Poisonous

by Allison Brennan

  “He won’t.”

  “Lance, one thing you need to know about me is that I always get what I want. If not on the first attempt, then on the second. Or the third. I don’t back down. I want to do this the easy way. Talk to him. Smooth the way. I’ll drive down to Stanford to chat. But one way or the other, I will talk to him.”

  Lance was skeptical. “I’ll call him.”

  “That’s a start.” Max handed him her business card. “That’s my cell number on the back. Keep in touch.”

  She drove off and let him stew.

  That went far better than she’d thought, but she wasn’t going to hold her breath for results. She had the distinct impression that Lance Lorenzo planned to stab her in the back.

  Chapter Seven

  After Max left Lance, she went back to her hotel room and called Paula Wallace to schedule a time to meet prior to the taped interview. Paula sounded pleasant and professional enough, and suggested they get together tomorrow. She had to pick up her daughter from kindergarten at twelve thirty. Max said she could be at Paula’s house at eleven thirty.

  Next, Max called Graham Jones from NCFI.

  “If it isn’t my favorite reporter,” Graham said as he picked up her call.

  “Favorite? You don’t like any other reporters.” Max settled in a cozy chair on the mansion’s balcony overlooking the bay.

  “True.” Graham Jones had retired young from the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department, putting in twenty years of service by the time he was forty-five. In the four years since, he and his wife Julia Mendoza had built Nor-Cal Forensics Institute, NCFI, into a successful private forensics lab and investigation unit. The idea had been Julia’s—she’d quit her job as assistant director of the California State Lab when she found herself pregnant with twins at the age of thirty-eight. When the twins were five and in school, she wanted to go back to work full time, and was approached by a biotech company that wanted her to test their state-of-the-art equipment. Through Julia’s foresight and the company’s contacts, they created NCFI, and set the facilities on a college campus. The university was happy because their students had a chance to intern at a renowned crime lab.

  Max had met Graham early in her career, long before the television show, when she had been investigating missing teenage girls in Sacramento County. At first Graham would have nothing to do with her—once he’d even arrested her for trespassing—but eventually Max won him over. She was pretty sure it had more to do with the information she’d been able to unearth than her winning personality, because to this day she and Graham butted heads. But Max and his wife Julia had really hit it off—odd, she sometimes thought, because Julia was a brilliant scientist and one of the smartest people Max had ever met, someone who focused on the evidence, while Max was a gut-driven reporter.

  Graham said, “Are we on for tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Detective Grace Martin says she’s on board. But she still needs approval from her boss, basically for you to access the reports and lab results. I already sent you the information that’s been made public.”

  “Got it—not much to go on.”

  “I know. This is going to be a legwork case. But I would love it if you can give me any additional insight into what you think might have happened on the cliff with Ivy. I know this isn’t an exact science. Even though the police are investigating it as a homicide, they don’t actually know if her death was an accident or if she was pushed or throw off.”

  “You indicated that there were cuts on her arms consistent with a blade rather than a fall. Julia will need to see the report and photos.”

  “She’s not coming down?”

  “Work, Maxine. She’s much busier than I am and can’t drop everything for you like I can.”

  “I hear sarcasm in your voice.”

  “You always had good hearing. I won’t be able to get there until the afternoon—I’ll call you when I’m an hour away, give you an ETA. Likely between three and four.”

  “Thanks, Graham. Give my best to Julia.”

  * * *

  As soon as lunch started, Travis Whitman left campus. He had no idea what time Bailey Fairstein had lunch at her uppity all-girls Catholic school, but he was determined to have a serious talk with her today. Enough of this bullshit phones, texts, and ChatMe account.

  You’d think, after all these years, she’d just call him. They used to be friends. They used to talk all the time. It wasn’t like with his buds, but it was still cool. In eighth grade Bailey had helped him pass math. She was a really good teacher, definitely better than the old fart he had that year.

  Then Ivy happened.

