She wasn’t wrong. She’d seen the DMV photo. She connected Jane Sterling to J. J. Sterling who was Jimmy Truman. She knew Jane was Martha.
Martha had a baby? No. Max couldn’t see it.
“It wasn’t hers,” she said flatly.
But she didn’t know.
“I couldn’t tell you that, Max. Mrs. O’Neill hadn’t known Jane was pregnant, and maybe she wasn’t—maybe you’re right, and the baby wasn’t hers. Mrs. O’Neill asked about it, and Jane said she was babysitting for a friend, but something about the exchange stuck out to the landlord, because she remembered it after all these years. She said that was the one thing she thought about when Jane didn’t come back, and the police came to ask about her car. That something had happened to Jane and the baby.”
“I … well.” She cleared her throat. “A baby.” Max didn’t know what to say. “According to the police report, there was no car seat in the car, no diaper bag, or any indication that an infant had been in it.”
“Maybe she wasn’t lying and she really was babysitting. Watching the kid for a friend.”
That was pretty selfless, and Martha was anything but selfless. “If she was an art thief, maybe she moved on to kidnapping.”
Even as she said it, she realized it was an even more ridiculous theory than Martha babysitting.
Or having another child.
“Do you really believe that?” David said.
“At this point, I don’t know what to believe.”
Chapter Fourteen
Max stayed up far too late for her own good Thursday night looking into Boreal and their business. Garrett Henderson was correct—they were a technology company, of sorts. They didn’t actually manufacture or sell a service or product; they bought and sold tech companies. Mostly bought. They didn’t appear to dismantle companies, but instead invested in new technologies, then owned the lion’s share of the business. Occasionally they sold, possibly when they needed an influx of cash. The lawyer of record was Sharon Proctor-Davis with the law firm of Davis, Orgain, Proctor, and Armentrout. They had a Web page that had virtually nothing on it except a Web form to fill out and a brief about their specialty: contract and tax law. No bios, no street address, only their license number and a PO box.
She sent that information to both David and Rogan, because while David was good on the ground, Rogan was much better in cyberspace.
Her mind was working overtime, however, thinking about Boreal, about her mother being an art thief—of all things!—of why her mother disappeared sixteen years ago and Jimmy was alive and well ten years ago, but hadn’t been seen since. Why was Gabriel Truman so angry about her questions? Why wouldn’t he listen to her explanation?
She didn’t fall to sleep until after two, and woke up before six. She couldn’t blame the weather, though the wind and rain had pummeled the cottage all night. The toll of the restless night was evident in the dark circles under her eyes. She showered, carefully applied makeup so she looked less exhausted—no matter how she felt—and ate toast and a banana with her coffee.
Her meeting with the president of the Haven Point Sailing Club, Stephen Galbraith, was set at nine that morning. It was still raining hard when she left the house. If it was a nice day, she could have walked the half mile, but today wasn’t that day. She hoped the forecast was accurate and the storm would be over by tomorrow. She drove her rental to the racing club office and parked in the closest available space to the entrance.
When she entered, she shrugged off her raincoat and hung it on a coatrack inside the door.
A young man—thirty at most—came out of an office. He wore a cable-knit sweater, khakis, and an expensive nautical watch. “I wasn’t certain you’d venture out in this weather,” he said. “I’m Stephen Galbraith. It’s a mouthful, I know. You can call me Steve.”
“Maxine Revere. Call me Max. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me today.”
“We have a friendly race on Sunday in the bay against three other junior clubs—I have a lot of preparation.”
“So you agree with the weatherman?”
“By noon tomorrow, it’ll be clear, sunny, with winds coming in at twelve miles per hour. I’ve been doing this for a long time.”
She almost laughed.
“You think because of my age I don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t presume.”
“I’ve been racing since I was nine. Helped my father until I could compete on my own. But more than that, I’ve lived here nearly my entire life.”
“In Cape Haven?”
“No, I’m from Westover, Maryland, about an hour and a half north. I live down here now, in Eastville, not far from here. But I spent every summer here—my parents had a little house right on the water outside Eastville.”
“Nice place to grow up.”
“I have no complaints. My dad was a doctor, a neurosurgeon. My brother followed in his footsteps, but I couldn’t imagine doing anything else but boats. Coffee?”
“Great, thanks.”
She followed him to his office. It was large, neat, and he had his own coffeepot. He poured two cups and they sat down in comfortable leather chairs facing each other. “So, you said you were researching youth sailing?”
Max had considered all her options in this conversation, and decided to be truthful, though selective, in what she shared.
“I’ve been staying at the resort while on a working vacation of sorts, and have been reading the local news. When I was young, I loved sailing, so I started reading about your junior club and the success that you’ve had, especially the last couple of years. The article that particularly intrigued me was where your members volunteer during Thanksgiving and Christmas as a way of raising money for their entrance fees, which I know can be steep.”
