Compulsion (Max Revere Novels Book 2)

by Brennan, Allison

  “And,” Marco continued, “O’Hara has been keeping me in the loop about Bachman’s attorney—someone in the neighborhood ID’d Baker. They’re still processing the scene but there are prints that aren’t Warren’s. His secretary said his briefcase is missing.”

  They were quiet for a while, then Marco said, “Max isn’t flighty. She’s sharp. If she says it was Duvall, it was him.”

  “She was drugged, tortured, dehydrated, and hallucinating. The doctors don’t even know what was in her system. Our ERT unit is processing the warehouse and found numerous syringes and medical supplies. They’ll put it together. But a good defense attorney will destroy her testimony. Hell, a bad defense attorney could destroy it.”

  “Prints. A witness. We’ll build a case against him.”

  Nick asked from the back. “What’s his motivation?”

  “You don’t believe her?” Marco said, glancing in the rearview mirror.

  Nick wanted to challenge him then, because it was clear Marco planned to put a wedge between him and Max. Instead he said, “There’s a reason he went after Maxine. Dr. Ullman said this setup felt personal. We need to find that connection.”

  “What do you mean by ‘setup’?” Rose asked.

  “Baker lived three blocks from where the Palazzolos were found. He could have easily known when Detective O’Hara found the sodium hydroxide container. It can’t be a coincidence that the day after it was discovered, Bachman agreed to an interview that Max had been pushing to get for months.”

  “Bachman’s only visitors were his mother and his lawyer,” Marco said.

  “And his lawyer was murdered. He could have passed information. He may not have understood the importance.” Nick paused. “When Max has time to rest, she’ll remember more.”

  “A lot of coincidences,” Rose said. “And you’re stretching believability. You’re suggesting that these two men would somehow know Ms. Revere would be involved in the investigation in some way. That seems … implausible. Of all the reporters in New York City, she would be tasked with the Bachman case and the disappearance of the Palazzolos?”

  “It’s not implausible,” Marco said. “Max is known for investigating cold cases—especially missing persons. She wrote an article about the Palazzolos only a few weeks after they disappeared.”

  “I saw that in her office,” Nick said. “And she followed up three weeks ago, at the same time she pushed Detective O’Hara to look in the abandoned train tunnels.”

  “Okay,” Rose said, “say I believe that Baker and Bachman knew that she was interested and laid out damn bread crumbs for her to find the bodies … why?”

  “Bachman didn’t think that she’d find the bodies—he implied that in her interview with him,” Marco said. “And the interview keeps her interested and involved.”

  “Again, why?”

  “Maybe so she doesn’t leave town?” Nick suggested. “If she stays local, they have a greater chance of grabbing her.” But even as he said it, he couldn’t see that being the key factor.

  “I’m getting a headache,” Rose said. “And I’m going to repeat myself yet again. Why kidnap her? They keep her for three days but they don’t kill her?”

  “Max said Duvall wanted to break her. That he knew everything about her.” Nick pondered the motivation. “It’s a control thing for him, and Max is uncontrollable. She’s pissed off a lot of people, there must have been something two years ago that set him off.”

  “That’s presuming that Duvall was involved.”

  “He is,” Marco and Nick said together. Nick caught Marco’s eye in the mirror. They were on the same page here, they both believed Max. Proving it was going to be problematic. Nick recognized what they were up against; if they couldn’t find forensic evidence connecting Carter Duvall to Max, they wouldn’t be able to get a prosecutor to take the case to trial.

  And Max would always be in danger.

  It was nearly nine on Sunday night when they arrived at Duvall’s house. Rose looked at her phone. “Bad news,” she said. “We finished the analysis of Bachman’s and Baker’s medical records, but there’s nothing in them that’s useful.”

  “Did Ullman look at them?” Marco asked.

  “Ullman isn’t on staff anymore. We still have competent people.”

  Nick said, “But they confirm that Duvall was their psychiatrist.”