  Travis should have broken up with her after the whole Heather Brock thing, but, well, at the time he didn’t think it was Ivy’s fault. Ivy could be a bitch and everything, but who could have known Heather was so whacked? It totally came out of left field.

  Bailey had completely lost it, though, and actually gave a deposition blaming Ivy for Heather killing herself. No way would Ivy ever forgive Bailey for that, not for something so serious and, like, legal. Travis joined Ivy’s side because, well, to be totally honest, he was pretty obsessed with her and entirely happy when he could get in her pants. He hadn’t exactly been thinking with his brains. Ivy was really fun when she wasn’t snooping around and being so bitchy.

  But she turned on him. For no effing reason. Just … snapped. Well, there was a reason. Travis had told Ivy to knock it off after she went after his buddy on her stupid blog. That was it: he’d called her blog stupid, and you’d think that he’d called her a stupid bitch. Then she came right at him, even lied about him on her blog. That’s when Travis wondered if everything Ivy wrote was just made up or exaggerated crap.

  He knew for a fact some of it was true, though—which was why he’d nearly lost his position in football when Ivy posted lies about him smoking weed. People were so stupid. They believed everything they read. And that sneaky fucking bitch, she used her reputation for only posting the truth to try and bring him down. If it wasn’t for drug testing Travis would have been kicked off the team. And even now … Coach looked at him differently. If Travis wasn’t the best quarterback the school had seen in a decade, he would have been benched or worse.

  And he didn’t fucking do anything. Being an idiot stoner was far down his list of appealing activities. He cared about two things: football and getting laid. Well, he cared about more stuff—like making sure he passed all his classes so he didn’t lose the scholarship offer from UCLA, he liked helping his mom out because she was having trouble with her arthritis, shit like that. But really, getting stoned wasn’t his cup of joe. Who needed that shit in their bodies? He saw what it’d done to his buddy, the kicker. Went from a decent runner to dead last in laps because he just couldn’t keep up with the pack.

  Lunchtime traffic through town sucked. By the time Travis got to Bailey’s school, the girls were walking from the cafeteria and gym back to the main building.

  Almost immediately, he spotted Bailey, even though all the girls were wearing the exact same uniform, plaid skirts and white blouses. Some wore blue sweaters, but most didn’t because it was warm.

  Bailey was drop-dead gorgeous, the type of pretty other high school girls would kill for, with beautiful long blond hair that she wore pulled back when at school. But looks alone were not what made her stand out from the other students. It was her poise. Bailey was tall and slender, and had a distinctive, confident stride.

  But maybe she just stood out to Travis because he had known her since they were six.

  The school yard wasn’t fenced, but he didn’t dare walk onto campus. He illegally parked in the school lot and ran over to an oak tree by the main entrance. He was probably breaking a hundred rules. Ignoring the many girls looking at him as he partially hid behind the oak, Travis kept his eyes on Bailey.

  At first she didn’t see him, then she did a double take and stared at him in shock. Finally she frowned and Travis felt the urge to run over and throttle her
. They’d been friends for fucking forever, and now Bailey was playing games? What did she think he was going to do after finding that flip phone in his locker? Roll over and do whatever she said?

  He motioned for her to come over. She said something to the other girls she was with, then glanced around before approaching him.

  “What are you doing here?” she said. “You can’t be here.”

  “Why’d you leave a phone in my locker? Why can’t you just call me?”

  She stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Travis. You need to go.”

  She was nervous, which told him everything he needed to know. “Fine, you don’t want to talk about it here. Tell me what you know about the reporter.”

  “The reporter? What do you know about that?”

  “Nothing! You must know more than me.”

  Bailey shook her head. “My mom and I were in Boston this weekend touring Boston College and Amherst. When we got home last night there was a message on our answering machine from someone named Maxine Revere. She said she’s the host of a cable crime show and wants to talk to me about Ivy’s death. My mom doesn’t want me to call her back. She hopes she’ll leave us alone if we don’t respond. Did she call you?”

