Stabbed in the back. He didn’t see it coming.”
* * *
Max was alone.
She couldn’t possibly still be in New York—it was too quiet.
She loved the sounds of the city. Her penthouse was ten floors up in TriBeCa, and even that high up she could hear the steady hum of traffic, the low noise of people, machines, planes, and life.
But now she was underground, she could hear water or sewage flowing through pipes. Civilization was somewhere nearby, just not close enough to hear her if she screamed.
She wanted to go home. She wanted to see David. To shower for an hour under blistering hot water. To sleep in her bed with her mound of pillows. To eat at her favorite restaurant. To drink a gallon of water.
The smells in this room had grown worse, and she knew the stench came from her. How long had she been here? It seemed so important, but she didn’t know. Time now had no meaning. Had it been a day, or a week? She was in and out, in and out. Humiliated and angry; what must she say for them to let her go?
Nothing, Max. They’re going to play their games and then kill you.
She’d been soundly humiliated. If that’s what they wanted, they’d achieved it.
She’d been humiliated before.
* * *
Max had been sixteen when she decided to confront her father.
Three events led up to her decision.
First, her mother didn’t send her a birthday card on her sixteenth birthday. She’d forgotten, obviously. Martha had left her on her grandparents’ doorstep one Thanksgiving. Stayed for dinner, was gone the next morning. But she’d always sent a birthday card in time for Max’s New Year’s Eve birthday.
Not this time.
Second, she’d had a major battle with her uncle, Brooks, who was having an affair. Max found out about it and made sure everyone knew. He was a liar and a cheat. Max learned the hard way that sometimes people wanted to believe lies—Aunt Joanne had known Uncle Brooks was a cad, but preferred blind ignorance than walking away. Max’s announcement had started a chain of events that had hurt people she never intended to hurt. Everyone blamed her, and maybe she was partly to blame. But she wasn’t the one having an affair and she didn’t regret exposing her uncle.
And third, curiosity. Max had read an article about Victor Tracy in The Wall Street Journal and was intrigued. He’d been under investigation by the FBI for insider trading … but had been cleared. The article was fascinating because it was clear that the government believed they had a case, but they couldn’t prove it. It had been considered an embarrassment for the government and a victory for Tracy.
She’d been following Victor Tracy and his career for eight years, ever since her mother told her he was her father.
Her best friend Lindy drove her to the airport. Max and Lindy had ups and downs in their friendship, but Lindy was the only person Max trusted with her plans. Lindy liked keeping secrets.
Lindy wanted to come with her to New York, but Max insisted she do this alone. Besides, she needed Lindy to cover for her with her grandmother if necessary.
“What if he doesn’t know?” Lindy said. “You should call him first.”
Max thought about that, but said, “Something like this, I need to do it in person.”
Max didn’t think Victor Tracy knew about her. Typical Martha Revere, always withholding information. She didn’t even tell Max about her father until Max was eight and had asked—repeatedly.
“Victor is charming and handsome and fun. That’s where you get your red hair, from his family. But Victor is a black sheep, Maxie. He’s always being investigated for something, getting in trouble with the police. You can’t trust him. I don’t want you associating with him.”
At eight, Max was scared of her father. But she was also curious, and as time passed, she realized that Martha exaggerated about everything. When Max was little, she never called them lies, but now, at sixteen, she didn’t know what to believe about Victor Tracy because she’d finally realized that her mother was a pathological liar.
She flew first class, because that was what she was used to. She was already five feet ten inches and most people who met her when she was sixteen assumed she was in college. She had the maturity, height, and poise to pass for older. Partly because her grandmother insisted on the maturity and poise; partly because Max had grown up fast with a wild mother.
She read all the articles she’d printed about her father multiple times, but a few facts stood out.
The first was that he’d been married to the same woman for twenty-two years. That meant that he’d been married when he slept with her mom. It saddened Max, because it wasn’t fair to his wife, but it didn’t surprise her. After all, Uncle Brooks had done the same thing.
He was successful, having founded multiple businesses and selling them for a profit. Max wasn’t as interested in business as her family, but she understood what a venture capitalist was and how it could yield huge windfalls.
She didn’t understand the nuances of alleged insider trading, or how her father kept getting off. But she decided that she didn’t care. She wanted to know more about the man who’d made her than she cared if he was a criminal.
She took a taxi to his Murray Hill town house in Manhattan. It was a beautiful four-story midtown brownstone with tree-lined streets and flower boxes in all the windows. April was beautiful this year, and all the trees were in bloom.
Max had always prided herself for being courageous, but she’d found it easier to stand up for others than to stand up for herself. Finding Victor Tracy’s home address, flying cross-country without telling her grandmother, telling him she was his daughter … these had all been difficult.
; But she did it. And she wasn’t going to back down now.
She had the taxi leave her at the end of the block and she walked slowly up the street to build courage. Every step was both excruciating but exciting. She’d been looking forward to meeting her father even before she knew his name. She’d even kept a small picture, cut from a financial magazine, in her jewelry box. She planned on making it clear that she didn’t want anything from him—not money, not even a place to live. She just wanted to know him.
It was Saturday, and she knew he came home from golf between three and four. She knew this because she’d called his secretary the day before to check his schedule, pretending to be a temporary secretary of one of his golf mates. It had been surprisingly easy to obtain the information. They played from nine until noon, ate at the club, and he had no other plans for the afternoon. So she’d arranged for the niece of one of his partners to meet Victor Tracy for an internship interview as a favor.
It was four thirty. She rang the bell before she ran away.
Victor answered the door.
“Maxine? John’s niece?”
“Actually, I lied. I’m Maxine Revere. Martha Revere’s daughter. Your daughter.”
He stared at her for a long minute. “What does Martha want now?”
Max hadn’t been expecting that response. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Her knees buckled, but she held on to the railing. “I haven’t seen her in six years. But before she left, she told me you were my father. I don’t want anything, I just want to get to know you.”
“I’m not your father.”
How could he lie about something like this? “Yes, you are.” Her voice cracked.
He stepped out and closed the door behind him. He was very tall, and he did have red hair—but it was more strawberry blond than the dark mahogany she had. She didn’t see any resemblance, but that didn’t mean anything. Lindy didn’t look anything like her father.
“What do you want?” His voice was low and borderline mean. He was trying to intimidate her and he was succeeding.
“Nothing. I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted to meet you.” Her voice quivered and her eyes burned. She would not cry.
Compulsion (Max Revere Novels Book 2) Page 26