Lucy didn’t say anything after Andrew shared the information about Blair Caldwell’s trial. They were sitting in Andrew’s office eating sandwiches that Lucy had brought in. She itched to look through the files, but didn’t want to cross into that dark gray area … she was already on the line as it was. Andrew was typing up the information that he could legally give Max through her FOIA request. That information—which included name, date of hire and separation, previous employment, and limited personal details—would hopefully lead to answers.
Lucy hadn’t been 100 percent positive that Andrew would be able to get the information from the Maricopa County DA, but Andrew had clout and respect among his peers and she’d hoped he’d be able to parlay that into valuable information.
This was valuable in more ways than one.
“Are you certain Dillon is going to be okay with this?” Andrew asked again.
“I talked to him last night. Max has a nonprofit that can pay his expenses, which won’t be a conflict of interest. Expert witnesses are generally paid, and often by third parties. He’s willing to testify without renumeration—he was just as angry as I was that this woman may have used Justin’s murder as a blueprint for killing her own son.”
“Proving it is going to be next to impossible.”
“You’d be surprised, Andrew.”
“Nothing surprises me anymore, Lucy.”
“My guess is that she used her office computer for research because there are far stricter rules for law enforcement to obtain computers and computer records that are owned by a law office. She likely cleared her search history, and unless they were specifically looking for a connection, they wouldn’t have seen it. But what most people don’t know is that everything is archived somewhere. Her law firm probably automatically backs up all data at least nightly. They can’t afford to lose anything in the event of a computer crash. That information includes search histories. The biggest question is whether those backups are still around after nearly a year—longer, because I suspect she’s been thinking about this a long time.”
“Why?” Max asked. “I don’t disagree, but how can you be so certain?”
“Because she planned it. Everything she did was identical to Justin’s murder, except the detail that was withheld from the public. But we’ll be able to get forensics of any drugs in his system, if there were any. I suspect that Justin’s killer used the same drug for Tommy Porter and Chris Donovan. It worked once, it worked twice, it worked three times—maybe more. Why change? In fact she hasn’t changed anything about her MO and that troubles me more than anything.”
“Why?” Andrew asked. “That’s good—it makes a clearer connection for the jury.”
“Because I think we’re missing a victim between Tommy Porter and Chris Donovan. She may have had to improvise. She’s cyclical. It also means that she’s planning another murder. If we can’t identify her, there will be another victim.”
“She has to be older, at least in her fifties.”
“Most likely she’s between the ages of forty-five and fifty-five. She’s determined. An eight-year-old boy might weigh sixty to eighty pounds, certainly light enough for a physically fit woman to carry. She’s not going to stop until we stop her or she’s dead.”
Lucy’s phone rang. She grabbed it, thinking it was Sean, but it was an unfamiliar number.
“Lucy Kincaid.”
“Lucy, it’s Don Katella.”
“Hello, Don. I was going to touch base later today. Did you get the files from Andrew?” She knew he did, but they hadn’t spoken since Thursday.
“Yes, and I read everything twice. I don’t know that I have what you want, but I made a list of every female who was interviewed. Nothing struck me as off when I was reviewing my notes.”
“I’d like to see that list. Can Ms. Revere and I come to your house this afternoon?”
“I have to run an errand for my wife, I can swing by your hotel when I’m done. Around three?”
“That would be great. If you could bring your notes as well, I might have some questions once we look through the names.”
“I have everything in order. What hotel?”
“US Grant. Room Fourteen-oh-one.” She gave him Max’s room because of the timeline Max had on her wall—having a seasoned detective review their theories would be an added benefit.
“Snazzy place. I’ll be there by three.” He hung up.
“Katella?” Andrew asked.
“Yes, he didn’t see anything, but he has a list of names, and that’s going to help.”
Andrew printed the information he’d put into the spreadsheet. It pained Lucy to watch him type so slow, but she couldn’t very well offer to do it for him. “If a name pops up on Katella’s list, let me know and I’ll work on obtaining a warrant to use all the information in that specific personnel file.”
Max grabbed the papers off the printer. “Eighteen names. Do you really think one of these women is who we’re looking for?”
“Yes,” Lucy said without hesitation. She looked at Andrew. “She knew you were having an affair and she stalked you and Nelia for months, if not longer. How long were you having the affair? I never asked.”
“Eight months. Sheila wasn’t married, we were both busy—we got together once or twice a month. It didn’t even feel like that long … it had become routine. When Justin died, it was over.”
“Did you love her?” Lucy didn’t know why she asked—it wasn’t her business.
He shook his head. “I liked her. A lot. Maybe I could have fallen in love, but I never planned on my marriage ending in divorce.”
“I don’t think love is planned. Either you do or you don’t.”
“Then I didn’t. Because it was too easy to walk away after Justin. Maybe Justin was the only person I truly ever unconditionally loved,” Andrew said quietly. “And he’s gone. If you’re right, Lucy, and this woman killed Justin to punish my infidelity, it worked. There hasn’t been a day in the last nineteen and a half years that I haven’t missed my son.”
* * *
Lucy was surprised that Max was so quiet on the drive back to the hotel. No questions, no prying into her personal life, no discussion of the case. While Lucy was relieved on the one hand, she grew suspicious. One thing she’d learned quickly about Maxine Revere was that she was a sharp observer of human nature and intensely curious about everything. She didn’t stop. She didn’t slow down. She didn’t let up ever. The dinner conversation the night before had drained Lucy, and in the back of her mind she couldn’t help but think that Max wasn’t going to stop prying into her life. Asking her questions didn’t bother her—it was what Max might start doing without Lucy’s knowledge that had her worried.