  “No,” Travis said. But she could have called his house today. His parents were working. There could be a message on his answering machine, too. His heart raced. What was he going to do? Ignore her. He’d ignore her, like Bailey.

  “I have to go to class, I’m going to be late.”

  Travis still wasn’t sure if she’d left the phone in his locker. But if it wasn’t Bailey, who the hell would it be?

  He said, “If you want to talk to me, just call me, Bailey. Stop with these stupid games.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Travis, but I’m not playing any games. We can never go back to the way things were, and I’ll never call you.”

  She walked away. Travis didn’t know if she was lying to him and playing with his head or what. But she knew about the reporter, she didn’t deny it. Fine, if she didn’t want to talk to him, he didn’t have to respond to her stupid text messages ever again.

  Chapter Eight

  Parked across the street from Tommy Wallace’s school, Max sat in the rental car with a clear view of the campus’s special education wing: four large trailers on the school’s southern edge. She’d learned the special ed kids were let out thirty minutes before the high school general population. When Max had spoken to Tommy last week, he’d told her that he rode his bike home from school every day. She kept her eye on the bike rack.

  She’d sent him a message that she was in town, and was surprised when he hadn’t responded. Odd, considering his stepbrother Austin had gone to her hotel.

  Meeting Tommy spontaneously would benefit her. Give her an edge to determine his real motives in sending the letter, and whether he was as simple as he had sounded over the phone.

  Max rarely, if ever, doubted herself. Yet sitting outside the high school, waiting for Tommy Wallace to leave, her confidence waned. She’d received one letter and had a brief conversation with a mentally challenged teenager, yet she’d devoted considerable “Maximum Exposure” time and resources to this investigation. Ivy Lake’s murder was intriguing, but it wasn’t her typical case.

  Yet … she hadn’t been able to get Tommy’s letter out of her mind. From the moment she opened the envelope—odd in this day and age that he mailed her a letter—Max couldn’t get his words out of her head. An unfamiliar emotional weight had filled her, propelling her to put aside a half dozen other missing persons cases she’d been considering for her next show, and instead latching on to a cold murder with little allure. Usually, Max was drawn to a case because of the victim profile—the need to see justice served, the need to punish the killer. This time … she had yet to develop any real affinity toward Ivy Lake. Instead, it was Tommy Wallace, and an overwhelming need to find out what happened to Ivy for him. Max was here because a teenage boy had written her an honest letter.

  When she took a cold case, several things went into her decision, but she could never fully explain what drew her to choose one case over another. To Ben Lawson, her producer, Max would sell him on the ratings—that a particular case would be interesting to their audience. Sexy in some way, compelling, unusual. To David, she’d explain that it was the victim’s family that drew her in—that she wanted to give them justice.

  Both things were unequivocally true.

  Still, Max would never have taken this case if it weren’t for the letter from Tommy. In Max’s estimation, Ivy wasn’t an innocent victim. She’d used social media as a weapon, had bullied her peers, and her actions had a direct or indirect impact on a girl’s suicide. There were no special circumstances to her murder—no sexual assault, no unusual violence, no repeat crimes, no serial killer, no threats, no suspect. The police had done a competent job investigating, so not even the allure of exposing an inept police department was an enticement for Max to investigate.

  Now that she had a research staff and David, her traditional monthlong prep and research was done in a matter of days. Still, Max profiled three major cold cases each month for the show, which meant she realistically could only spend one week on-site for each case. If she couldn’t prove or disprove a suspect in a week, if she couldn’t find the missing person dead or alive, Max had to move on.

  It was the one thing she regretted about her agreement with Ben Lawson and NET. In the past, Max could stay on an investigation until she wanted to leave; now, business commitments pulled her in multiple directions.

