Poisonous

by Allison Brennan

  “Your future brother-in-law has made it his life’s mission to prove that Ivy’s death was accidental.”

  It took Justin a half a minute to calm down and switch gears. He shrugged and leaned back in the chair. “Lance is Lance,” he said. “He thinks the police were pressured to rule that Ivy’s cause of death was inconclusive, because the Wallaces want someone to blame. I honestly don’t care. I don’t have any problem with what the police did—they interrogated me, I told the truth, end of story. I get that they had to talk to me—I’d had a confrontation with Ivy in public. But I didn’t kill her, accidentally or on purpose.”

  “Forensically, Ivy’s death is a homicide. There’s proof that she was pushed off that cliff.”

  “Lance sent me several scientific reports that state it’s virtually impossible to determine whether a person jumped, fell, or was pushed.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to determine, sometimes it’s conclusive, and sometimes forensics can prove what happened.”

  “Like I said before, who wouldn’t want her dead?”

  Max looked him in the eye. “Maybe Lance is pushing the accident theory because he’s trying to protect you.”

  Justin stared at her blankly. As the realization of what she meant came clear, he swore under his breath. “Lance warned me about you, that you’re a shark reporter from New York City who will do or say anything to get a story.”

  Max tensed. “Lance is a liar. He lied to me, he lied to the police, and he printed erroneous information in the newspaper that I could sue him for if I were so inclined. As it is, I’ll be satisfied when he’s fired.”

  Justin frowned, but didn’t say anything.

  “You said you had an argument with your girlfriend and went home alone the night of July third.”

  “I don’t have to talk to you about this. I gave my statement to the police.”

  “I believe you didn’t kill Ivy.”

  He looked confused. “Then why are you even talking to me?”

  “Because right now you’re the only one I’m reasonably confident did not kill her. Your statement to the police was that you were with your girlfriend all evening until just before midnight when you had an argument. You didn’t elaborate on what the argument was about, but it was serious enough that you left her place and went home. It couldn’t have been too serious, because you’re now engaged to Laura, but at the time it gave you a weak alibi because the police believed that Ivy was killed between one and two in the morning of July fourth. However, they now know she was killed closer to eleven on July third. Someone posted as her on social media at one ten. Which means that they were either covering their tracks, or they were trying to cast blame elsewhere.”

  Justin let everything she said sink in. Then his curiosity got the better of him, and he asked, “Then what the hell do you want from me? You tried to talk to my parents, you scared my fiancée, why me? Why us?”

  “You told Detective Martin that in the bookstore you saw Ivy and saw red, that you went up to her and told her she would pay for what she’d done. A threat. You had no alibi for the original TOD before the new forensics report. Who else was in that bookstore? Who else could have heard your threat?”

  He opened his mouth, and then closed it. “You think that someone intentionally set me up?”

  She nodded, watching him closely. Justin Brock was angry, he was grieving, but he had an inner restraint and solid sense of right and wrong. She could see him confronting Ivy in the bookstore like he had, but not luring her to the preserve and pushing her off a cliff.

  “We were standing outside the bookstore,” he said, after thinking for a moment. “There are several shops in the area, it’s a small mall. And Ivy wasn’t alone. She had some people with her, but no one I recognized.”

  “Some people? Boys? Girls? Peers?”

  “A couple of girls, I didn’t know them. Why would anyone want to frame me?”

  “Convenience? I really don’t know for certain. Maybe the killer heard your threat and determined that if Ivy showed up dead, you would be the primary suspect. There was no evidence against you, other than your threat to Ivy—and your motive, of course, to avenge your sister’s own death. There was no evidence against Travis, except that he and Ivy had a confrontation the week before because she posted a doctored photo of him.”

  “According to Ivy, she only posted the truth,” Justin snapped.

  She only posted the truth.

  Ivy didn’t know that photo was doctored. She really believed Travis was smoking pot and she exposed him because she was angry with him. Either because he dumped her or because he was with another girl.

  Who altered that photo? Who’d sent it to Ivy?

  “In the civil lawsuit, your parents identified a witness who would testify that Ivy intentionally sought to hurt Heather. I now know that the witness was Bailey Fairstein.”

  “I can’t discuss that.”

  “The initial civil suit is public information. I spoke with Pilar Fairstein and Bailey and they confirmed that Bailey went to your parents after Heather killed herself. Bailey indicated that she had been privy to Ivy’s plan because she felt that Heather moved in on her boyfriend. Here’s where I’m stuck. What Ivy did to Heather went far beyond the slight that Bailey spoke of. Meaning, what Heather did in eighth grade seems to pale in comparison to the intensity of Ivy’s response over the next two years. Are you aware of anything else that transpired between these two girls—both of whom are now dead?”

  “I can’t even imagine how anyone could do what Ivy did. It went beyond being catty and gossipy.”

  He was right about that.

  He continued. “I thought after Heather changed schools it would get better, but it didn’t. In some ways it was worse because Heather thought it would get better. She lost weight, she grew depressed, and then the video that Ivy posted—we didn’t know about it until after Heather killed herself, but it was the reason, I’m certain of it.”

