Poisonous

by Allison Brennan

  “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

  “It would be a mistake if I did. Lorenzo has an agenda. What that is will determine how I deal with him, but I don’t have time to work the Ivy Lake case and figure out what that twerp’s up to.”

  David nodded once. He wasn’t happy with the assignment, but he’d do it—and Max was confident that by the end of the day she’d know exactly what Lance Lorenzo was planning. Maybe he just wanted to stir the shit and see what happened. In short order, he’d find out, and he wasn’t going to like the result.

  “He has a relationship with the Brocks,” Max said, partly to herself. “He’s a couple of years older than Justin Brock, but they could have known each other. He has a younger sister in college…” She sent a message to one of the research staff at NET to dig around into Lance Lorenzo’s background and find out everything about him, his sister, and his family—and specifically any overlaps with the Brock family. “I may ask the Brocks, if it somehow comes up,” she said.

  “But you sound like you think his attack on the blog is personal.”

  “It is personal. But is Lorenzo’s animosity because of a personal relationship with the Brocks or because he doesn’t like me? Or doesn’t like the police? Or has a reason to dislike the Wallace family?”

  “Maybe he hates everyone,” said David as he parked in front of the Brocks’ modest home in an exclusive neighborhood. Very typical of Marin County—the houses were older, well-built, and small … but it was all about location. High on a hill, the Brocks had a million-dollar view of the San Francisco Bay.

  Max and David walked up the steep driveway, then up several stairs to the front door. She knocked. A moment later, a tall woman in her fifties wearing slacks and a lightweight sweater opened the door. “May I help you?”

  “Mrs. Brock, my name is Maxine Revere and I’m an investigative journalist. This is my assistant, David Kane. I’m airing a crime show about the Ivy Lake murder, and I’m asking for the public’s help in finding out who killed her. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Mrs. Brock stared at her, her mouth a tight, thin line. “Absolutely not.”

  “I can assure you that I will treat your daughter’s suicide with the utmost respect. I’m planning a series of articles about cyberbullying and how it impacts young people and their families. Ivy Lake is just one small component of my series.” Max hoped that worked, because she was stymied. She couldn’t be too aggressive or too strong because the Brocks were only loosely involved in this case.

  “I don’t care to help you. Please leave.” Mrs. Brock glanced at David as if she recognized him. “Kane? Your father—is he Doctor Warren Kane?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Brock looked perplexed, and David continued, “I work with Ms. Revere, and I personally promise we’re not out to make light of your tragedy. We hope to help others who may be in a similar situation find ways to get help.”

  The woman hesitated, then said, “I appreciate your sensitivity, Mr. Kane, but neither my husband nor I care to be involved in your interview in any way, nor can we discuss the civil suit, as per terms of the settlement.”

  Settlement? Max’s ears perked up. Who had told her the case had been dropped? A settlement was different than dropping a case.

  “I’m terribly sorry but you need to leave.” Mrs. Brock closed the door. If it was anyone else, Max might have stuck her foot in, but this time she held back.

  Max turned and walked back to the car. “You didn’t expect another outcome, did you?” David asked.

  “I’d hoped for more cooperation, but I’m not that surprised.”

  “Are you really writing those articles?” David turned the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

  “Yes, for the wire. I’ve been researching cyberbullying, finding cases with horrific, sometimes violent outcomes. But that series will be after solving Ivy’s case. I won’t be bringing Heather’s situation into the interview. I need to make sure that Ivy is seen as the victim, not the perpetrator.”

  “Good luck with that,” David said.

  “Ivy was a spoiled, immature teenager, but she didn’t deserve to die. Whoever killed her got away with it. Doesn’t matter if it was a premeditated crime or if it was spontaneous, this person—now emboldened—could snap again and kill someone else.”

  “I see your point.”

  “I didn’t know your father was a doctor,” she said, changing the subject. “I thought he was career military.”

  “He was an officer in the army,” David said, “and went through medic training. When he got out of the service, he went to medical school and became a surgeon.”

  “You wanted to come with me today because Dr. Brock must know your father.”

