Everyone who’d seen Lindy the twenty-four hours before she’d been killed had been interviewed by the police thirteen years ago. Including Max and William and Andy.
Missing computer, missing files.
Could mean absolutely nothing. Could be a logical explanation.
Max walked through the rest of the apartment, looking through the cabinets and drawers. In Kevin’s sparse bedroom was a bed, dresser, and a bookshelf filled with mostly fantasy and science fiction, but also a shelf of nonfiction—history, biographies, and two of her true crime books. It felt odd to know that even though she hadn’t spoken to him, he still bought her books.
A tinge of regret scratched Max until she had to acknowledge, at least to herself, that she’d lost more than her faith in people when Kevin lied to her. She’d lost her best friend. Kevin made her laugh. He knew everything about her—about never hearing from her mom except through sporadic postcards—which stopped when she turned sixteen—about not knowing who her dad was, about feeling like she was being punished by her grandparents because of her mother’s failures and her own drive to find her father against their wishes. They didn’t have a problem with Max because she was born out of wedlock, but because she didn’t act like a Revere.
Ironically, scandal was part of being one of the privileged in Atherton. It was how one responded and behaved during the disgrace that meant one belonged, and Max never behaved the way she was supposed to. When she learned Uncle Brooks was having an affair, she called him on it. Apparently, that was a big no-no—especially considering she’d been fifteen at the time. But from the minute her mother left her with her grandparents shortly before her tenth birthday, she’d felt the disdain coming from William’s father. Now, with maturity and experience on her side, she accepted that it was because of something her mother had done that made Brooks take it out on her; then she’d just felt the animosity and had no idea how to address it, except through disobedience.
She turned her attention from Kevin’s books to his closet. It was cluttered, stacked with boxes of papers and clothes, and she realized she would likely need to go through the papers to find out if there was anything important and if the missing files had been boxed up. She would task Jodi with helping.
Max stood at the end of the bed and looked around, suddenly sad. Kevin had once had a future, as bright as any middle-class teenager. Better, really, because he had dreams unencumbered by family legacy or expectations—he’d wanted to work in genetics, the research end of medicine, to find cures for deadly childhood illnesses. His older sister had died of a rare genetic disorder when Kevin was six.
She’d stood by Kevin because the Kevin O’Neal she’d grown up with could not have raped anyone, nor strangled Lindy. In her gut, she knew he hadn’t done it. Which made lying about his alibi hard to understand. Though the police were certainly responsible for not pursuing other lines of inquiry, Kevin was just as responsible for not clearing himself immediately.
She looked back at Kevin’s bookshelf where her books were displayed on the bottom shelf, with his other nonfiction titles, in alphabetical order. He only had two.
Her eye skirted along the rest of the shelves and she noticed a familiar spine in the middle of Kevin’s complete Terry Brooks collection.
It was her first book.
She’d started the book as a journal when her college roommate Karen Richardson had disappeared during spring break, when they’d gone to Miami to have fun. Max had spent a year in Florida trying to find out what happened to Karen. That was when she’d met FBI Agent Marco Lopez, a new recruit eager to make a name for himself. But neither of them had found Karen’s killer. Or her body.
Or, rather, they knew who the killer was but couldn’t prove it. Ten years later, it was considered a cold case, even though it wasn’t cold. It was solved—without justice. It still angered Max when she dwelled on it. Writing the book had helped, but it hadn’t purged all her pain and rage at the injustice of that year.
She pulled the book from the shelf to put it with the other two, or maybe just to see it again, reminding her of who she’d been and who she was now. Kevin’s trial had set her on a path of doubt and distrust. Karen’s disappearance had given Max her calling.
An envelope was sticking out a mere quarter-inch, noticeable only now that she’d removed the book. She took it out. It was addressed to her, stamped and dated last December. That was when Kevin had e-mailed her asking for help in solving Lindy’s murder.
The seal had been broken. She took out a sheet of lined paper. A key fell to the carpet. She picked it up. It was unremarkable, a standard key, but there was a number on it—110. Another apartment? A storage unit?
She read the note.
Max—
I can only ask for forgiveness once. You rejected it, and I guess I understand. You’re still hurt and angry. I get that. And I understand that I should have, from the beginning, told the police I’d been with Olivia. At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing because I didn’t kill Lindy and there was no evidence that I did. I was so naïve about the system.
Even when you left, angry, you told me you believed me. For years, I tried to put it all behind me. I moved to San Francisco, but then I got into drugs and drank too much and nearly died. I finally woke up and knew what I had to do: find the truth.
I don’t know if I can do it alone. That’s why I e-mailed you. Maybe you’ll reconsider when you see what I found. Maybe you can find the truth about the night Lindy was killed. Don’t do it for me. Do it for Lindy. She loved you, just like I did.
—Kev
Kevin had written a P.S. in a different pen. The writing was sloppier, but it was still his scrawl.
P.S. Tell Jodi I’m sorry, but this is the only way. And Max—I’m really proud of you. I always thought you were amazing, but following your career, you proved it. I hope you’re happy.