  “Which brings me to another question: who recorded the video?”

  “I wish I knew. If it wasn’t Ivy, that person is just as guilty as she was.”

  “Did your family try to track down any other victims of Ivy’s abuse? In the civil suit, you’d indicated that you would bring additional witnesses and victims of Ivy’s cyberbullying to support your case. But because of the settlement, none of those names were listed.”

  “I honestly don’t know who.”

  “Would your parents?”

  “Please don’t.” He rubbed his eyes. “They hired a private investigator, but I don’t know how far he got before the settlement.”

  “Did you watch the ‘Crime NET’ segment last night?”

  “No.”

  “You should.”

  “I told you, I don’t care about Ivy, I don’t care who killed her, I just want … hell, I don’t know.”

  “Maybe if you watch, you’ll understand what I’m trying to do.” When Justin didn’t respond, Max said, “I’d like to see the investigator’s report.”

  “I don’t know that we can share it—the terms of the settlement were very strict. The Wallaces paid a lot of money to keep that information private.”

  “Legally, if his report was never part of the civil suit to begin with, it wouldn’t be covered under the settlement.” Max had no idea if it was true—but it sounded good.

  He hesitated. “I’ll call my dad. It’s the best I can do at this point. It’s up to him. And all I ask is that you respect his decision.”

  She agreed. It was the best she was going to get.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Driving back to Sausalito, Max used the rental car’s Bluetooth system to talk to her staff and follow up with David on the calls the ‘Crime NET’ hotline received the night before. He had one in particular that he wanted her to listen to. She had just merged onto the Golden Gate Bridge when Detective Grace Martin called.

  “Are you back?”

  “Almost. What happened?”

>   “Travis Whitman is missing. The last time anyone saw him was yesterday morning. He left the house early to go running with a friend.”

  “And?”

  “We talked to the kid, who said he had no plans to go running with Travis. Travis’s phone is missing and it’s off—we haven’t been able to track the GPS. We put an APB out on his car. He didn’t show up at school, but no one was suspicious until last night when he didn’t come home. His father called this morning—they had a late night, and he had a message from the coach that Travis wasn’t at practice or at school, wanted to make sure he wasn’t sick.”

  “Did he bolt? I looked for him yesterday morning—but didn’t find him. I wanted to get him on camera.”

  “If he reaches out to you, contact me immediately.”

  Max hung up and only a few minutes later arrived at the Madrona. David had brunch waiting for her in her suite where he was working. “How’d you know I was starving?” she asked.

  “When you’re hungry, you’re even crabbier than usual.”

  She picked up a croissant and took a bite, then poured coffee. She told him about Travis Whitman.

  “Maybe he got scared something would come out on the show,” David said.

  “Why leave before it was even cut? It makes no sense.” She shook her head. “There’s nothing I can do about him now. Let me listen to the call you flagged. And did you follow up with the neighbor of the Wallaces?”

  An elderly neighbor of the Wallaces had called the hotline and insisted on talking only to Max.

  “I set up a time this afternoon to talk,” David said. “I don’t know what she knows—she was emphatic that she wanted to talk to the ‘no-nonsense redhead in charge.’”

  “I like that—no-nonsense. It’s way better than bitch.”

  David cracked a smile as he cued up the flagged call on his laptop. “Nothing else panned out, but New York is still weeding through calls. We had over a hundred—most were worthless—and a few more are coming in today.”

  “Hang ups?”

  “Yes, they’re running a report for you.”

  Max’s ex Marco Lopez had told her about a case years ago where the killer had made contact through an anonymous tip line the FBI had running on one of Marco’s cases. He called and hung up three times, each time staying on the phone a little longer, listening to what the operator was saying. By the time the fourth call came in, the operator had alerted Marco and he picked up the call and talked to the guy. At first, the guy said nothing, but Marco kept speaking. Eventually, the caller gloated about the murder, revealing details that hadn’t been released to the public, thinking that the police couldn’t track him. He didn’t realize that an anonymous tip line wasn’t truly anonymous—that the 800 number logged each caller’s number. The killer had called from his cubicle at work. Because of Marco’s case, Max always wanted a hang-up list.

  “This call came in twenty minutes after the West Coast show aired,” David said. “From San Rafael.”

  “Crime NET hotline, this is John Rutgers,” the operator answered on the recording. On Thursday nights—the first airing of “Crime NET”—most of the operators who answered the hotline were retired law enforcement or trained counselors. The hotline received 90 percent of their calls within four hours of the first broadcast.

  Max knew John well. He was sixty-two, a retired beat cop from the Bronx. He and Max didn’t get along—he despised any and all reporters. Why he came in every Thursday to man the phones, Max didn’t know—it couldn’t be for the modest stipend the show paid—but he was one of the best they had. Every time she asked him anything about his career or his personal life, he’d only glare at her and stomp away. Ben told her to leave it alone, but being naturally curious, she couldn’t. Max would get him to talk to her. Eventually, everyone did.

  A female voice on the other end said something indistinct.