  “My dad is fairly well-known in this area,” David said. “I thought the connection might help ease the conversation.”

  “She was definitely friendlier after realizing who you were,” Max said. “What else don’t I know about your family?”

  When David didn’t respond, she said, “I’m looking forward to meeting your dad on Sunday.” Max looked at her watch. “And right now we have just enough time before meeting Paula Wallace to talk to Bailey Fairstein’s mother.”

  * * *

  Pilar Fairstein and her daughter Bailey lived in the exclusive Richardson Bay neighborhood near the Mill Valley–Corte Madera border. David’s research hadn’t yielded much: Pilar was a widow, came from old money, and was not employed. She volunteered extensively for nonprofit charities as well as serving on two boards, one for an art museum and the other for a theater company.

  Max had been raised with people like Pilar Fairstein. They came in two varieties: snobs or true philanthropists. Max had both in her family. Her great-grandmother Genevieve “Genie” Sterling who’d founded the trust was a true philanthropist. She had believed in giving back to her community in every way possible. She established multiple full college scholarships at her alma mater for smart kids who couldn’t afford higher education. She bought art, donated it to museums, and never said an unkind word about anyone.

  Then there were snobs, like Max’s Uncle Brooks, who used his wealth to control people and put himself above everyone else. And there were those who fell in between, like her grandmother Eleanor. Eleanor was judgmental—Max came by her attitudes honestly, she thought wryly—but she believed wholly in charity, both volunteering and donating. She was a true philanthropist as well as a snob.

  Where did Pilar Fairstein fall in the spectrum?

  It was nine A.M. Bailey would already be in school, so there should be no reason for Pilar Fairstein to avoid Max. There were no gates on the property. The house was smaller than the neighboring homes, but set farther back on the property with a sweeping lawn lined with manicured bushes, flower beds, and short, leafy trees. Some people might think the Fairsteins’ home was less impressive than their neighbors’, but their wealth and taste showed in subtle touches—double-paned windows, landscaping, and stone pathways. There was no opulence, but each detail was exquisite.

  David parked on the street and followed Max to the door. Max rang the bell and wasn’t surprised when Pilar Fairstein answered.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m Maxine Revere, an investigative reporter from NET. This is my associate, David Kane. I called and left several messages over the last two days, and was hoping you had a few minutes to talk.”

  If Fairstein hadn’t recognized Max, she certainly recognized her name. Yet she remained perfectly poised. “Ms. Revere,” she said. “I really don’t know what I can tell you about Ivy Lake. My daughter was no longer friends with her when the poor girl died.”

  “I’m aware, and I would still like to speak with Bailey. However, I thought maybe we should talk first so you know why I’m in town and what I hope to learn from your daughter.”

  Fairstein hesitated, then opened the door fully. “Come in, please.” She waited until they both entered, then closed t
he door behind them.

  “Your home is beautiful, Mrs. Fairstein,” Max said. The decor was a combination of old and new, antiques tastefully blended with modern furniture. Old money was quiet.

  “Please call me Pilar. I’ll admit, I recognized your name when you called. I know your aunt, Delia Sterling. We served together on the board of the De Jong Museum for many years; a lovely woman. She mentioned your work on several occasions, and always with great pride and admiration.”

  “Thank you,” Max said, feeling pleased. Her great-aunt Delia was her favorite. She and Uncle Archer, Eleanor’s only brother, had been married for fifty-eight years. Archer and Delia were more down-to-earth than Eleanor, and Max had enjoyed spending time with them. While they’d always gotten along well—unlike Max and her other relatives—she was nonetheless surprised her aunt had spoken of her to anyone. Max had left when she was nineteen and rarely returned home. “Aunt Delia is amazing. She’s in her eighties and hasn’t slowed down. She has a great appreciation of art.”

  “A genuine love,” Pilar agreed. “Please, we’ll sit in the library.”

  The library was through double doors off the foyer. Built-in bookshelves filled with books both new and old, a stately wood desk, and two full couches facing each other. A fireplace was a focal point. Three tall, rounded windows looked out onto the bay, shielded by a wall of fog.