  “Yes, but Baker was there two years before Bachman as a patient. He was an employee at the same time as Bachman was a patient, but there’s no record of Bachman returning after ninety days of treatment.”

  “We need a warrant for any drugs Duvall prescribed over the last year.”

  “Why?”

  “Where did the drugs come from that they used on Max?” Marco asked. “If we can connect them with Duvall, that’s a start.”

  Pierce considered it. “Thin, but when the ERT unit and Ms. Revere’s doctors give us their lab reports, I’ll take it to the A.U.S.A. and see what she can do with it.”

  Marco was as arrogant as Max, Nick realized, but he also had a deep faith in her and her abilities. Max had long said there was something at Greenhaven about Bachman, and so far everything has proven her right. Nick didn’t have the history that Marco had, and for the first time he felt a pang of jealousy. He didn’t want to explore it, because he didn’t really know what to do with it. He was the new kid on the block, he couldn’t even call Max his girlfriend.

  Marco had said Max always came back to him. Nick didn’t want to get in the middle of something so volatile. He had a bitch of an ex-wife and a son he didn’t see enough of. They were moving this summer, and he would have to find a job in another state just to be close to his son. He didn’t need any more drama in his life.

  Yet … the thought of not seeing Max again saddened him. He wasn’t ready to walk away.

  He might not have much of a choice. He was supposed to be back on duty Tuesday.

  The three of them walked up to the front door and Marco rang the bell. It took several minutes before Duvall answered. He was in sweats and a T-shirt and blatantly irritated.

  “I told you I wasn’t talking to you on a Sunday night. I have to work early tomorrow morning.”

  Rose said, “We understand that it was inconvenient to meet us at FBI headquarters, so we thought you would be more comfortable in your own home.”

  “I don’t have to talk to you,” he said, indignant.

  It was an act, Nick thought. The guy was too calculating, assessing all of them. But he focused specifically on Marco.

  Marco said, “Cole Baker is dead.”

  Duvall looked confused. “Why do I care? I haven’t seen the kid in nearly two years.”

  “May we come in?”

  He hesitated. “It’s late, as I said.”

  “This is a serious situation.”

  Nick saw the debate—a cunning calculation—crossing Duvall’s face.

  “A few minutes,” he said and led them back to the living room they’d sat in before.

  They sat again, in the same places, with Nick standing to the side and Rose next to Marco. Rose said, “Dr. Duvall, have you met Maxine Revere?”

  “I thought you wanted to talk about Cole Baker.”

  “We have evidence that Mr. Baker killed Ms. Revere’s driver, then kidnapped her. We have him on video surveillance.”

  “You have a video of him killing someone?”

  “We have a video of him driving a car that was later determined to have been stolen. The car was recovered this morning, with the original driver dead in the trunk. Mr. Baker was shot and killed while firing on law enforcement from that car. So I ask again, have you met Ms. Revere?”

  Rose Pierce wasn’t bad. She gave Duvall the information he wanted, but then turned it back to what she wanted.

  Duvall was briefly flustered. “Yes—Wednesday she came by Greenhaven with her assistant. Ostensibly because her assistant had a drug problem. The girl admitted herself into Greenhaven on Friday, then overdosed that ni
ght and was taken to the hospital.”

  “Did you meet Riley Butler, Ms. Revere’s assistant?”

  “No. I wasn’t on duty Thursday and Friday because I had a conference in Boston.”

  “Which you returned from at ten on Friday morning,” Marco said.

  “If you say so.”

  “Where did you go after you landed at LaGuardia?”

  “Home,” he answered automatically.

  They were still trying to build a solid time line of Duvall’s whereabouts from the minute Max was kidnapped until Sunday morning, but there were holes—including several hours after he landed at LaGuardia and when they’d confirmed he was at his house at six because of a conference call he’d had with colleagues on the West Coast. One hour driving back means he could have been in that warehouse for seven hours.

  But Marco didn’t push him on that, because until they could catch him in a lie—such as finding him or his vehicle on surveillance tapes during the hours he said he was home—they didn’t want to tip their hand.

