Poisonous

by Allison Brennan

  Max said to Emma, “Don’t forget to call your dad.”

  Chapter Ten

  Looking around the ice-cream parlor, Max saw they sold far more than ice cream—turkey sandwiches, novelty gifts, newspapers, magazines, various beverages. The shop was half-filled with teenagers, and the other half mothers with young children.

  Austin and Tommy weren’t there.

  She stepped outside on the sidewalk, irritated, and was about to call Tommy’s cell phone when she spotted Austin leaning against a nearby light pole. He was watching her while eating the last of his cone.

  She walked over to him. “Where’s Tommy?”

  “He wanted to leave.” He wadded up a paper napkin and tossed it in a nearby trash can.

  “No. You wanted him to leave.” Max motioned toward a small table, as far as they could get from the ice-cream-shop traffic. She waited until Austin reluctantly sat down before taking a seat across from him. “We need some ground rules. Emma told me it was her idea to reach out to me with a letter from Tommy, and I believe her. But from this point forward she stays out of it.”

  Austin didn’t respond.

  That angered her. She didn’t have kids—she didn’t know how to handle them, and she didn’t want to learn. “You’ve led Tommy to believe that I’m some sort of, of—” What word was she looking for? “Angel of justice,” she said, “swooping in with answers so he can get his old life back. And I think you’re smart enough to know that even if I find the truth about what happened to your sister, that’s no guarantee your mother will welcome Tommy back into her house.”

  Austin stuck his chin out. She couldn’t read his eyes, which seemed too old for a thirteen-year-old, but she recognized defiance. Maybe because she had spent most of her teenage years defiant. “I know my mom. She won’t have any reason to keep him out. She needs a reason or she’ll cave.”

  “Her reasoning sounds like an excuse to me. And if I prove someone else killed Ivy, she could find another excuse to keep Tommy out of her house.”

  Austin leaned forward. “Then everyone will know she’s a selfish bigot.”

  Bigot. An odd word choice.

  “I wanted to talk to Tommy,” said Max. “You shouldn’t have sent him away.”

  “And you shouldn’t have surprised him in the park.”

  “We were having a nice conversation.”

  “Are you for real?”

  “Excuse me?” That chip on Austin’s shoulder was still there and growing.

  “You want something and you’re using Tommy. He told me what you were asking. You don’t think he wrote the letter.” Austin started to say something else but then stopped himself.

  “What are you afraid of, Austin?” she asked.

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “I didn’t think you were. But why were you watching me yesterday? You could have approached me, told me who you were.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t really think you’d come. Emma said you were coming, but I had to see it for myself.”

  “I’m pretty certain you were listening in to my phone conversation with Tommy last week.”

  He glanced away, confirming her suspicion.

  “I have a bad habit, Austin. And that’s judging people when I first meet them. But honestly? I’m rarely wrong. Here’s what I think of you, Austin: you’re smart—really smart—but also manipulative. You lie, sometimes you’re sneaky, and you’re angry because things have happened that you think are unfair. And maybe they are. I don’t have to tell you that we rarely have everything just the way we want it. You’re not the only kid who has a screwed up family life. Yet you’re going down a path that is eventually going to land you in serious trouble. You may be right about everything, but your methods are questionable. Tommy feels intense guilt because he thinks you get in trouble because of him, and he loves you. When he talks about you, his face lights up and I know he thinks of you as his real brother, not just a stepbrother.

  “But, Austin,” she continued, “you are the reason you get in trouble. That said, I have sympathy for you because it seems you have a redeeming quality: Tommy adores you. He listens to you. If I had never seen you talking to him, I don’t think I would like you very much. The only time I haven’t seen complete anger or total disdain on your grouchy face was when you were with Tommy. I believe you truly care about him, and it hurts you that he feels ostracized by your mother. I believe you would do anything to help him. So I’m going to be blunt with you, and you’re going to have to find a way to explain this to Tommy, because the next time I talk to him, I will tell him.”