  “I appreciate you speaking with us,” Max said.

  “May I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

  Even though Bailey’s mother was nervous—evident by the way she kept tucking her short hair behind her ear with long, elegant fingers—she never forgot her manners.

  Max liked her.

  “No, thank you,” Max said, motioning Pilar to sit. They sat in high-backed chairs around a small, low table.

  “I’d really hoped we had put the last two years behind us,” Bailey’s mother said, “but I suppose in the back of my mind I knew it wasn’t resolved.”

  Max glanced around the room. She could be comfortable here. It was formal, but not overly so; not too large or too small. A wedding portrait hung on one wall, Pilar with an attractive man in a formal air force uniform; on the other side of the double doors was a portrait of the same man in uniform.

  David asked, “Your husband served in the air force?”

  She smiled, but her eyes didn’t. “Jonathan. Yes, he was an officer. His plane was shot down in the Middle East when Bailey was only six. We were living in Germany then, near the American base, but moved back here to be closer to family. Jonathan and I are both from the area and my parents live nearby.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” David said.

  “It’ll be eleven years in February.” She smiled sadly, then shook her head as if to clear the memories. “Please, tell me why you think Bailey can help you with your report.”

  “I primarily investigate cold cases—missing persons and murder victims where the police have exhausted all leads. I want to talk to Bailey because I think she knew Ivy better than anyone else. Even though the two had a falling-out, I think Bailey’s insight would be extremely helpful.”

  Pilar took her time before speaking. “Bailey and Ivy used to be the closest of friends, but I put an end to it when I saw what Ivy was doing.” She hesitated. “I should say, I attempted to put an end to their friendship, but Bailey snuck around behind my back. And with cell phones and computers and school—I couldn’t monitor her every minute of the day.”

  “Why did you object to their friendship?”

  “Ivy is dead, Ms. Revere. I don’t see what saying anything about this will do to help you.”

  “Call me Max, please. I’m not looking to point fingers or blame Ivy for her fate. I want to know what happened to her for her family.”

  “Bailey has turned her life around. She was never a bad kid. But she had her moments … some lapses in judgment … that many young teens have. She’s now a senior, and a good student. She plays volleyball, helps me around here. She’s in the middle of applying for college. I don’t want to upset Bailey in any way or overturn her life.”

  “I appreciate that,” Max said, “but someone killed Ivy. And based on Ivy’s life leading up to her murder, it’s likely that someone who knew Ivy lured her to the preserve and killed her.”

  Pilar straightened her spine. “You’re not accusing my daughter.”

  “No,” Max said. “She was out of town that week.”

  “I see. And if Bailey had been here, you would have suspected her.”

  “So would the police.”

  “Bailey was at art school in San Diego for the entire month of July. I flew down there with her on June twenty-eighth, and she flew home by herself on July thirty-first,” Pilar said. “She came for Ivy’s funeral, just for one night. We were in shock, I suppose. Things like this don’t happen in Corte Madera. Ivy had problems, but she was only sixteen. She had her entire life—” Pilar took a deep breath, shook her head. “I can’t help but think about what Paula must be suffering. I spoke to her a few times after the funeral…” her voice trailed off, then she cleared her throat. “I can’t even think about losing Bailey—she’s my entire life. She’s all I have left of Jonathan.”

  Everything about Pilar felt authentic, reserved, and honest. So Max responded in kind. “I want to talk to Bailey about the people in Ivy’s life. Particularly about Heather Brock.”

  Pilar tensed.

  Max said, “Based on the time frame of Ivy and Bailey’s falling-out, I guessed that it had to do with Heather Brock.”

  “Partly.”

  Pilar was on the fence. Max let her sit in silence for a minute then said, “Nothing disappears from the Internet, Mrs. Fairstein. David and I have read Ivy’s blog, her social media posts, seen the embarrassing photos. One of the last things Ivy did before she died was send out a message on Twitter, not directed to a specific person, but it was clear she was talking about someone. I’m hoping that Bailey can help figure this out.”

