Best Laid Plans

by Allison Brennan

  “Ma’am, my wife called 911. Help is on the way.”

  “Thank … you.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t try to get up. I got the other driver’s license plate. The police will find him.”

  “Good Samaritan,” she mumbled. Her head hurt.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said.

  She touched her forehead and came back with a little blood. “I’m okay,” she said. But she didn’t try to stand. Her knees still felt weak, and her head was fuzzy.

  And then she thought: Had someone hit her on purpose?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Max took advantage of all the resort amenities that weekend, relaxing for the first time since before she took the elder abuse case in Florida. Had she really started that over a year ago? She might even stay here until her cousin’s wedding next weekend, when she had to face her family back in California. If she did, she could attend Scott’s memorial service on Wednesday evening.

  She didn’t relax easily, but swimming in the heated pool, soaking in the spa, and being pampered with massages—she finally felt the tension and stress from the tragedies and the car accident disappear.

  The truck that hit her was registered to Carlos Ibarra. He had an alibi for the time of the collision—he was in class. Police questioned Arthur Cowan and Tom Keller, but both denied driving the truck. Police found it abandoned several miles from the accident. There were no prints at all in the cab, suggesting it had been wiped clean.

  There was no doubt in Max’s mind that Arthur Cowan had rammed her, but there was no proof, either.

  She had to let it go.

  She didn’t want to.

  When Chuck Pence called Monday afternoon, she invited him for a celebratory drink. “Bring your wife, and Trixie.” Max would enjoy the company, both human and canine.

  “I’ll see,” he’d said, and agreed to meet her at four.

  She was sipping her wine on the outside terrace when she saw Chuck step out with Trixie. The woman on his arm was not his wife, however; it was Detective Amelia Horn. Immediately Max knew something was wrong.

  She watched them approach her table. The cop wasn’t looking at her, but Chuck was. His long face hung even longer.

  Max leaned back and scratched Trixie while motioning for Chuck and Horn to sit down. The attentive waitress approached. Horn asked for water only. Chuck, a beer.

  Max sipped her wine and waited for one of them to tell her what in their case was messed up.

  It was Chuck who spoke. “Amelia asked me to come with her to explain the situation.”

  Max waited. Inside she was heating up; she knew what was coming before either of them said anything. But still, she waited, a vision of the calm she didn’t feel.

  “It was supposed to be a joke, like Tom Keller told you last week,” Chuck said. “They didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

  “Drunk drivers don’t mean to kill anyone, but they still get prosecuted when they hit someone while driving drunk.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” Horn said.

  “They left him on the mountain in below-freezing temperatures with a small tent and sleeping bag that were insufficient for the weather.”

  “Had Scott stayed at the campground, he would have survived,” Horn said.

  “So it’s Scott’s fault that he’s dead? You’ll tell that to his mother?”

  “I already spoke to Mrs. Sheldon. She understands. I explained that while the D.A. wasn’t filing criminal charges, she was welcome to file a wrongful death case in a civil court. But she doesn’t want to press charges.”

  Max felt sucker-punched. “You sugar-coated it. Arthur Cowan is a bully who’s an expert skier and would have known that conditions could turn at any time.”

  “They all admitted to what they did, that they went back up Saturday morning, looked for him, couldn’t find him, panicked when the storm got worse.”

  “And waiting until Sunday to tell campus police? And campus police waiting until Monday to tell the rangers’ office so a search party could be sent out?”

  “It’s a tragedy for everyone. The D.A. has already cut a deal. They pleaded guilty to a misdemeanor charge of reckless endangerment and one year probation.”

  “That’s unacceptable,” Max said.

  “I don’t believe you’re a lawyer, or a cop, or have any say in what the D.A. does or does not do.”

  “This is bullshit,” Max said. “Scott Sheldon is dead because of those three, who were sleeping in a warm hotel room while Scott died alone in the woods. Where’s the justice?”

  “If this went to trial, their lives would be ruined, and the D.A. wasn’t confident he’d get a conviction. Their story was emotionally compelling, and Cowan already has a lawyer.”

  “Of course he does.” Max had seen all this coming, but she thought something good would have come from the truth.

  Adele Sheldon has a body to bury. She knows what happened to her son. That’s why you did this, Maxine. You came here for the truth, and that’s what you found.

  But right now, the truth wasn’t enough.

  “I didn’t have to come here and tell you any of this,” Horn said, and stood. “Our hands are tied.”

  “They lied to you. They lied to everyone.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And Carlos’s truck being used to run me off the road?”

  “Look, I understand why you’re upset, and I would be, too. I pushed. But there’s no proof that Arthur Cowan was driving. None. No security camera, no witnesses. You didn’t see the driver. The witness who helped you didn’t see the driver. It could have been Tom Keller, or anyone else. We pushed both of them; neither budged.”

  The waitress came with the water and the beer. Max stared at Trixie, who lay both alert and peaceful next to Chuck.