  Max searched Austin’s face for something. He was watching her intently, on guard, but the anger was gone. He was curious, and Max understood curiosity better than anything. She leaned forward and spoke quietly.

  “I believe with my entire being the truth is always better than a lie. Your mother deserves to know what happened to her daughter. You deserve to know what happened to your sister. The killer needs to face the consequence of his or her actions. And Tommy deserves to live his life without this cloud of doubt and suspicion hanging over him. But the truth doesn’t always make things easier. The truth isn’t always kind or tied up in a pretty bow. And why? Because of lies and secrets that give everyone a false sense of security. Sometimes the truth hurts.”

  Austin looked away. Max tried to read him, but couldn’t. Maybe all thirteen-year-old boys were like this.

  “There’s a chance that I won’t be able to prove who killed Ivy. You need to prepare yourself for that. And Tommy.”

  “I know,” Austin said so quietly she almost missed it. Then he looked at her, and the anger was buried. It was there, deep down, but it was sorrow now that bled through. “Tommy is my brother, Ms. Revere. He needs me. No one else even really listens to him. You’re our only chance.”

  “Austin, do you care who killed your sister?”

  “Haven’t you been listening to anything?” He glared at her, the anger back. “Of course I care. Because once you find out who it is, my mother will know it’s not Tommy.”

  This kid—Max was in over her head. She didn’t know what to say to fix things, to help Austin or Tommy.

  She could only do what she could do.

  And that was find out who killed Ivy.

  “Tomorrow morning, can you meet with me before school?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll take you out for breakfast, my treat. What time does school start?”

  “Eight fifteen.”

  “How about seven?” She glanced around. There was a diner at the end of the strip mall they were in. “Over there?”

  “Okay.”

  “Bring Tommy. I need to talk to both of you.”

  “Fine.”

  Max got up, then turned back and said, “What do you tell your mom when you leave the house early and come home late?”

  Austin shrugged. “Whatever I want. It’s not like she cares.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Max had three hours before dinner with David.

  She knew he’d spent most of the day going through the thick binder of Ivy Lake’s Internet activity—her social media pages as well as the blog she used to have. The explosion of social media had really just begun when Max was finishing college; now kids in elementary school had access to sharing anything they wanted with the world. In a decade, the world—and growing up—had changed, and was still changing exponentially.

  David was good with research and had the patience to review the documents. Max had started it on the plane, but David was carefully combing through it again, making sure they hadn’t missed someone whom Ivy had gossiped about online. He was analyzing every account of people connected to Ivy to see if there was someone they hadn’t considered who might have motive. Time-consuming work, but it had to be done—and by someone intelligent enough to see connections that might not be obvious.

  Max sent David a message about her meeting with Tommy and Austin—leaving out Emma’s role. She’d
give Emma a chance to tell her dad the truth. Max added that she was going to Travis Whitman’s house.

  It had taken her well over a year of working with David before she adjusted to having a partner. Technically, David worked for NET and was assigned as her personal assistant, but that title didn’t do him justice. He’d originally been hired as a bodyguard after there had been threats on her life while she covered a murder trial in Chicago; they had not liked each other. Neither she nor David expected him to stay after the trial. Yet in those few weeks, Max had grown to depend on him and when she asked if he would consider a permanent position—as more than a bodyguard—surprisingly, he agreed. He’d once told her that he didn’t like her then but respected her, and she accepted that. A lot of people felt the same way. As they worked more together, she wanted his friendship as well as his respect.

  She didn’t have many close personal friends. Dr. Julia Mendoza, the forensic scientist—but Max rarely saw her, even though they’d worked together long distance on several of Max’s cases. Detective Sally O’Hara in New York was a good friend—but even with Sally, there was an emotional distance. And though they both lived in New York, they rarely got together unless one of them needed a favor. That wasn’t a good foundation for a friendship. There was, of course, her producer Ben who she’d met long ago in college. They, too, had disliked each other but became friends because they both loved Karen. They stayed friends, perhaps, to honor her memory.

