She needed to talk to Dru again. But not tonight.
Max signed the check and went upstairs to change into her swimsuit. She needed to decompress. Her muscles were already so sore she could hardly walk up the stairs; the spa would work wonders to loosen her up and help her sleep.
She changed into her blue one-piece suit, pulled on a hotel robe, and grabbed a towel. She swung by the bar for another glass of wine, this one in a plastic cup for the pool, and went outside. The night had cooled off substantially and steam rose from the spa. There was a couple enjoying the warmth but Max had no problem slipping in and relaxing. She said a polite hello, then closed her eyes and put her head back. A few minutes later she heard the couple leave, and then she put her feet up on the seat. The cold wine went down beautifully and for a few blissful minutes, her mind was completely clear.
Then her thoughts drifted back to Lindy’s murder and the key she’d found in Kevin’s apartment. Jason Hoffman’s case was far from closed, but she’d handed everything over to the police. Though she still had some questions—that she hoped Dru could answer—she didn’t have another angle to follow. And while the pot farm had been a big distraction, Lindy and Kevin hadn’t been far from her mind.
Though Kimberly Ames had kept Max from talking with Gerald Ames on Saturday, she wouldn’t be at Gerald’s office tomorrow morning. Max would ask him point-blank whether he’d left the message for her at her hotel. And then, depending on the answer, she’d ask for his blessing. Lindy had problems with her parents—what teenager didn’t?—but she’d truly loved her father, and Max wanted to give him peace of mind.
She considered her motivations. Was it Gerald Ames she cared about or herself? Did she need to know, regardless of who else wanted the truth? Would she continue pursuing answers even if Lindy’s father wanted her to stop?
She wouldn’t know until she asked him.
Max heard someone approach and opened one eye to find Nick Santini standing over her. She smiled; he frowned.
“Detective,” she said.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
She closed her eyes again. “You can go,” she said.
“Not until you explain yourself. Risking your life for a damn story?”
She sighed. “I’m trying to relax. Don’t yell at me.”
A chair scrapped along the tiles and Nick sat down. He said in a low voice, “You could have gotten yourself killed.”
“You’re a cop. It’s part of your job.”
“You’re not a cop.”
“Until I took the host position with “Maximum Exposure,” I was an undercover investigative reporter. I sometimes got into scrapes that were hard to get out of, but aside from a broken arm a few years back, and the occasional bumps and bruises, I’ve been fine. Going out to Cross’s place on Phleger Road brought back all the reasons why I love my job. Besides, no cop could have gone where I did without a warrant.”
“There’s a reason for the rules.”
“And there’s a reason to break them.” She opened her eyes again. Nick sat close to the edge and she had an overwhelming urge to pull him into the spa with her. After last night’s kiss, she wanted more.
But he still looked angry.
“You talked to a suspect.”
“Dru? She would have lawyered up if you went in all hard-nosed cop on her. I got what you needed, and she’s cooperating. You’re welcome.”
“You think you’re some catalyst for truth, justice, and the American way?”
“I’d use the slogan, but that would be plagiarism.”
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you? It takes time to build a case. We had to arrest them because of what you found, but now they’ve called their lawyers, I have no proof that either of them killed Jason Hoffman, and if the DA or the U.S. attorney—because hell, right now there’s such a big jurisdictional fight that I don’t know if I’ll even get to talk to any of them again—cut some fucking deal, there goes any closure for the Hoffman family.”
“Rebecca Cross stabbed Dru. I saw her damaged car.”
“Her car was definitely in the parking lot. We have it on surveillance. But we don’t have her on tape. The angle is wrong. And she’s not talking, not one word. Neither is Potrero. The only thing Potrero said when I put Jason Hoffman’s murder on the table was that he didn’t kill Hoffman, didn’t even know him.”
“You believe him?”
“Potrero is an ass, and he’s definitely capable of killing someone. Possession with intent to sell is a far lesser charge than murder and attempted murder. We’ll see.”
“Cross?”
“Cold. We now have to build a rock-solid case.” He ran his hands over his face. “I don’t think you understand the position you put us all in today.”
“I got you proof of their operation.”
“They’re going to make bail. We just found out about the drug operation—usually, we work for weeks, sometimes months, to build a case to turn over to the district attorney. We don’t have that kind of time now—we have to show our cards and build the case after the fact. That makes it harder on everyone, and we’re going to miss things. Some damn lawyer will get them off on some fucking technicality and that’s all on you. It’s out of my hands now. The FBI and DEA are taking it over.”
“And that’s why you’re mad.”
“I couldn’t care less if the feds take over the drug charges. But one of our suspects may have killed Jason Hoffman. I had my shot today and that’s it. The feds know it’s a concern, but they’re not going to care like I do. I want Jason’s killer to go to prison for the rest of his—or her—life. And now—I just don’t think I can do that.”
“I’m sorry,” Max said.
Nick stared at her. “You don’t seem to be the type of woman to say she’s sorry about anything.”
“I’m usually not. But I understand how important it is to you to see justice done.”