  “Then there’s nothing more to say,” Max said. Not now, at any rate. But she’d been working on the article all weekend. She would expose to the public everything that had happened to Scott Sheldon, and who was responsible.

  “I’m sorry,” Horn repeated, then left.

  “I tried,” Chuck said quietly. “But without physical evidence, and all three sticking to the same story, it wasn’t possible to get the D.A. to change his mind. He didn’t even want to put up a plea deal, but Amelia convinced him that a misdemeanor and probation were better than nothing.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  God, she hated the feeling and couldn’t believe she’d said it out loud. She damn well knew life wasn’t fair. Her life had been a roller coaster for twenty-nine years. Was it fair that her mother had walked out on her, dumping her with her older grandparents? Was it fair that her college roommate was murdered and no one could prove who’d killed her? Was it fair that Scott Sheldon died the subject of a cruel joke?

  Fairness had nothing to do with living. Max believed in the truth, believed that all truth was knowledge, and with that knowledge, justice would prevail.

  Nowhere in that was there fairness.

  She and Chuck sat drinking in silence.

  Truth. The truth could be told. Because truth was a different brand of justice.

  * * *

  Max called Ben first thing Tuesday morning.

  “I’ll be back in New York next week. I sent you changes to your proposal.”

  “You’ll do the show?”

  “If you agree to my changes.”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t know what they are.”

  “I don’t care.”

  She smiled, genuinely smiled, for the first time in days. “Yes, you will.”

  “Okay, give me the basics.”

  “I want creative control. I want to decide what cases I investigate and air. I liked your Web site idea, the short articles, the snippets around the country—we need to expand that.”

  “Did something happen in Colorado?”

  For someone so self-absorbed, Ben had a knack for getting to the truth. She had to admire the trait.
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  “This case—a group of college kids left another student in the middle of nowhere as a prank. He died, they got off with probation. As if Scott Sheldon’s life isn’t worth the cost of a minimal sentence.”

  “What do you hope to accomplish, Max?”

  “Shine a light on the cruelty of human nature, how the selfish choices of a group of kids resulted in the accidental death of another, how their lies and misdirection resulted in a mother not knowing what happened to her son for six months. Six months of the unknown. Of fear and worry. The emotional turmoil the callous actions of youth created in a family.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” She expected him to argue with her, that the story wouldn’t be “sexy” enough or big enough for a cable news show.

  “I trust you, Max. I know you’ll put the right angle, the right spin on it. But it won’t fill up the forty-four minutes we need for the show.”

  “I can—”

  “Hold it. This is my job, making this work. A theme—those left behind. Friends and families of missing persons. I’ll find three other cases you can interview, and we’ll use your Colorado case as the positive, of persistence in finding the truth.” He paused. “You’ll have to talk about Karen.”

  “No.”

  “You wrote a book about it, it’s a perfect lead-in for the show. You’re the best person to understand how these families feel. Max, trust me on this—I’m not going to sensationalize Karen’s disappearance. It’s a hook. You know it. And I’ve read your book a half dozen times. You had a call to action—if anyone knows anything, they need to come forward. We can do the same call to action on this show. We’ll find cases like Scott Sheldon, and call people to come forward.”

  She liked the idea. She really liked it. If she worked on cold cases, the chances were that most of these people were dead. But closure—that would help the survivors.

  “Find a runaway,” she said. “Someone who might come home if they knew their family ached for them.”

  “I knew you had a knack for this.”

  “I’m not doing a weekly show. I wouldn’t be able to do these cases justice.”

  “Semimonthly.”

  “Monthly.”

  “Max—”

  “But I liked your proposal about integrating with a Web page and current cases. We can do more of that if I’m not investigating a cold case every week, which takes time.”

  “You’ll have a staff.”

  “Monthly.”

  “Fine.”

  “You gave in too easily.”

  “I actually pitched the show as a monthly program. I tweaked the proposal to give you something to negotiate away.”

  She laughed. Maybe Ben did know her better than she thought.

  “Send me the contract when you have it drafted.”

  “It’s already drafted. I’m sure you’ll have changes.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. I’ll read it on the plane. I’m going to a wedding this weekend.”

  “You’re not going to regret this, Max. This show is going to be huge. I promise.”

  But Max wasn’t sure. If it wasn’t successful, all that would be hurt was her own ego. But what would happen to her life if she and Ben made Maximum Exposure a success? Would she ever have time to work the cold cases she wanted? Would she regret giving up some of the control over her stories? Would people recognize her? One of the benefits of being an investigative journalist was that she was, basically, anonymous. People might look at her because she was tall or attractive or well dressed, but she wasn’t famous.

  This was cable, she reminded herself. Small beans. Maybe no one would watch it.

  She said to Ben, “I’ll see you in New York.”

  Six Weeks Later

  Max stood in the doorway of her new corner office on the eighteenth floor of a state-of-the-art building on the Avenue of the Americas.

  “It’s small,” Ben said, “but the view is great.”