“Not just entrance fees—we raise money for continuing education, bringing in experts to teach them about boat repair, ecology, oceanography, and even boat building. Our members aren’t as affluent as other boating clubs. When people think yacht they think rich, and one of my goals when I came here was to show that boating and competitive racing doesn’t have to be just for those who can afford the best boats and expensive clubs. But to do that, the kids have to work hard. We also have a GPA requirement—no competitive boating unless they have a three point oh GPA with nothing less than a C. Our collective GPA is three point six.”
“How do you fund this place?”
“The resort donates the office space and boathouse. We have membership fees, though modest, and the kids raise money. I also give private boating lessons in the summer to tourists—truthfully, the money I earn in the summer enables me to live on a small salary here.”
“But you love it.”
“Without reservation. So you were saying on the phone that you might have a scholarship idea?”
“I was thinking of having my family sponsor a race, or a specific competitor. While I have been sailing many times, I’ve never competed or belonged to a club, so I’m not exactly sure what you need.”
His face lit up. “We have multiple donation opportunities, and some are tax-deductible—such as the continuing education program. I also teach a college-level class in ocean ecology for the University of Virginia, and anyone can take it—high school students receive college credit. Most sponsors for races are in the industry—boat wax, swimsuits, supply companies, the like. Our co-captain Jason Harris is heading off to William and Mary College in the fall on a full-ride scholarship.”
Steve walked over to his desk, rummaged through a neat drawer, pulled out a prospectus and handed it to her. It was simple, but professionally printed. “This will give you a good idea about the club and our needs. I create a new one every year with a revised five-year plan. My goal is to ensure that all the kids in the program go to college, if that’s their dream.”
Max glanced through the prospectus. Steve was passionate about his work and it showed in his presentation.
“I read about Jason in the article about last year�
�s summer classic. He and Eve Truman.”
Steve nodded. “Co-captains. Eve is one of those kids that seems like she was born on the water. She joined as soon as she was eligible, on her thirteenth birthday, and for the three years she’s been here she’s helped us grow and win.”
She flipped to the back of the prospectus and there was a photo of Eve and Jason as co-captains for the year. Max stared at the girl. The photo online was small and all she’d gotten from the image was an attractive young girl with dark blond hair and a tan face.
This photo was larger and sharp. Her deep blue eyes looked out with a sparkle, both serious and whimsical. Her hair was sun-streaked, and though in a loose braid, wisps had broken free in the wind.
“Eve would spend every day and night at sea if her dad let her,” Steve said. “She’s definitely smart enough for college, but probably spends a little too much time sailing instead of doing homework. But she keeps her grades up for the most part. And she is really good with her team. One of those people who can instill confidence in others.”
Max barely heard Steve. It was Eve’s eyes. She could have been looking into her own. And she knew, without a doubt, that Eve was her sister. Her half sister.
Gabriel Truman was a liar. He damn well knew who Martha Revere was—he’d slept with her. She had a daughter with him. And then she disappeared.
Maybe the FBI had opened an investigation into the wrong Truman brother.
* * *
Max took the prospectus and promised Steve that she’d look it over and would be discussing a donation with him early next week. She must have hidden her reaction well, because Steve was gracious and thankful, even though she left his office as fast as she could. She wanted to confront Gabriel right then and there, but she was too angry—and not a little bit worried.
Her half sister was living with a man who may have been responsible for her mother’s disappearance. Gabriel had already shown Max that he was an angry man—first by not answering her questions, and then at the restaurant when she’d had dinner with Maguire. She’d thought he was mad because his brother was a criminal and he didn’t want to be dragged through the mud with Jimmy, but what if his anger came from a more personal reason? What if he feared the FBI would learn the truth about him?
But Max wasn’t a reporter who went off half-cocked. Well, most of the time. It was true she did confront people with the facts and often compelled them to answer questions, but she couldn’t go back to Gabriel without more information.
First, she had no proof that Eve was Martha’s daughter.
David found the landlord in Miami. She saw Martha with a baby.
Second, Gabriel wasn’t discharged from the military until September after Martha disappeared. The baby was born before April, before Martha left Miami for good. But Eve could have been born anywhere. She was a sophomore in high school, so most likely was born between October and March. Had Gabriel been on leave? Had he been involved with Martha? If he was on leave nine months before Eve’s birth, that would be pretty damning information.
Max went back to her cottage and called David.
“I need Gabriel Truman’s official leave information from the navy.”
“Good morning.”
“I don’t have time to play nice, David.”
“Those records aren’t easy to get.”
“But you can get them.”
“I know people. Why?”
She didn’t want to tell him, but who else could she trust?
“I’m fairly certain that Eve Truman is my half sister.”
Silence.
“David?”
“Stand down, Max.”
“No.”
“Do you realize what you’re saying?”
“Yes, Gabriel Truman lied to me about Martha. He was sleeping with her and they had a kid.”
“It means he could very well have had something to do with her disappearance. Her murder.”
“I know.”
“Which makes him dangerous.”