  Turning off the car radio, adjusting her seat, she checked her e-mail again, but there was nothing from Tommy or any of the others she wanted to interview. The only good news was a message from Grace Martin that her chief hadn’t put up any barriers to Graham Jones and his people coming down to review the forensic evidence. Max e-mailed Grace, thanking her, then forwarded the note to Graham.

  When she looked up, she saw kids pouring out of the special education classrooms. Some stayed in a line headed by a teacher; others were being picked up by parents in a designated roundabout; and a third group was being escorted to the school buses. The special education kids were mixed—some were handicapped, either with Down’s or a serious physical problem. Some weren’t obviously handicapped. Max didn’t know how this particular school district ran their program, but the group appeared eclectic.

  A few of the kids—including Tommy—walked over to a bike rack and unlocked their bikes. Others walked off campus and presumably toward home. The high school appeared to have between fifty and sixty kids in the special ed program.

  Max watched as Tommy spoke to a couple of students, then walked his bike out of the yard and across the street. Odd—he wasn’t coming toward where Max was parked, which she’d picked because it was en route to his house. Instead, he was heading to the large, open block-long park that separated the high school from the middle school.

  Max got out of her car and briskly walked toward the boy. It wasn’t difficult to catch up because he moved along slowly, in no rush at all. Halfway through the park, Max caught up with him. “Tommy,” she called when she was still several feet away, not wanting to startle him.

  He stopped and turned, no worry on his face. He recognized her immediately and smiled. “You’re Maxine Revere.”

  “Yes. And you’re Tommy Wallace, right?”

  He nodded. “How did you know?”

  “I saw your picture in the newspaper when your dad got remarried.”

  “Oh. Is that what you meant when you said you had to do research before you came?”

  “Partly. Did you get my e-mail last night?”

  He bit his lip. “I should have hit reply. I’m sorry. I wanted to talk to Austin first because I always meet him after school. I want you to meet him.”

  “I would like to meet him.”

  “Great!” Tommy looked around, for a moment seeming confus
ed. He looked at his watch. “Austin gets out of class in seven minutes. It takes him a couple more minutes to go to his locker and then to the bike rack.”

  “We can wait here.” Max motioned to a nearby bench. “It’s a nice day. I’d love to talk with you, Tommy. I just have a few questions,” she added.

  “Austin should be here.”

  “They’re easy questions.”

  He glanced at the middle school. “I don’t know.”

  “Did Austin tell you not to speak with me unless he was with you?”

  Tommy looked torn. His pale face was expressive, his blue eyes inquisitive and concerned. He spoke clearly, maybe too clearly, like he was being extra careful to make sure each word was the correct one.

  Max wanted this first meeting with Tommy to be without the influence of anyone else, especially an inquisitive young teenager who had made a point of going to her hotel yesterday.

  “Let’s sit, okay?” she said, trying to sound nonthreatening. Ben had told her that she intimidated people with her tone just as David intimidated them with his physical presence. She didn’t want to scare Tommy.

  He hesitated. “Can we go over there?” He pointed to a bench on the park’s far side, with a clear view of the middle school.

  “Of course. Anywhere you want.”

  He led the way. “I always sit on this bench to wait for Austin. Do you still want to get gelato? Or maybe you prefer ice cream? A very good ice cream place is right next to the bookstore. You write books, don’t you? Austin said you did.”

  “Austin is right.” It seemed Max wasn’t the only one doing research. “We can go anywhere you want,” she said.

  “Do you really like ice cream? Sometimes people say things they don’t mean.”

  That was an interesting observation from Tommy. “Tommy, I would not have told you I liked it if I didn’t. For me, it’s really important to be honest all the time, don’t you think so?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  They walked to the bench Tommy had indicated. Tommy put his kickstand down, balanced the bike, and took off his backpack. He didn’t let it drop to the ground, but carefully placed it on the bench between him and Max. He kept one hand on the pack. Security, maybe, a connection with his belongings. Keeping his distance from her, though friendly enough to talk.