“You’re a piece of work, Revere. You can relax there in your hot, bubbling water and lie to me. You’re not sorry. Not at all.”
Through clenched teeth she said, “Don’t tell me what I am.”
“I know what you are. You’re a ruthless, reckless, story-chasing reporter who doesn’t care whether she screws a major case, as long as you get the byline. Or the face time. But you’re good.”
“Yes, I am.” She was on the defensive, but she wasn’t going to let him see it.
He smiled, but it was cold. He rose from the chair and towered over her.
“You had me sucked in. Yesterday, I was willing to work with you. I saw something in you Saturday night…” His voice trailed off and then he shook his head. “What was I thinking? I know better than to trust a reporter. Especially one like you.”
He started to walk away. Then he turned back and said, “If Jason Hoffman’s killer goes free, it’s on you. Tell that to your viewers.”
Max watched Nick leave, seething. He had no idea who she was or why she chose this life. Did he think she was a reporter for the fun and glamour? Hardly. It was damn hard work, often unrewarding. But when her efforts paid off and the truth was set free, all the disappointments disappeared.
She wasn’t going to explain herself to someone who had already judged her.
Max closed her eyes and leaned back into the hot water, but the tension had returned and turning into a human prune wasn’t going to fix anything.
It would have been a hell of a lot easier to accept Nick’s tirade if she didn’t already like Detective Santini.
Chapter Seventeen
Lindy’s father, Gerald Ames, was a businessman with an office in Silicon Valley. When they were kids, neither Lindy nor Max really knew what Gerald did for a living or how he made his money, but he went to the office every day and he brought home a substantial income. Now Max understood that he was the business end for a major computer software company and traveled all over the world brokering agreements with countries and corporations. But it was really his sto
cks, investments, and shares in the company that gave him his sizable wealth.
Max knew that Mr. Ames would never agree to meet with her, especially in light of her confrontation with Kimberly on Saturday night. She didn’t particularly want to be tossed from his office building by security. She couldn’t access the secure employee parking lot with her car, but walking in proved to be easy. There she stood under one of the cameras near the elevator and hoped she wasn’t visible at the guard station. Considering no one came and arrested her the ten minutes she waited, she was in the clear. It helped that she’d dressed like a businesswoman—she’d bought the suit the night before at Macy’s. The fight with Nick Santini had put her in a rotten mood; an evening shopping spree perked her right back up.
It was amazing what new clothes and shoes did for her attitude.
Mr. Ames’s cherry red convertible BMW pulled into his assigned parking place a few spaces away from Max.
He looked far older than he had at Kevin’s trial, which was the last time Max had seen him in person. He didn’t recognize her until he was only a few feet away.
“Maxine,” he said in surprise.
“Hello, Mr. Ames. May I have a moment of your time?”
“I’m not going to talk to you.”
“But you can threaten me?”
He gave her a look of such shock that she knew immediately that he wasn’t the person behind the threatening phone call over the weekend.
“I’ve never threatened you, Maxine. You and Lindy were friends, and I dismissed your loyalty to the boy who killed her as youth and inexperience. I forgive you, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“I’m not.” But it felt surprising good to know he didn’t harbor resentment. Or so he said. “I think we’ve both been used, Mr. Ames.”
Mr. Ames sighed. “Because Lindy always admired you, I will give you ten minutes. But that’s it. And nothing I say can be used directly or indirectly in the media.”
“I’m not doing a story,” she said. She would have said more, but she was stunned with his belief that Lindy somehow looked up to her. Yes, they’d been friends, but Lindy never looked up to anyone. In her eyes, no one was better than she was. It wasn’t just narcissism that had made Lindy so arrogant; it was the people who’d disappointed her.
As Max once told her, if she looked for secrets, she would find them, and they couldn’t be unfound.
The only person Lindy had ever truly loved and respected was her father.
They rode up the private elevator to the top floor of the twenty-story glass building. The silence was welcome; Max had to change gears now that she knew Mr. Ames wasn’t behind the phone call. She was also relieved that he seemed to want to talk about Lindy. Everywhere she went, it was always Kevin’s guilt or innocence that was debated, never Lindy’s final moments. Max didn’t even know the truth about her death because she still hadn’t received all the files from the Menlo Park PD or Kevin’s attorney. That was, in part, her fault because she’d spent yesterday following the lead in Jason Hoffman’s murder. Today would be different.
Mr. Ames told his secretary not to disturb him for the next ten minutes, then ushered Max into his office.
“Office” was an understatement. The room was larger than her New York apartment, in a corner, glass on two sides with a view of the San Francisco Bay. The Dumbarton Bridge was visible in the clear morning. The furniture was modern, leather and glass, but with warm accents of plush burgundy rugs and attractive classical art that Max suspected were either originals or damn good reproductions of originals that Mr. Ames owned but kept in a more secure location.
Though considering the security in this building, Max couldn’t imagine his house was more secure.
He motioned for her to sit on the couch. He put his briefcase on his desk, but came back to the grouping of couches and sat across from her.
“I’m sorry about Saturday night.”
He looked at her, perplexed.