The comment was passive-aggressive in a way that stabbed at Max’s heart. As if her happiness had led her to turn her back on Kevin. Forgiveness was hard for her, but more than that, she didn’t want to return to the past. Investigating Lindy’s death would be taking her back to a time she wanted to forget.
Behind the single sheet of paper was a copy of a parking ticket. It was dated the night Lindy had been killed, 11:28 P.M. It had been issued to a black Mercedes 320 SL, registered to Brooks Revere, Max’s uncle, two blocks from Lindy’s house.
Max remembered the car. William had driven it more than Brooks.
Why had he been at Lindy’s house the night she’d been killed?
The sound of a door closing made her jump.
“Mrs. Gonzales?” Max called out.
No answer, but something fell. Max rushed out of the bedroom as the apartment door slammed shut. Mail on the counter fluttered to the floor from the sudden air circulation. Max pursued the intruder.
She ran down the corridor in time to see a man in jeans and a dark windbreaker jump over the railing as he ran down the stairs, and then hightail it across the courtyard.
She kicked off her heels and ran after him, but he was faster and had a head start. She lost him before she got to the street.
Max looked up and down the street for a car, a person, anything that was out of place. But the street was quiet.
Mrs. Gonzales rushed out of her apartment as Max walked back toward Kevin’s unit. “What happened? I saw you running down the stairs. Is everything okay?”
“Someone came in Kevin’s apartment, but didn’t know I was there.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. He ran when he heard me.”
“I’ll call the police.”
Max didn’t stop her, but she knew what the police would do. She had no description beyond fast, white, and male. But she might as well get the intrusion on record. Maybe he’d been there before. Maybe he’d been the one to steal the laptop and the files.
Max reached into her pocket and pulled out the key to locker 110. No facility name, nothing to give Ma
x a clue as to where to go or what she’d find when she was there. But important enough for Kevin to hide.
Or maybe, he was after this.
Chapter Five
The Menlo Grill, attached to the Stanford Park Hotel, had always been one of Max’s favorite restaurants. It had a warm, relaxing, semiformal atmosphere without being ostentatious. Since her last visit two years ago they’d remodeled extensively, and she wasn’t sure she liked all the changes, but the menu looked good—she’d skipped lunch and was ready for an early dinner.
She asked for a table in the bar, pointing to a dark corner booth. Less likely anyone she knew would spot her there. She didn’t care if she was seen, but she was in no temperament for conversation. The cross-country flight had caught up with her, but she despised eating a meal in her hotel room. Along with the need to unpack her suitcases and make her temporary lodging a temporary home, not using room service was a rule she rarely broke.
She ordered the fish of the day, fresh trout, because she planned on making it an early night and didn’t want a heavy meal right before bed. She pulled out her iPad and folded the case so it angled toward her, and checked her e-mail while she ate.
She’d avoided Ben’s phone calls through the day, so she wasn’t surprised that he’d sent her a long message about how difficult it was to find a competent assistant, how difficult she was to work for, excuse after excuse. Then near the end he wrote: However, I agree with you about Ginger.
She laughed out loud, then covered her mouth.
I have an idea that might work, hope to have answers by Monday.
When will you be back in the city? We need to strategize on the Bachman trial, there’s a stack of documents up to my ass you need to review, and Gertrude Grant wants to interview you about your Ramirez article. Gert’s show has fantastic ratings to promote “Maximum Exposure” within our key demographic, and it’ll give you the opportunity to follow up on the case and file another article, plus I think it would make a good two-minute slot.
I can’t believe you went to fucking California when we’re up to our necks in work. You’ll be back on Monday?
Max loved Ben even though he drove her crazy. She supposed that was the role of a television producer, but if she hadn’t been friends with Ben since college, if they hadn’t grieved together over Karen’s death, she’d never have put up with him.
Likewise, she doubted he’d have tolerated her. They were oil and water, and not in the good, sexually combustible way, either.
She responded to his e-mail:
Don’t know when I’ll be back. We have three weeks before the Bachman trial, more than enough time to prepare.
I don’t know how many times I have to turn Gert down before you understand that I’ll never go on her show. In case you misunderstood my previous sentence, I will not go on Gert’s show. I do not like her. She’s a bitch. So am I. It’d be bloody if we’re on set together. And Gert ask me questions? Never going to happen.
However, I like the idea of a two-minute slot on Ramirez. I’ll write it up and we’ll shoot it as soon as I get back. Squeeze it into the May show.
That would irritate Ben. The May show was already cut and promo’d, he’d hate cutting in a two-minute “ministory,” but there was a timeliness factor he’d appreciate.
She thought a moment and sent another message:
On second thought, let’s do a live cut-in with an up-to-the-minute status on Ramirez, with a ninety-second historical overview. Also, I might have an article for the Web page on a cold case I discovered when I got here.
She sent it off and grinned. The waiter took her plate and brought a second glass of wine. Ben was going to flip, because it would be a lot more work and he couldn’t edit her, but it was a good idea. The last time they’d done a live cut-in, it had been featured on multiple news programs that night and the following day.
“Thinking about a friend … or a lover?”
She looked up, startled but not surprised to see Andy Talbot standing at her table. She was speechless, a rarity.
