Notorious

by Allison Brennan

  “But there is a connection between Jason and the grave, and the grave and Lindy.”

  “I don’t understand. Because they were killed in the same area?” Max knew she was missing something.

  “Your friend was killed thirteen years ago. The bones we found are between ten and fifteen years old. The lab will be able to pinpoint their age more accurately.”

  “You’re saying Lindy and the grave are connected.”

  “I think it’s something I need to follow up.” Nick put out his hand. Max hesitated, then took it. “Go to bed,” he told her.

  “Bossy.” But she was tired. “The hotel can call me every hour,” she said. “You don’t need to stay.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me? You made it perfectly clear last night that you don’t like me.”

  Nick stepped toward her. Now she recognized the expression on his face. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt like a teenager again, waiting for her first kiss.

  He leaned over and put his lips on hers. A light kiss. A kiss that was longer than friendly, but shorter than passion.

  It wasn’t enough for Max. Not after that kiss in the restaurant, when she knew what they both wanted.

  She took a step toward him, until her body was pressed against his, and she kissed him with the same intensity as he had the other night. He didn’t hesitate, but held her behind her neck, holding her in place, returning the same.

  This time, she stopped the kiss. She didn’t want to. Her heart urgently beat a call to finish what they’d started. They were both experienced consenting adults who were attracted to each other. She wanted to take Nick to bed.

  But not when she couldn’t give herself the way she wanted.

  She said, “If I was feeling one hundred percent, we’d be naked right now.”

  He tilted his head and gave her a quirky but sexy half smile. “Get well soon, Max.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Nick had woken Max up at midnight, then again at three, to make sure she was coherent. Max woke up on her own at five in the morning feeling like she’d been hit by a truck. But her mind was running full steam, and she wanted to look at Kevin’s files.

  Nick had already gone through everything. He had it sorted, and Max quickly realized it was sorted into stacks of irrelevant, possibly relevant, and likely relevant. In the center were all the files on her and her family, which made her very uncomfortable.

  She glanced over to where Nick was sleeping on the couch. He’d taken his pants off, they were on the chair, and he’d slept in the USMC shirt Max had borrowed from him Saturday. A blanket was tangled around his legs, but she could see his well-toned body. She admired and appreciated men who kept fit.

  She didn’t like that Nick now knew so much about her—Kevin had kept a lot of information, his personal notes about her and her family, as well as articles she’d written, reviews of her books and cable show, and her finances. A finance article was on top, about how her family had contested Genevieve Sterling’s will because half her estate was supposed to be left to her charitable trust, and the other half split among her grandchildren. Because Martha had disappeared and never been declared legally dead, the family objected to Max receiving Martha’s share. Fortunately, Genie had left an explicit letter that the judge accepted stating that if Martha Revere didn’t come before the court and identify herself within one year of Genie’s death, that the inheritance—and the board seat that went with it—would be affirmed to Max.

  That her family—led by her uncle Brooks—would try to convince the judge that Genie was senile had led to a rift that Max had never forgiven them for. While her other aunts and uncles hadn’t been as emphatic as Brooks, they’d been complicit. Max still didn’t know if their problem was because she had been a twenty-one-year-old college student who continued to cause problems for the family, or if they just wanted money, or if they didn’t want her on the board of the trust. She didn’t care. This was her slot, and her decision.

  What pained her more than anything was that Eleanor hadn’t stood up for her. Privately, she’d chastised the others for creating a public disagreement on a matter that should have been handled within the closed doors of the family. But Max refused to cave-in to Eleanor’s so-called compromise, and Eleanor refused to make any public statement on her behalf, nor would she go to the judge for Max. That she hadn’t joined with Brooks and the others didn’t matter to Max—this wasn’t something she should have remained neutral on.

  Max didn’t like that Nick knew all this stuff about her. It’s not something she talked about, and it’s not something she wanted to share.

  Then in the relevant pile she saw a drawing. It looked exactly like the northwest corner of Atherton Prep. There was the gym under construction, the line of trees, the old gym, the wall—also three small red x’s where the three bodies had been found: Lindy, Jason, and the unknown victim.

  He’d even put in distances.

  “You weren’t much of an artist,” Nick said as he sat up.

  “And you are,” Max said, impressed. “You said there was a connection last night, but I don’t know—there’s no one missing from ACP or Atherton. I checked.”

  “I saw your notes. Honestly, I don’t know what to think yet. I do believe that you’re right in that Jason was killed because he caught the person removing the bones, or the person thought he’d been spotted, or that Jason had found something around the grave site and was going to contact the authorities. I don’t see how that connects with your friend, Lindy Ames, but if the bones are as old as my forensics team says, it puts that death at about the same time as Lindy’s. I can’t discount the similarities.”

  “The gun that killed Jason—”

  “Nine millimeter. Ballistics didn’t show a match to any other crime. Nothing special about the bullets, either. No shell casings at the scene, so the killer policed his brass. The killer was less than ten feet away. Could have been a lousy shot and still hit him.”

  “And Jason was killed where he was found, here near the trailers.”