  David had become her closest friend, her confidant, the one person she could share anything with. She hated the cliché of the single New York career woman with the gay best friend, but that’s exactly what they were. Only they weren’t typical.

  David had made it clear that if she didn’t keep him in the loop he would walk. She believed him. Now sending him messages about where she was going and what she was doing had almost become second nature. Hence the text telling him she was going to Travis Whitman’s house.

  * * *

  Travis Whitman’s family lived in an older home on a narrow lot near the Corte Madera Creek that fed into the San Francisco Bay. The view was worth more than the house, which had been built in the late seventies and matched half of the neighborhood—slightly in disrepair, small yard, sagging porch. A few completely renovated homes made their neighbors’ older homes look even shabbier and more tired.

  Max had originally wanted to be confrontational with Travis, but had decided to change her approach. She knocked on the door. Almost immediately, a trim, petite older woman answered. She was pleasant-looking with dark graying hair pulled into a neat bun on the back of her neck. “May I help you?”

  “I’m Maxine Revere with NET news. I’m in town to interview Paula Wallace about the murder of her daughter, Ivy Lake, in the hopes someone might recall seeing or hearing something the night she died. I’m speaking with many of Ivy’s peers to talk to your son Travis.”

  The woman blinked a couple of times. “You’re a reporter?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Are you Travis’s mother?”

  She nodded once. “And why do you want to speak with Travis?”

  “I’m talking with everyone who knew Ivy Lake. Is Travis here?”

  Max knew he was; Travis owned a small pickup that currently sat in the driveway.

  “I suppose it would be all right.” Mrs. Whitman unlocked the screen door and let Max inside. Max handed her a business card. “I’ll go up and get him,” she said. “Please have a seat.” She motioned toward the living room.

  The house backed up to the wide creek. The drought had left the water ten feet lower than normal, according to the watermarks. Each house had a dock and the channel appeared deep in the center. Across the creek was another newer neighborhood. A biking path edged the creek and went farther than she could see, down toward the bay. It would make for a nice jog along the waterfront.

  Max didn’t sit. She turned slowly from the backyard view and assessed the Whitmans’ home.

  From photographs hanging on the walls, she saw Travis was the younger of two boys. His brother looked about ten years older, and was now married with two small children. A graduation picture showed he’d earned honors at UC Berkeley, but she couldn’t tell with what degree. Travis’s photos were primarily of him playing sports, baseball and football. What appeared to be a recent prom photo had him with a pretty redhead. With her cell phone, Max quickly took a snapshot of that picture. If it was taken during the most recent prom, that was roughly five months ago. Travis and the redhead may still be dating; she might have some insight into Ivy as well.

  Travis was one of those all-around good-looking guys and by his smile and poses, he knew it. According to Grace Martin’s notes, Travis wasn’t a great student, getting mostly Cs with a few Bs, no honors or AP classes, but he was an all-star athlete, the star quarterback for the last three years.

  Mrs. Whitman came down the stairs. “Travis will be right down. He just came back from football practice and was in the shower.”

  “I’m not in a rush.” Max motioned to a family portrait that appeared to have been taken recently, since the two small children were in the photo. “You have a beautiful family, Mrs. Whitman.”

  She beamed. “Thank you. My son Greg is an engineer at JPL in Pasadena. He worked on the Mars Rover project, have you heard of it? They sent a robot to Mars.”

  “I’ve read about it. An exciting project.”

  “That’s where he met Jill. She works with the software. I don’t understand exactly what she does, but she’s very smart, too. That’s Johnny, he’s three, and Sarah, she’ll be two next month. I wish they lived closer. When my husband retires, we’re thinking of moving south to be nearer to them. UCLA offered Travis a full-ride scholarship to play football. Two other schools may offer as well—Arizona and San Diego State.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “That boy loves sports. Always has. If he put as much energy into his schoolwork as he did into football, he’d be a straight A student.”