  “Ma’am?” John said. “I didn’t hear that.”

  “Is Maxine Revere there?” The voice was youthful—not a child, but a teenager or maybe a college student.

  “I’m helping Ms. Revere answer the phones tonight. How can I help you?”

  Silence.

  John asked, “Are you calling about the ‘Crime NET’ show that just aired?”

  “Yes,” the girl’s voice whispered.

  “Would you like to tell me your name?”

  In person, John was huge—six feet four, two hundred twenty pounds. But on the phone he didn’t sound scary. He sounded like a kind but firm grandfather.

  “Do I have to?”

  “No, you don’t. What would you like to tell Ms. Revere?”

  “I really wanted to talk to her.”

  “I understand. I might be able to make that happen. I work with Ms. Revere and I can get her a message, and she may call you back. But she’ll want to know what you want to talk about.”

  He was good. That’s exactly what Max wanted the operators to say. No promises that she would call, but the assurance that it was a possibility. The more information the operator could elicit from the caller, the more efficiently they could separate the wheat from the chaff.

  “I—I knew Ivy.”

  “How did you know her?”

  “School.”

  “You were in her class?”

  “No, she was a year older than me. And it was a long time ago.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I changed schools. I had to.”

  “Why did you have to change schools?”

  After a pause, the girl said, “Can you just tell Ms. Revere that I think whoever killed Ivy sent me a letter?”

  John’s voice took on a cop edge. “Do you know who killed Ivy?”

  “No!” Too quickly? Or fast because she was surprised at the question? Or because she expected the question? “But—never mind. I’m reading too much into this. I just—”

  “Honey,” John said, his voice soft, “you called for a reason. Even if you don’t think it’s important, you must have a reason to think that Ivy’s killer reached out to you. Do you believe that you’re in danger?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. I think—it was just—nothing. I’m reading too much into it. My dad says I overthink everything. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

  “You won’t get anyone in trouble.” Smartly, John changed the subject. It was easier to get someone to talk if you made them comfortable. “You said you knew Ivy in school. When was that?”

  “When she moved to Marin. It was the middle of the year. She was a grade older than us.”

  “Were you friends?”

  “No, no—she didn’t like me. I stayed away from her. But—” She stopped.

  “But what?”

  “Look, I’m sorry I called. I shouldn’t have. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s stupid. I’m stupid. I gotta go.”

  Click.

  Max jumped up. “Do we have her number?”

  “Yes. It belongs to Stephen Cross in San Rafael.”

  “A parent?”

  “Good guess. He has two daughters, Madison and Kristin. Single dad, wife died ten years ago.”

  “Is that when they moved?”

  “I went through property records and Stephen and Anne Cross were married in San Francisco twenty-two years ago. They bought a house in Larkspur nineteen years ago. According to Anne’s obituary, ten years ago her daughters were six and five.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Car accident. Weather related—fog. Her daughters were in the car at the time, both in car seats in the back, and survived. Mom didn’t.”

  What a tragedy. Were the girls too young to remember? Max remembered quite a bit from when she was five and six. Not everything, but sometimes she wished she could forget what she did remember.

  “Madison or Kristen … one or both of them knew Ivy. When did they move to San Rafael?”

  “The summer before Ivy was killed,” David said. “At least, that’s when Stephen Cross purchased the house in S
an Rafael and sold his house in Larkspur.”

  Max strode over to her timeline. Ivy moved to Corte Madera nine years ago … that put her in fourth grade, as Bailey had said. Under that year, Max made a note: Cross. Then two years back from today—the summer before Ivy’s murder—she wrote Cross moved.

  The girl had said they had to move. Why? Family? Or Ivy?

  Heather Brock changed schools at the beginning of her sophomore year in an effort to stop the cyberbullying.

  Bailey Fairstein changed schools after Heather’s suicide to get away from Ivy and her shenanigans.

  Rick Colangelo moved out of state after he was outed by Ivy.

  Max turned to David. “Did you ever talk to Colangelo?”

  David nodded. “Spoke to him last night. Straightforward. Rick and Travis had been friends since early childhood, and Travis was one of the few people who knew that Rick was bisexual. Rick was blunt—he said he’d experimented as a freshman, started liking guys. Travis picked up on it, said he’d keep it secret.”

  “This is twenty-first-century California. You’d think being gay or straight wouldn’t be a big deal to most people.”

  David shook his head. “It’s a double standard, Max. Gay athletes usually keep quiet. Same with the military. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Sometimes it’s better that way. It’s not perfect but, dammit, we just want to do the job and not have our personal shit get in the way.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I understood where Rick was coming from. He was furious with Travis because he’d betrayed that trust by outing him to the school’s biggest gossip—his words. When Ivy posted the information, he said most people were cool, but a few big mouths created problems for him. He wanted a clean start so went to live with his grandparents. Seems to have his life in order. A hell of a lot better order than I did as a high school senior. He visited his parents this summer and Travis reached out. Rick said he forgave him, but had no desire to be friends again. He hasn’t spoken to Travis since.”