  It was, and Max certainly couldn’t complain. She would have preferred an older building with character, but the television studio needed technology and amenities that the larger buildings provided—including dishes on the roof to send and receive satellite transmissions.

  She’d met the Crossmans and liked them a lot—more than she thought she would. Particularly Catherine, who had a sense of humor to go along with her sense of style.

  “I’m going to work from home sometimes.” Often.

  “That’s not a problem, but you need your own space here. I have a list of assistants for you to interview. I selected the top three from a large pool of applicants. I know you like to support the university, so I made sure they were all Columbia graduates. We also have an internship program with the college.”

  “Good.” Maybe she and Ben would get along after all.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She walked around to her new desk. There was nothing on it, but that would change. She sat in the chair. Comfortable, but it would need to be broken in. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “I have some news you might like.” He pulled a letter from his pocket.

  It was from Cheyenne College, the office of Stephanie Adair, addressed to Ben Lawson, Producer, Maximum Exposure.

  “What?”

  “Just read it.”

  She did, and she smiled. “They fired the chief of campus security.”

  “And implemented new security protocols related to when and how they report crimes or potential crimes to the local authorities.”

  “Good.” She nodded as she scanned the letter a second time. “Good.”

  “It won’t bring Scott Sheldon back.”

  “No.”

  But maybe the new procedures would prevent another mother from suffering the same grief as Adele Sheldon.

  It would never be a perfect world. But keeping a bright light on the truth, exposing lies, highlighting evil, holding people accountable for their actions—or their inactions—would help.

  “We’re scheduled to tape in one hour. You should get down to makeup and get ready.”

  “Just give me five minutes.”

  Ben left, and Max walked over to the window, looked out, and took a deep breath.

  Today was the first day of the rest of her life, but she would never forget those who’d died. Not Scott Sheldon, not Karen Richardson, and not her best friend from high school, Lindy Ames. A case that was still unsolved, and probably always would be.

  Read on for an excerpt from Allison Brennan’s next book

  NO GOOD DEED

  Available in November 2015 from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  CHAPTER ONE

  Nicole Rollins had always been a meticulous planner. She had contingencies for almost every possible scenario, which was why she’d been able to fool the DEA for fifteen years. People were mostly predictable, and mostly fools.

  Even though being arrested wasn’t in her master plan, she had a contingency, and the minute she was arraigned, the clock started ticking. Her people knew what to do and when to do it. The timeline, by necessity, had to be fluid, but when she was ready, she gave the signal and the countdown began. Nothing was left to chance, because she only had one shot at escaping and she had to get it right.

  And if she got it wrong? She’d go out big and take as many of those motherfuckers with her as possible.

  But she wasn’t going to get it wrong.

  Today marked the end of her old life. Cliché, but true. Nicole sat patiently in the back of the federal van, her face blank. Bored. Defeated.

  Boredom and defeat were the furthest things from her mind. Anticipation flowed hot through her veins.

  Her feet were shackled and locked to a bolt on the floor. Her hands were cuffed in front of her and attached to a chain around her waist. She wore an orange jumpsuit—she despised orange, it made her skin appear sallow—and her blond hair was now cut short, without concern for style.

  She kind of liked the short hair. After a trim, it would fun and sassy. She nee
ded a little fun in her life after being in jail for ten weeks. She’d have to dye it darker, maybe add a few highlights, enough of an appearance change until she could hook up with a plastic surgeon she knew in Monterrey, Mexico. He was so good he’d be able to change the shape of her face and eyes just enough that the feds would be hard-pressed to identify her.

  Two armed guards sat in the back, one with his back to the front of the truck, the other directly across from her. Another guard drove, and a fourth was in the passenger seat. A steel-reinforced door with a bullet-proof window separated the cab from the back. Closed-circuit cameras showed the rear compartment to the guards up front. They were being recorded, but there was no live camera feed. She didn’t care—within thirty minutes, she’d be dead or gone, and how it happened would be irrelevant.

  Two federal SUVs escorted the van, front and back. This was the third time Nicole had been transported from the jail to the federal courthouse. The first two times were uneventful, but necessary so her team could adjust last-minute details. Last Monday, she went to the courthouse to give the Assistant United States Attorney a juicy morsel to exploit. On Thursday, it was to review documentation and sign the plea agreement. After the explosion at the DEA’s evidence locker ten days ago, the AUSA was more than happy to have a valuable source of information.

  The angry, defeated look on Brad Donnelly’s face as he watched her in the courtroom had thrilled her to no end. She won, he lost.

  He had far, far more to lose before she was done with him and the people he worked for.

  Today, they were taking her back to the courthouse to spill her guts. Third transport, it had become routine. She’d already agreed to the plea deal, so now it was just a matter of talking. Everything she knew about Tobias, his operation, the gun and drug trades, the money-laundering arrangement he’d had with the now-dead bitch congresswoman—she had all week to unburden herself, to make good on her promise before being transported to a federal prison far from Texas.