  “What does your husband do?”

  “George is a CPA, a partner with his firm. He loves his work, but I’m hoping he’ll retire soon. At least work part time. I’m retiring from the school district in June—I’ll only be fifty-five, but thirty years teaching elementary school is enough. I love the kids, but I’m ready to leave full-time teaching. Maybe substitute on occasion. With Travis going away to college, we’re going to fix up the house and sell it, then travel—at least when it’s not tax season.”

  Two smart parents who valued education and hard work. And a son who didn’t do well in school. She felt a surprising empathy toward Travis—Max knew a thing or two about disappointing family.

  “Did you know Ivy Lake?” Max asked.

  “Not well,” Mrs. Whitman said, her voice significantly cooler than when she was talking about her family.

  Before Max could press her for more details, Travis came down the stairs. His hair was damp and shaggy and he wore gray sweatpants and a thin white T-shirt. He was tall and broad-shouldered. Max could see why teenage girls gravitated to him.

  “Mom said you’re a reporter?”

  “Maxine Revere. You can call me Max.” She handed him a card.

  “May I get you anything?” Mrs. Whitman asked.

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  “I’ll let you two talk. I’m going to start dinner,” she said to Travis. She patted his shoulder as he sat down on a worn leather couch.

  “Thanks, Mom,” he said. “I’ll help in a minute.”

  “Take your time.”

  Max sat in a chair across from him. Though the furniture had seen better days, the chair was comfortable.

  She said, “I’m in town to interview Paula Wallace for a segment of ‘Crime NET,’ a weekly cable show that highlights crime in America. I’m looking into the death of Ivy Lake, as you may have guessed, and I’d hoped you could help me by answering a few questions.”

  When he didn’t respond, she continued. “You and Ivy had a yearlong
relationship that ended two months prior to her death. According to police interviews, you said that you’d broken it off. Yet Ivy’s mother said Ivy broke it off. Before Ivy died, she posted a photo of you and your girlfriend—not the redhead,” she added with a nod toward the photo, “smoking pot under the bleachers at school.”

  “She nearly got me cut from the football team. And it wasn’t me. I mean, it was me, but I wasn’t smoking anything. I don’t do drugs.” He glanced toward the kitchen, then said in a quieter voice, “I’ve never smoked pot. Never. You probably don’t believe me because half the kids I know have toked, but I don’t. Ivy and I got in a major fight because she refused to tell me who sent her that stupid picture. Ivy didn’t have the kind of skill to fake a photo like that. I mean, she was good with computers and posting photos and stuff like that, but she didn’t know how to make something fake look so real. I had to jump through hoops to prove to my coach I wasn’t smoking weed. I had to take two drug tests.”

  “You were angry at Ivy.”

  “Duh. Wouldn’t you be? There’re people who think I gamed the system, that I had someone else pee in the cup. I told the coach he could watch me pee if he didn’t believe me. It sucks, having that hanging over my head.”

  Max said, “You told the police that you had no idea who might have killed Ivy.”

  “I don’t. I mean, she pissed off a lot of people, but no one would kill her. That’s just—ridiculous.” He frowned. “I still think the whole thing was an accident.”

  “By accident do you mean that Ivy was up at the preserve at one in the morning and fell to her death? Or by accident do you mean that someone accidentally pushed her off the cliff?”

  Travis opened his mouth, then closed it. He shifted positions and didn’t look her in the eye. Was he hiding something or remembering something? Why had Grace Martin thought he was guilty? Max didn’t get the killer vibe off Travis Whitman. He wasn’t overly bright. If he’d accidentally pushed Ivy off the cliff, would he have been able to cover it up so well?

  “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I wasn’t there. I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry she died—I really am. But Ivy was bad news. She was bad for me. I totally fucked things up my sophomore year because of Ivy. She got me to do things I would never have done.”