  Pilar glanced at David, then looked at Max. Her hands were clasped in her lap. “After Heather died, Bailey came to me. She was depressed and upset, and she told me everything. She held nothing back—some of what she said was deeply shocking.

  “I’d tried to put an end to their friendship for several reasons, but the impetus had been a series of photos and e-mails I’d found on Bailey’s phone. Here Ivy was outlining a detailed plan on how to ‘get back’ at Heather for stealing Bailey’s boyfriend, Christopher. I was … in denial, I suppose you could say, until I saw the evidence. The plan was laid out meticulously, down to the time to post the photos and how Ivy would use a fake account to send revealing photos of Heather to her father. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how Ivy obtained the pictures in the first place. They appeared to have come from a Webcam on a computer.

  “When I confronted her, Bailey told me initially that it was just talk, but I had seen the evidence. It was a deliberate campaign to hurt that poor girl. I tried to reason with Bailey, to punish her, and ultimately I forbade her to see Ivy. When Heather killed herself, Bailey confessed everything. She said she’d helped plan with Ivy to hurt Heather, but then she told Ivy she didn’t want to go through with it. I’d apparently said something that she thought a lot about, and she wanted to end the vicious campaign. That made Ivy very angry with Bailey, and I don’t know specifically what was said, but that caused the final rift between them. Bailey thought Ivy wasn’t going to post about Heather because they’d had this falling-out—Bailey assumed that Ivy wouldn’t care about punishing the girl who allegedly stole Bailey’s boyfriend. Bailey didn’t warn anyone or say anything. My girl—she’s felt guilty every day since Heather killed herself. On her own, without me saying anything, Bailey gave the e-mails between her and Ivy to the Brock family so they could have evidence of Ivy’s premeditation to hurt their daughter. Bailey agreed to testify for them. She gave a deposition for the lawsuit. It wasn’t about the money for them,” Pilar added quickly. “I know Miriam Brock throu
gh charity work. They don’t need or want money from their daughter’s death. It was the principle. They grieved. I understand grief. I was gutted when my husband died. I can only imagine it’s as bad—worse—when it’s your child. They grieved and wanted Ivy to admit to what she did and stop her from hurting anyone else.”

  “The lawsuit went away after Ivy’s death,” Max said.

  Pilar nodded. “I don’t know the details, of course, but I heard that Miriam didn’t want to pursue it after that. Her husband wasn’t as forgiving, but he deferred to his wife.”

  So Pilar didn’t know there was a settlement. Was it a secret? An agreement between the two parties? Max wished she knew exactly what was settled.

  “I have a copy of the civil suit and read the e-mails in question, though Bailey’s name was redacted,” Max said. “The police seriously looked at Justin Brock, Heather’s brother, as a suspect in Ivy’s murder, but there was no proof.”

  “Poor family. I hope he had nothing to do with it.”

  “I think your daughter knows more about what was going on in Ivy’s life, or would be able to help dechiper some of the subtext of her blogs and posts.”

  “She hasn’t lied to me since that time. It took us a while, but we have a good relationship. She’s earned my trust. This has been a very hard, very brutal life lesson for her. Rehashing this with you—with anyone—would be devastating for her.”

  “I didn’t say that she had lied, I believe Bailey might know more without realizing it. I want to ask her questions—different than what the police asked. Questions about why Ivy did what she did. Why she wanted to hurt Heather, even though it was Bailey’s boyfriend and Bailey wanted to back out.”

  Pilar nodded. “I see what you mean.”

  When she didn’t say anything further, Max added, “Pilar, someone killed Ivy. A peer. Very likely it’s someone that Bailey knows. That person may feel they did something right, something justified—and will they stop there? Others could be in danger.”

  Pilar was torn. Max saw it in her expression.

  “I don’t know,” Pilar said, “but I’ll talk to Bailey when she gets home from school. I don’t want this situation haunting her for the rest of her life. If Bailey wants to talk to you, I will allow it. But it must be off the record. She can give you information, share what she knows, but you will not write about it. You will not quote her. You will not use her name. She’s seventeen years old, and when she’s eighteen, if she wants to go on record, that is her choice. But for the next seven months, it’s mine.”