  Nick nodded, got up and stretched. Max stared. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on the man. Nick gave her a half smile, grabbed his pants, and went into the bathroom.

  Damn, he knew he was hot. A hot cop.

  Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!

  She almost laughed out loud. Yes, hot cops were her vice. She had to watch herself or she’d be flying west a whole lot more than she wanted to.

  Her phone rang and she grabbed it.

  “Max, what happened?”

  It was her producer Ben, sounding hysterical.

  “What happened with what? I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

  “I got a call last night from the police, on my answering machine, about the rental car being totaled. Why didn’t you call me? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

  “Were you talking on your cell phone again?”

  “No, Dad, I wasn’t.”

  “Stop that, our insurance rates are through the roof. You’re the definition of a distracted driver.”

  “I wasn’t even driving,” she snapped. “I was rear-ended.”

  “And the car was totaled?”

  “I wouldn’t say totaled. Undrivable?”

  “Maxine Revere, tell me what happened.”

  She gave Ben the short version because she knew how stressed he got when she was working a dangerous case. “It was nothing. Really. I was reading something in my car—while it was legally parked—a van rear-ended me, stole some stuff, and left.”

  “What the fuck? You were robbed?”

  “Don’t raise your voice. It’s not my fault!”

  “I’m calling David. He’ll tell me the truth.”

  “Go ahead, I already told him what happened.”

  “Dammit, Max, what are you working on? You were attacked? What have you been doing? It’s Wednesday, you promised you would be in New York by Friday. You’re coming
back Friday, right?”

  Her head was hurting listening to Ben. “This is why I prefer e-mails,” she mumbled.

  “What?”

  Nick had finished in the bathroom and was watching her from the doorway. His expression was both confused and bemused.

  Max said, “I’ll try to be back on Friday, but don’t count on it. I can fly back with David Sunday.” Or Monday. Or Tuesday. But she didn’t say that to Ben.

  “I have six interviews lined up for Friday. Your new assistant.”

  “Change them.”

  “I’ll pick one.”

  “Don’t you dare. Your track record sucks, Benji.” He hated the nickname he’d had in college.

  “God, I hate when you do that.”

  “You do the first interview. The three you like the least, set up a second interview with me and David next week.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you’ve hired all my assistants because you only send me the people you think I’ll like. That hasn’t worked. Josh’s incompetence still gives me nightmares. So send me people you think I’ll hate or scare.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Don’t hang up.”

  She didn’t. She wanted to, but Ben had called David in the past when she didn’t listen to him. “There’s more?”

  “The attack.”

  Damn, she thought she’d diverted his attention from that.

  “I’m fine. Failed carjacking attempt.” She was lying to Ben. God help her if he ever found out.

  “That’s not what the police said.”

  “The police? Who did you talk to? You said they left a message.”

  “Well, I called back and he’d given me his cell phone number and actually picked up this morning. An Officer Gavin or Graven. He said that you were attacked with a hammer and the person stole some notes? Yours?”

  Max could bluff. She could use smoke and mirrors to change the direction of the conversation. She had a problem with outright lying. “Kevin left me some things,” she said. “One of them, this journal, is apparently very valuable.”

  “This is the one time I’m going to tell you to let the police handle it.” He paused. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Max, David will come back for you. You know that.”

  “I do, which is why you can’t call him. Ben, I’m fine.”

  Nick put his hand out. Max looked at him strangely, then handed him the phone. Nick mouthed to her, “Who is it?”

  She whispered, “Ben Lawson, my producer.”

  Nick said into the phone, “Mr. Lawson? This is Detective Nick Santini. I’m working on the case involving Ms. Revere, and I’ll make sure she’s safe. There’s no need to be alarmed, she’s quite resilient.” He listened to something, smiled at Max, then handed her the phone.

  Max said to Ben, “Satisfied?”

  “It’s seven in the morning in California. Why is he in your hotel room? Are you sleeping with him?”

  She smiled. It was clear that Nick had heard every word. “Not yet,” she replied and hung up.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until they were walking down for breakfast when Nick told her that he’d called a retired detective and invited him to meet them for a brainstorming session. Detective Carson Salter had been part of the initial investigation into Lindy’s murder. Max didn’t recognize the name, however, she recognized Detective Salter as soon as she saw him. He was short, lean, and black. She remembered that when she’d seen him, a couple times on campus during the week of interviews, his hair had also been black. Now it was almost completely white.

  “Good to finally meet you, Santini,” Salter said. He firmly shook their hands, then sat at the table in the Menlo Grill.

  Max said, “You two don’t know each other?”

  “Carson retired six months before I moved up here. I took his slot, but had to wait for a budgeting issue to be resolved.”

  Carson grunted. “They didn’t want to bring him in until the new fiscal year.”

  “We’ve talked on the phone a few times because I inherited his desk and some of his cases.”

  “When you told me you were looking into the Lindy Ames case, I knew you’d face some problems.”

  Max was at a loss. “You’re looking into Lindy’s murder?” she asked Nick.

  “Since last night when you were attacked for her journal.”