“That’s why I need his leave schedule. She disappeared in April. If he was on a ship in the middle of some ocean, he didn’t kill her.”
“Do not confront him, Maxine. I mean it—not until I get there.”
“I may not have to if you’ll just get me the damn information!” She hung up.
She was losing her temper and at first she didn’t know why. She should never have hung up on David or yelled at him.
Her mother had another child. Max had a half sister. Eve Truman was family.
What if Martha had abandoned Eve just like she’d abandoned Maxine? Leaving her with relatives and going off to do God knew what? This time, she left her with her father. Now it made sense why he left the navy, it was to take care of his kid.
She wanted to hate him, but she couldn’t. If he gave up his career to raise his illegitimate child, he did it out of love and duty and honor. She respected him for the sacrifice, but she was angry that he’d lied to her face about knowing Martha.
She needed proof that he was nowhere near Northampton County when her mother was here. Then she’d talk to him and demand the truth.
And now, more than anything, she wanted to meet her half sister.
* * *
The rain had all but stopped, but the wind brought in moisture from the Chesapeake Bay. Max knew herself, and if she ran into Gabriel Truman, she would tell him what she knew and demand the truth. David didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to: everything Gabriel had done for the last sixteen years had been to protect either himself or his daughter or both. Which meant he might react violently if he thought she was a threat.
Max checked her email, and responded to inquiries from her staff in New York. Ben had done a terrific job at keeping her out of the loop on projects, and she appreciated it. He’d created a smooth-running operation, and she wasn’t his only cable show. He ran programming for the entire NET network, which fully integrated the internet and television and had done so long before most other media companies.
Her phone rang. It was a Virginia area code.
“Revere,” she answered.
“Ms. Revere, this is Bill Bartlett.”
“Hello, Sheriff.”
“I followed up with the evidence locker. I’m sorry it took so long to get you this information, but I wanted to make sure I had it right.”
“I appreciate it. And?”
“Hurricane Sandy caused a lot of damage to the region. It was several years ago, and while the evidence building was secured—and you can go and view the physical items found in Jane Sterling’s car—the outside yard flooded. The administrator made a determination of what needed to be scrapped based on the likelihood of foul play or that a victim or suspect would emerge.”
“What you’re saying is the car was destroyed.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. They took photos and a video of the vehicle and put those in the evidence box, but because there was no crime and no one had come forward—it had been many years at that point—they had to make the call.”
“Thank you for letting me know.” She didn’t expect to find anything in Martha’s car, but she had wanted to see it—maybe there had been something there, or something only she would understand.
“I talked to the administrator and he agreed to allow you access to the evidence box at your convenience. The building is open regular business hours during the week. I’ll email you the address and my contact’s name and number.”
“I’ll do that.” When she had the time. Right now, she had something even more important to work on.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” the sheriff asked.
“No, I’m still working through my notes and theories. But I’ll touch base next week, let you know if I’ve learned anything new.”
She thanked him for his time, then hung up. Walked into her den and made a note about the car. She’d looked at the evidence log and there was nothing there that seemed important, but maybe she should take the time
to go there in person. Look at the photos.
Max stared at her timeline for more than an hour, willing to see information that wasn’t there. She added a string during the months Eve could have been born, and another string nine months back, when she could have been conceived.
The information she’d asked David to get wasn’t public. David had been in the army, but he had many friends in all branches of the military. She gave him a fifty-fifty chance of getting the information, but it might take time. It might not be today. And if not today, that meant not until next week.
She wouldn’t be able to sit around doing nothing for that long.
The problem was that she didn’t know how Agent Maguire’s investigation fit with Martha’s disappearance, if at all.
Your mother was an art thief.
Maybe. If her mother and Jimmy had been stealing art, why? For the thrill? She didn’t need the money. Well, maybe she thought she did. Maxine had met people through the years who never seemed to have enough.
If they had stolen more than two dozen paintings over a decade, why had she sent postcards of only seven pieces to Maxine?
Did Gabriel know about the thefts? He didn’t live above his means. In fact, he was barely getting by. Havenly was doing well, but it wasn’t making him rich, and it took all his time and most of his earnings. Rogan had done a basic background check on him and determined there was nothing unusual or suspicious in his background or his finances.
She opened Rogan’s report again. She’d been most interested in Gabriel personally, and anything related to Jimmy. She hadn’t studied the resort. How did Gabriel get the money to buy into the venture in the first place? Tax information was private, but there should be a corporate filing somewhere, and most likely Rogan had included that information.
Brian Cooper had bought Haven Club and Resort seventeen years ago with the help of an investor, and Gabriel joined a year later, becoming a twenty-five percent owner. After initial renovations and a yearlong closure, they reopened the resort as Havenly.
Gabriel and Cooper were hands-on, according to all the news reports and the fact that the resort was their primary source of income. She skimmed the corporate filings, then did a double take. On one required form they had to list all investors in the property. Boreal Inc., was a fifty percent owner. A non-operating partner.
Abandoned Page 15