“May I? You are alone.”
“Good deduction.”
He sat, though Max hadn’t explicitly invited him.
The waiter came over immediately and asked Andy if he’d like a menu. Andy looked at Max, and she shook her head.
“Not dinner, then,” Andy said. “Glenlivet, neat.”
“Yes, Mr. Talbot.” The waiter glanced at Max. “Another pinot grigio, Ms. Revere?”
She shook her head. She still had nearly a full glass in front of her.
The waiter left, and Andy turned to her with a mock frown. “I’m hurt.”
“I’m tired. And I’m not big on surprises.”
“I should have called.” There was no apology in his tone and Max was as irritated by this as she was of the way he trailed his fingers up and down her arm. “You’re stunning, as usual.”
She put her hand on his and squeezed. “Andy, it’s always good to see you, but I truly am tired and I have a lot of work to do.”
“You’re here on business then.”
“You know why I’m here.” She lifted his hand off her arm and placed it on the table. Leaning back she sipped her wine. Being near Andy was always problematic. It wasn’t simply that he was attractive, like Paul Newman as Butch Cassidy if Butch wore a Caraceni suit. It was their history. The familiarity and chemistry, the love and hate. After Thea’s wedding, she’d ended up at Andy’s house and in his bed. That had been a mistake, just like the time before when she visited for William’s wedding. Andy had been her first boyfriend, her first lover, her first love. Being with him made her feel young and nervous when “nervous” wasn’t in her personality. Could she even admit that she still felt insecure with him? For someone like her, anyone who made her apprehensive was someone she tended to avoid.
Two years ago, Andy had sensed the same distance she had. They weren’t the same teenage lovers. They weren’t the same people. Max respected Andy—she even loved him in a way, since he’d been an important part of her life for so long. But she wasn’t in love with him, and had a hard time with forgiveness. Being back for Kevin’s funeral reminded her that she and Andy had split because of Kevin: Max believed he was innocent, Andy believed he was guilty. There was no middle ground. But that fundamental disagreement was only a symptom of why they wouldn’t have worked for the long haul.
The waiter brought Andy’s drink. When he left, Andy said, “I’d offer you a penny for your thoughts, except you’ve always given them away for free.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Why are you here?”
“Why do you think I’m here?”
“I honestly don’t know. I’ll tell you what I told William when he came by earlier. Jodi O’Neal asked me to come to Kevin’s funeral. I had the time, so I came.”
He stared at her in that deep way he had, making her think he could read her mind when Max knew he’d never truly known what she was thinking. He said, “Jodi has made it clear to anyone who’d listen that she doesn’t think Kevin killed himself. You show up. You investigate crimes.”
Max held up her hand. “I’m not here because of my job.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Why do I think you’re interrogating me?”
She stared at Andy pointedly. Most people, including William, would glance away at her stern look. Not Andy. She’d never intimidated him, as a teenager or as an adult. She used to be able to read him well, but thirteen years was a long time. And if she were honest with herself, which she always tried to be, the few times she’d seen him since—the few times she’d slept with him—they’d each had a wall up, knowing they couldn’t go back to being eighteen.
Andy avoided her question by asking bluntly, “Do you think, like Jodi, that Kevin was murdered?”
“I’m not investigating his death.” She’d found his postscript akin to a suicide note. She could tell Andy that she believed it was suicide, but she didn’t want to explain why, to Andy or
anyone, until she had more information.
“Is that why you were at the police station this afternoon?”
“Who told you that?” But as Max answered with the question, she had a dozen more. Why did he care? What was he hiding? Why did he feel the need to confront her tonight, without warning?
Andy’s jaw was tight, and while he leaned back in the booth casually, his neck muscles were also tense. “Kevin’s doing it to us again.”
“Kevin’s dead.”
“It’s because of him that we broke up in the first place. And it’s because of him that we’re fighting now.”
She sighed, weary and in sore need of eight hours of sleep. “I’m not fighting with you, Andy. I was having a very pleasant working dinner. Alone. I’m in town for Kevin’s funeral. I’m gathering information for Jodi so she can move on with her life.” She hesitated, then added, “Kevin didn’t break us up. We were eighteen-year-old teenagers who had a fundamental difference of opinion. There’s no ‘agree to disagree’ when you have two hotheaded, young, passionate people who both are certain they are right.”
“And I guess we’ll never know,” Andy said.
“I know I was right. I never believed then or now that Kevin killed Lindy.”
“You’re still so positive. If not Kevin, then who?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’re here.”
“Not to find out who killed Lindy.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Max glared at him. He was essentially calling her a liar, a serious charge. “I’m talking and you’re not listening.”
“I’m looking at the evidence.”
“I’ll tell you the truth. I didn’t come here to investigate Lindy’s death. I didn’t come here to write about Kevin or his trial or the fact that the police never seriously looked at any other suspects. I came here for Jodi.”
Max stood, her anger building, and she needed to get out of the bar before she lost her temper.
“But,” she added, bending over the table, her face inches from Andy’s, “if I decide to stir the hornet’s nest, it’s certainly none of your business.”
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