  Carson said, “Nick filled me in on what you’ve been up to, Ms. Revere.”

  “Call me Max.”

  He smiled. “My wife loves your show. It’s grown on me, though I can’t say I like it all the time.”

  “I’m not doing the show to make friends.”

  “Is that why you’re here? Doing a show on Lindy’s murder?”

  “Do you see a camera crew?” Max realized she was on the defensive. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Detective. I’m still upset about being robbed last night.”

  “Call me Carson.”

  The waiter came with coffee and juice and took their orders. When he left, Nick said, “When I called around last night about looking at the case files, I was given a red light by my boss. I need to know why.”

  Carson sighed. “It wasn’t my case, but we all worked on it at some point, and we all were frustrated. But I was there initially with Harry Beck when Atherton finally called us. It was a mess. Her body was found in the pool at eight in the morning. Atherton trampled the entire scene, both at the school and at the Ames house. They didn’t call us until six that evening. The body had already been removed by the coroner, the Atherton police had already contacted her parents who were in New York on a business trip. By the time we’d been called in, the parents had just rushed home and we had no answers, but they didn’t know we had just gotten the case.”

  “Did Beck initially suspect Kevin O’Neal?”

  “We didn’t suspect anyone. We didn’t know what had happened. We couldn’t even say she’d been murdered—the Atherton police initially thought it was an accident. But after the autopsy, it was clear she was strangled. Then we interviewed her friends at the school trying to piece together what had happened on Saturday night.”

  “I remember,” Max said. “We all knew she was dead.”

  “Word spread quickly. We had some issues with Atherton PD sharing information. On the surface they appeared to be helpful, but every time we asked for information about disturbance calls to the Ames house or the school, we met with a delay. O’Neal became a suspect because we learned during our interviews that he and the victim had had a nasty breakup two weeks before, and her friends said she was seeing someone else but no one admitted to knowing who.”

  Max tensed. She and Nick had talked briefly about William last night, but they hadn’t resolved anything. She remained silent for now, figuring Nick would bring it up if he thought it was important for Carson to know.

  But Nick didn’t say anything.

  Carson continued. “We interviewed O’Neal and he said he’d been home alone all night. Saturday night? Eighteen-year-old high school senior home alone? Beck didn’t buy it. But there was no forensic evidence to tie O’Neal to the crime, and the coroner’s report was very … vague.”

  “Vague?” Nick asked. “How so?”

  “The coroner determined that the victim had sex the night she was killed, but sexual assault was inconclusive. It was combined with the other evidence—of manual strangulation—to come up with the theory that she was raped and strangled, possibly accidentally. After the anonymous tip that O’Neal’s car had been spotted at the school the night of the murder, Beck went hard at him. He even posited the theory that O’Neal accidentally strangled her during sex games. Beck just wanted a confession. The DA even offered O’Neal a plea agreement of manslaughter, but O’Neal never waffled. He said he was home, and only that witness put him at the school. If that person had come forward and testified, the jury could have gone the other way, but O’Neal’s lawyer was
good. He showed enough reasonable doubt. The case was all built on circumstantial evidence and theories. All the people who testified were young, they testified to O’Neal having a history of fighting, breaking up, getting back together with the victim. One of the victim’s close friends testified that the victim and the suspect had rough sex frequently. No one could confirm that he was, in fact, at home.”

  “Did you believe that Kevin was guilty?” Max asked.

  Carson didn’t say anything for a moment. “I didn’t believe he was innocent, but I was never convinced of his guilt. It all fit—do you know how many cases I’ve worked where an ex-boyfriend goes after his ex-girlfriend? How many domestic violence situations came across my desk? I’m just glad I found my wife forty-two years ago, before I became old and jaded.”

  The waiter delivered their food and after he left, Nick asked, “Were there any other suspects you looked at?”

  Carson shook his head. “Not seriously. We wanted to find the guy who she allegedly was seeing after she split with O’Neal, but no one came forward, and we had no forensic evidence. Her clubhouse, where she spent a lot of time, had prints from a dozen or more people. All her friends who admitted being in the clubhouse the week before she was killed consented to being printed—we did it primarily to match them up, and if a print ended up somewhere it shouldn’t have been, we’d have a suspect. There were no unaccounted for fingerprints in her clubhouse. We also printed her bedroom and all the doors of her house. One problem, though—”

  “Atherton PD.”

  “I swear, I wanted to fire them all. Half of them searched without gloves. Half of them trampled the area between the Ames house and the school. There’s a gate that passed through between the two properties. It was open, but we don’t know if the killer opened it or if one of the police opened it. We don’t know if the victim was killed in her clubhouse, the main house, and then brought to the pool, or if she was killed in the pool house. We had a theory, which we gave in court, but it was just a theory. A half-dozen other theories could have worked. The one we went with was that O’Neal found out that the victim was seeing someone else; he went to her clubhouse to confront her. She fled, through the gate to the pool house at the school, to hide from him. He tracked her down, attacked her, and when he realized he killed her, he pushed her into the pool and fled.”