  Pierce continued. “You indicated to Agent Lopez yesterday that you were aware of Ms. Revere and had read her true crime books. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you aware that Mr. Baker had an obsession with Ms. Revere? That he had all her books, articles, photos of her in his apartment?”

  “No. As you know, Mr. Baker quit two years ago from Greenhaven.”

  “Have you seen him since he quit?”

  There was the slightest hesitation, and if Nick had been asking the questions, he might have missed it, but he was so focused on Duvall it was practically a warning bell. “As I already said, no.”

  Marco asked, “Have you seen Adam Bachman since he left Greenhaven?”

  “No,” Duvall said. He straightened. “I’m tired, I have to be up at five in the morning. I’m asking you to leave.”

  “One more thing,” Marco said, leaning forward, “Did you drug and torture Maxine Revere?”

  It was clear that Duvall hadn’t been expecting the in-your-face accusation.

  “Out,” he said. “I don’t know what that woman told you, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Did you leave your house yesterday after Detective Santini and I were here?”

  “I do not have to answer your questions. I also plan on filing a complaint with your office, considering you have a personal relationship with the alleged victim. You have no authority or right to come in here and question me. You’re completely biased.” Duvall stood. “If you need to speak with me, call my lawyer.”

  They walked out. Immediately, Rose asked Marco, “Are you still involved with Maxine? Tell me you’re not, Marco. You’re going to fuck up this case.”

  Nick said, “He’s not.”

  Rose looked from Marco to Nick and back again. “Well, shit. I wondered why a cop from California was tagging along. Detective, you cannot be involved in this investigation if you have a personal relationship with the victim.”

  “I wasn’t asking any questions. But that guy is lying. You both know it.”

  “Knowing it isn’t proving it,” Rose muttered. She climbed into the car and immediately got on her phone.

  Marco looked at Nick. “I want to nail this guy, Santini.”

  “So do I.”

  “And when this is over? I’m going to get Max back.”

  Nick bristled. Maybe he was too competitive, but Marco grated on him. “Go ahead and try.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  She was alone again.

  She sucked on her finger, the one she’d burned when she put more wood into the stove, even though it had blistered and scabbed and only hurt a little. Her pretty blue watch told her that it was December 31, noon. Her mom had been gone for seven days. One whole week.

  Today was her birthday. She was no longer five. But six didn’t feel any different.

  She wandered the big, cold house. She slept by the woodstove because that was the only real warm spot, even though she was too scared to put the big logs in. She fed the stove smaller pieces, and she figured out how to adjust the vent, but didn’t know how to make the heat go everywhere. But the living room was warm. And she’d rather sleep in the big room than upstairs in the far corner where the wind blew the trees against the window, scratch, scratch, scratch, as if a monster was clawing to get in.

  There had been a big storm the day her mom left. What if she got hurt in the storm and was stuck somewhere down the mountain? What if there was no one to help her? Maxine didn’t have a phone to call anyone. The phone in the cabin didn’t work, her mom said. Maxine had tried it. Her mom was right.

  Maxine didn’t want to leave—her mother told her not to leave—and it had taken them a whole seventy minutes to drive here from where they got gas in the small store down the road. Maxine knew, she’d timed it on her pretty blue watch. Her mom’s last boyfriend had given it to her. Perry. Maxine liked Perry, but like all her mom’s boyfriends, he left. Or her mom left. Maxine didn’t understand grown-ups much, and she didn’t really care to.

  Perry had a boat and they’d spent three weeks on his boat, sailing all the way from Maine to Florida. Maxine had so much fun, she’d wanted to do it again. Perry had games and he played with her. He taught her how to play poker and blackjack and Yahtzee. He had books on the boat, lots of books, and he read to her, something her mom hated to do. Maxine could read herself, she was very good at it, but she liked Perry’s voice. It was deep and dark, like his skin. Her mom had never had a black boyfriend before, and maybe that’s why Maxine liked Perry so much. He was new and different and laughed all the time.