“The police?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kimberly hadn’t told Mr. Ames that she’d visited.
“I’ll backtrack. On Saturday, I received a message that implied it was from you, essentially threatening me not to look into Lindy’s death.”
His face clouded almost imperceptibly. He was still grieving over the loss of his only daughter.
“I didn’t come back to investigate Lindy’s murder,” Max said. “But I have some questions that were never answered at the trial, and, simply, I need to know who killed her. I’m really sorry if you don’t want to know, but I feel like I have an obligation to clear Kevin O’Neal’s name, to find the truth, so everyone—your family, me, Kevin’s family, all our friends who’ve been divided over this for thirteen years—can finally put it to rest.”
He didn’t say anything for a long minute. He wasn’t even looking at her, and it wasn’t until later that Max realized he had been staring at a picture of Lindy on the bookshelf behind her.
“I never left a message for you, nor do I know of a message,” he said. “I don’t threaten people. Everyone, including the police, believed Kevin killed Lindy. Everyone but you.”
“I know.”
She wished she could read his mind, but Mr. Ames had a poker face. Sad, but still unreadable.
“I liked Kevin,” he said.
Max didn’t push or question. Mr. Ames had things he wanted to say, and maybe he’d never felt comfortable saying them before now.
“I’d always felt there were so many unanswered questions. Why? Jealousy? It seemed so … common.”
Perhaps, but jealousy—envy—was the root of so much evil in the world.
“If there’s a chance he didn’t … didn’t hurt my daughter, that means someone else did,” Mr. Ames said.
“Yes.” Max didn’t want to hurt Mr. Ames. But, if he told her to back off, could she? Would she? Was the truth more important than this man’s grief?
“I can’t give you my blessing,” he said, “but I’m not going to ask you to stop looking. I want to know what happened, even though I don’t want to relive the pain.” It was a conundrum faced by many survivors.
“Sir, if I may, you’re still in pain.”
He rose and walked around to his desk. “I don’t think you can possibly understand how I’ve suffered these thirteen years.” He sat down, putting physical distance between them, a way of self-protection and exerting his authority. “Jerry and Lindy are my children. Now Jerry is working for Doctors Without Borders in countries where he is in danger because he’s trying to help people, and I worry about him as much as I’m proud of him. And Lindy’s gone. My daughter. My princess. You can’t know.”
“You’re right.” Max left it at that. She’d been accused by many of not being able to understand grief. It was a defensive mechanism on their part, a way to separate themselves from others as well as to try and bring others closer, a way to say, You can’t understand, but I wish you could so you would know what I feel.
But Max did understand. She hadn’t lost a child, but she’d lost a mother to the void—a place where she just disappeared and Max didn’t know what happened to her, whether she was dead or alive. She’d lost her best friend Karen, whom she knew was dead. The blood and violence—but there was no closure. No body, no witness, no conviction. She’d lost Lindy, a friend she’d had for years, who’d pushed her away for no reason Max understood, only to end up dead and leaving Max in the position of defending the man accused of killing her.
She understood loss, violence, death, as much as anyone. But she wouldn’t say it, because Mr. Ames, or the other survivors she faced, wouldn’t believe that she knew how they felt.
“What do you want from me?”
“I already got it. I wanted to know if you’d threatened me.”
He tilted his head quizzically.
She didn’t answer his implied question. Instead, she got up and sat in the chair across from Mr. Ames. “I came to talk to you
at your house on Saturday before I went to visit my grandmother. Kimberly called the police, who told me to leave or they’d arrest me.”
Mr. Ames frowned. “I’m sorry about that. Kimberly thinks I need protecting.”
She wondered if Kimberly was protecting him from memories of Lindy, or from remembering her infidelity. Obviously, he’d forgiven his wife and they’d made their marriage work, unlike Max’s Aunt Joanne who’d walked out on Brooks. Maybe Kimberly had been telling the truth, and Brooks had been her only indiscretion. Unlike Brooks, who had repeatedly cheated on Joanne.
“Mr. Ames, Lindy’s murder affected everyone in Atherton. There were mistakes made by a lot of people.”
“Is this why you’re a crime reporter?”
He sounded genuinely interested, and Max found herself being completely honest. “No, it’s not. In fact, I wanted to get as far away from murder and police and lawyers because I thought the system was a failure and I wanted no part of it. But my senior year in college, my best friend disappeared in Miami while we were on spring break. There was extensive evidence that she’d been murdered, but there was no body, and the police had only circumstantial evidence against the person they thought responsible. I stayed in Miami for a year searching for proof and answers, and never got what I needed. I discovered I had a knack for writing, and wrote a book about what happened to Karen.”
She’d written the book from the journal she’d kept the year she lived in Miami investigating Karen’s disappearance and murder because the police couldn’t. Couldn’t because there was no solid evidence. Thinking about the journal she’d kept that year, she couldn’t help but remember Lindy’s diary, and the arguments she and her best friend had over the information Lindy wrote down.
“I have a meeting shortly,” Mr. Ames said, his eyes solemn. “If you want to talk to me, call my cell phone.” He handed her his private business card.
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