The government offices weren’t empty on Saturday morning, but staff was minimal. Andrew set up his laptop in the conference room adjoining his office. He also had nine boxes stacked on the floor.
“We went completely digital ten years ago, but to save on the budget, we included only current employees. If you’re right and whoever we’re looking for left the office shortly after Justin was killed, then she’ll be in one of these boxes. I pulled the files from the year Justin died and the following year, as you suggested.” He stared at the boxes and shook his head. “Basically, those are all employees of the county of San Diego who terminated employment in those two years. It would be faster if these files were separated by department.”
Max sipped her coffee. Two years ago, before she began Maximum Exposure, she’d been solely responsible for all her own research. Now, she did so little of it that she realized she had become lazy. The idea of spending all day sorting through spreadsheets and employee files was far from exciting. “We’re two smart people, we’ll figure it out,” she said. “We’re looking for women in which department?” She put one box in front of her.
“Lucy said anyone working in the courthouse or the district attorney’s office, but I also figure the public defenders’ office should be included. I know the codes, I can go through the files faster. I’ll separate them and you can then look and determine if the individuals fit the profile.”
“Good plan.”
Andrew took the box from Max and started separating out files. He was able to sort the files based solely on the coded employee label, which saved time. They worked in silence for several minutes. Andrew was putting one in roughly every three files in front of her. She had a cheat sheet of what she was looking for: a female employee who was between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five at the time Justin was killed. Lucy was confident she was from the East, but Arthur had suggested that it could be someone simply outside the area. Because they weren’t settled on it, Max decided to leave hometown as irrelevant.
The first six files Andrew put in front of her were men, easy to put aside. The next was a woman who retired—she’d been sixty-five—out. The next a woman of thirty-three—put her in the maybe pile.
Max wanted to ask Andrew questions about Lucy, but she didn’t want Andrew to know she was curious.
“I apologize for how I responded to your insistence I work with your sister-in-law,” Max began, choosing her words perhaps a bit too carefully. She actually wasn’t sorry for her response—it was justified, considering the circumstances—but she did wish she’d kept her cool. She’d felt blindsided.
“No apologies necessary,” he said, not looking up from the files. When the first box was empty, he took the reject folders, put them back inside, and wrote on a sticky note the names and employee numbers that Max had set aside. He put it on the lid, pushed it back against the wall, and opened the second box.
“I’ve found her insight surprisingly helpful. My experience has been that cops don’t like working with me.”
Andrew glanced at her with a wry grin. “You’re a reporter.”
As if that explained everything.
“You say that as if I’m a used car salesman.”
“I’m a lawyer, I get the same attitude.”
“Yes, but you’re a prosecutor. A district attorney. A lot more prestige and respect than, say, an ambulance chaser.”
“Sometimes it’s an uphill battle.” They finished with the second box faster as they developed a rhythm, and he did the same thing as he’d done with the first, putting in the rejected files and making a note on top.
“I’ll admit, I was nervous that Lucy would say no,” Andrew said as he opened the third box. “Not because she doesn’t want answers, but because she’s finally gotten her life together. I didn’t want to bring all this back on her. But the one thing I’ve learned about Lucy over the years is that she has a spine of steel.”
“She does. She’s very focused.”
Finally gotten her life together. What did that mean?
“Her father had a heart attack last year—right before Christmas. The family was all here. I think that’s the hardest thing for me being on the outs with the Kincaids. I had a shitty childhood. No excuses—it was what it was. My father was an alcoholic cop. A real jerk. My mom left him when I was a kid, my little brother and I bounced back and forth between them for years, until I finally said screw it, my dad didn’t deserve anything from us. He died when I was in law school—broken and bitter. So when I met Nelia, I think one of the reasons I became so attached was because I fell in love with the Kincaids. Losing them on top of losing my son … honestly, I went through some dark times. If it wasn’t for Dillon, I wouldn’t be here today. He forgave me, he talked to me. He was the only one.”
“We had a long conversation with Dr. Kincaid last night. They talked shrink talk—I listened.”
“Dillon’s a smart guy. We’ve been able to work together over the years, but he wouldn’t even think of asking his family to forgive me. He does what he wants but I think he understood, even back then, why Nelia and I were together at all.”
“Did you love her?”
“Yes, but not the right love.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“It means we were friends. We ended up having sex because we were spending so much time studying together and liked each other’s company. It just happened. But it wasn’t a passionate love. It was comfortable. We dated because, well, we were too busy to even think about having a relationship with anyone outside of our circle of friends. So when we learned she was pregnant, we thought marriage. We liked each other, love would come. It doesn’t work that way. At least, it didn’t for us.” He paused. “I don’t know why I told you all that.”
He was scared she’d spill it for the world. Sometimes she enjoyed having a conversation where people didn’t think she was going to blab on the news.
“Everything we say and do in this room is off-limits, okay?”