  Her mom said that Perry was a blue blood, but Max didn’t think black people had blue blood when hers was red. They were just different on the outside. She’d asked him, though, because she was curious. She’d always been curious.

  He’d laughed, that deep laugh she loved, but she felt silly and didn’t join in.

  “Sweet girl,” he’d said, “I have red blood, same as you. Martha means that I’m from an old, wealthy New England family. Old money, dear girl. Old money.”

  “Is old money the same as new money? Is it worth more? Like the old paintings at the museum are worth more than new paintings?”

  “Money is money,” he said. “A dollar is a dollar. New, old, black, white, doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Is that why you love my mommy? Because you don’t care that she’s white?”

  He flinched. “I don’t care that she’s white, just like she doesn’t care that I’m black. We’re just having fun, Maxine.”

  Maxine didn’t ask any more questions, because she knew what that meant. It meant when they got to Florida, Perry would leave, and Max would never see him again.

  Max was right. On that last day Perry had given her the pretty blue watch. “To remember me,” he’d said. “You’re a good kid, Maxine.”

  She didn’t ask if she would see him again, because she didn’t want him to lie to her like all the other people her mother introduced her to. They made promises they never kept, or Martha wouldn’t allow them to keep. Perry made no promises, told her no lies, and maybe that’s why Max loved him most of all.

  She’d given him a small stuffed bear she’d gotten in a Happy Meal a year ago. Because they traveled all the time, she couldn’t keep much. And sometimes her mother just forgot to pack up before they left one place and Max had to start all over. This bear stayed in her backpack—the one thing she never went anywhere without because she didn’t know what Martha was going to do next.

  “To remember me,” she said.

  “Maxie—I can’t take this.”

  Tears burned, but she didn’t cry. Only babies cried. “I don’t want you to forget me.”

  He took the bear and kissed it. “Sweet girl, I could never forget you.”

  That was six months ago. But that was also when Max started keeping her journal. She didn’t want to forget Perry or anyone else. She didn’t want to forget the places she
went or saw, the good and the bad. And she was starting to forget.

  And now, on her sixth birthday, she wrote:

  I’ve been in this cabin for one whole week. Mommy might be hurt. I don’t know what to do. I organized all the food in the pantry and if I am careful and don’t eat a lot, I think I have enough food for forty-seven more days. But that means I have to eat the canned peas. I don’t like canned vegetables, especially canned peas. They’re squishy and make my tongue feel slimy. I wish I had an apple. I love apples. They’re my favoritest fruit.

  * * *

  The memory, the dream memory, was bittersweet, and Max was partly conscious. Something niggled at the back of her memory, then she sank into sleep again.

  Only now, her memory became a nightmare.

  She had returned to the same Wyoming cabin, only now she was an adult. And Carter Duvall was there.

  She was strapped to a chair, far from the fire. She was so cold, but her fingers were hot, burned. “You are alone. Abandoned. Everyone leaves you, Maxine. Perry. Your mother. Your BFF Karen. Do you think anyone is going to stick around now? Nick? David? Why? What do you offer to them except sarcasm and suffering, you arrogant, tenacious bitch! If only I had more time with you. If only I could kill you myself.”

  He ran at her, and suddenly she was a little girl again, hiding in the closet with bars like the Mexican jail, the scratch, scratch, scratch of the trees on the window, but there was no window. It was the scratch of claws, of rats as they tried to get to her, and Carter Duvall called out at her with a singsong voice, “I will find you and take from you what you took from me.…”

  A thousand scorpions flooded the closet and she felt the prick of a thousand stingers …

  * * *

  “Max. Maxine, it’s okay. You’re awake.”

  She opened her eyes. Her heart was racing. The machines were beeping and the nurse rushed in.

  Nick was standing at her side, his hands on her arms as if holding her down. “Max, it was a nightmare.”

  She took several deep breaths. The nurse was about to inject something else in her IV, but Max said, “No. No more. I need to clear my head. What time is it?”