He was obviously relieved. He stopped for a moment and looked at her. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”
Of course it did. Did people think she didn’t care at all?
“I’m not a bad guy,” she said. “I don’t screw people for the joy of screwing them. If you lie to me, all bets are off—I really detest liars. But I work these cases because I need to solve the unsolvable. I don’t know why I can’t just put Karen’s death behind me and lead a normal life, at least what’s normal for an intelligent, independently wealthy woman. This is me, and I don’t justify it to anyone.”
“I respect that.”
She hadn’t expected a comment, or his respect, but she appreciated it.
Now how did she turn the conversation back to Lucy?
She said, “It seems that those of us who faced tragedy when we were younger turn to a version of law enforcement. I’m not a cop, but after Karen’s murder I couldn’t think of anything but exposing the bastard who killed her. I use the power of words. I found out I was good at it.”
“I researched you after you first contacted me. You have a solid track record.”
“I have a great track record.” She smiled, went through the last of the files Andrew handed her. He boxed up the extras and picked up the last of the boxes. “You were already a prosecutor, but I looked into the Kincaids. Carina dropped out of college to go to the police academy, Dillon had been in medical school specializing in sports medicine, and went an extra year to change his focus to forensic psychiatry. Patrick became a cybercop. And Lucy joined the FBI.”
“Lucy had other reasons for joining the FBI. She used to want to study international relations.”
“Diplomacy? I can see that.” What other reasons did Lucy have for joining the FBI? “Did she lose someone else to violence? After Justin?”
“You’ll have to talk to her about it. But let me give you some advice: don’t ask.”
Now Max was even more curious. She itched to talk to Marco about Lucy—he could access her FBI records. But Sean Rogan’s threat weighed heavily on her. She didn’t want to blow this working relationship, and right now it was working.
They finished the last of the boxes and had a stack of eighteen women who had been between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five whose last year of employment was within a year of Justin’s murder.
“Eighteen is manageable,” Max said.
“Hold that thought,” Andrew said. He picked up his cell phone. Max hadn’t heard it ring.
“Stanton.… Hello, Harry, thank you for returning my call on the weekend. How’s Donna?… Great.… A grandson? Really? Well, congrats, Grandpa.” Andrew laughed, but Max could see that this was an act for him. He might genuinely be interested in this Harry and Donna, but he was going through the motions.
Andrew continued, “I’m going to be upfront with you, Harry. I need a favor. The answer may both solve a cold case for me and help you with a pending trial.… Blair Caldwell.… Really. Well, it’s a very cold case. The Justin Stanton murder. My son.” Andrew pressed his fingers to his forehead, then straightened his spine as he listened. “I know you, Harry. You don’t gamble at trial. But I may be able to offer you an expert witness you wouldn’t be able to get otherwise.… Yes, I know you have your own experts.… I would consider this a personal favor. I only have one question.… All right. I understand.” He paused, listening for a long minute.
“Thank you,” Andrew said to Harry. “Was your victim, Peter Caldwell, buried with a stuffed animal or favorite toy?” He listened. “Interesting.… You have no doubts.… No, I wouldn’t either, but the defense can work around circumstantial evidence.… Yes, I promised, and he’s one of the best forensic psychiatrists in the country.… Dozens of expert testimonies, the defense won’t be able to discredit him.… I know they’re expensive, but it won’t cost you a thing. He’d already agreed to do it and a nonprofit is covering his expenses.… I need you to keep his name under wrap for a few days, okay?… Dr. Dillon Kincaid. When do you have to turn it over to the defense?… That’s fine. I’ll send you Dr. Kincaid’s contact information and tell him to expect your call next week. Thank you, Harry. I appreciate your help.” He hung up.
Max knew what he was going to say even before he said it.
“No toy.”
“Correct.”
“She’s guilty.” Max had an odd feeling of intense rage and deep sorrow. John was going to be destroyed. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she would have no choice. His wife was guilty of murder.
“Harry thinks their case is solid, but he jumped at the chance to get an expert of Dillon’s caliber. Tells me they have ample circumstantial evidence but no smoking gun. Max, you can’t share this information.”
Again, she was angry. “I said I wouldn’t. My focus is finding this killer.” She rested her hand on the stack of eighteen personnel files.
“John Caldwell is a friend of yours.”
“I’m not about to jeopardize the prosecution. That’s not my style. And if I told John, he wouldn’t be able to keep a poker face with Blair. He’d accuse her, give her a heads up, I don’t know, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep in the same bed as his wife. Once we find Justin’s killer, all bets are off. He deserves to know—whether she’s convicted or not—that his wife killed his son.” She shook her head. “Why, dammit? Why would she do such a horrific thing?”
“These are the crimes I don’t understand,” Andrew said quietly. “It makes no sense, none. But I’ll bet Lucy will have an idea.”