They walked through the lobby and Max made an immediate detour toward a group of chairs near the window. Lucy followed.
“You said you weren’t coming down,” she said to a man seated facing the lobby.
“I was done,” he said and stood. “The drive wasn’t bad, and I can be of more use to you here than in Santa Barbara.”
“David, this is Agent Lucy Kincaid. Lucy, David Kane, my right hand.”
Lucy took his hand. He was neither short or tall—just topped six feet—but with the posture of a soldier and the eyes of a cop. He had a scar down half of his right cheek and close-cropped hair. He looked like half the mercenaries her brother Jack worked with.
“Pleasure, Agent Kincaid.”
“Lucy.”
He nodded. “David.”
“We’re meeting with the lead detective from the Stanton murder,” Max said, “I’ll get you a room, then we’ll head up to my suite.”
“Ben got me a room.”
“I might have something else for you to do.”
“Today?”
“We’ll talk about it. Let’s debrief before the detective arrives.”
Lucy wondered if Max was planning on going behind her back again. The reporter had been quiet ever since Lucy got back from talking to Carina. She hardly said more than two sentences in Andrew’s office while they ate lunch. Something was up and Lucy didn’t know what it was.
That made her very nervous.
Lucy got off on the floor before Max. “I’m going to call Sean, then I’ll be up.”
“You don’t mind if I fill David in on the plan?”
“Go ahead.”
Lucy let herself into her room and called Sean. He answered almost immediately.
“I miss you,” he said.
“It’s only been two days.”
“Feels like two weeks.”
“I talked to Carina this morning. It went well.”
“I’m still mad about Thursday night.”
“I had a long conversation with Dillon. I understand so much better now.”
“Because you look at everyone’s point of view. That still doesn’t excuse the way your family treated you.”
“I forgive them.”
“You’re a better person than me.”
Sean was protective of her, and she loved him for it, but she didn’t want this situation to permanently damage his relationship with half her family. Especially since he was so close to Patrick and Jack.
“Sean, I’m okay.” She’d been hurt, especially the conversation with her father, but she would be okay.
“This is me, Luce,” Sean said quietly. “How is the investigation going? Is Revere minding her manners?”
Lucy almost laughed. “We had a nice dinner last night. She was fishing for information—out of curiosity. She doesn’t like that she hasn’t figured me out.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
“We have a list of suspects. A few stand out to me. Detective Katella is coming over with his notes and then … I’m hoping one of the names matches.” She wasn’t hoping. She was almost 100 percent sure that one of the names would match. “I talked to the assistant chief in Santa Barbara—he wants to help, but he also wants a formal FBI request.”
“There are a half dozen people you can have request the information.”
“I’m not going to risk anyone else.”
“Risk?”
“Reprimand. Suspension. I know the career risk, I’m willing to take it.”
“Lucy—”
“Please, Sean.” He had to understand her predicament.
“Okay. I’ll drop it, for now.”
“I might have a back door to get the information. If I have a name or two, the assistant chief may give me a yay or nay, and at this point, that’s all I need to push forward. I can turn everything over to the local FBI office with an actual suspect, and they can get the information through the proper channels.”
“That sounds like a good plan.”
“It was Max’s.”
“You told her about your leave? Or, rather, lack of time?”
“Not in so many words, but the woman is astute.”
“She raises the hackles on the back of my neck, Lucy.”
“On this, I trust her.”
Lucy deliberately changed the subject.
“How was the RCK meeting?”
“It’s not over.”
“I thought JT locked you all up until the meeting was over.”
“Patrick and I led a mutiny at two. That’s two in the morning. We bought a twelve-hour reprieve. Today should go faster. We still have a few security issues to work through, and then replacing Jayne.”
Jayne had been the computer guru and primary researcher for RCK until she’d leaked information. Though she hadn’t been malicious in her actions, it had created a huge problem for the group. She’d been with them for ten years and knew a lot about the organization and the people. There had even been talk about letting her stay in a different capacity, but no one was comfortable with her in the office. JT had found her a job as the IT manager for a software company. Perhaps she didn’t deserve the recommendation, but Lucy understood how the situation had spiraled out of control. Jayne hadn’t intended for anyone to get hurt, she didn’t even know that the information she shared would put Sean and his brothers in danger—and Lucy.
“She’s going to be hard to replace,” Lucy concurred.
“I have someone in mind, but you’ll be upset.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to take him from the FBI.”
She knew immediately who he was referring to. “Zach.”
“He’s perfect. Smart, young, loyal, and I’ve already run a deep background on him.”
“Honestly, Sean, I wouldn’t be upset except that I would miss him. He is good. And I don’t want any more changes in my squad. But it’s his decision. Maybe he doesn’t want to leave.”
“He has no family in Texas. His parents are semiretired in Florida. His sister is in college in Oregon. He’s in San Antonio because that’s where the FBI assigned him when he graduated. He’s squeaky clean and has a genius level IQ. The problem is that JT has an agreement with Rick Stockton that he won’t poach anyone from the FBI. He’s only allowed to bring in agents who have retired, or who seek out a position on their own—like when Mitch Bianchi came over from Sac FBI a few years ago. He wanted to leave, JT and Rick hashed out the details, and it worked out. But we can’t go to Zach and offer him a position.”
“You’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you.”
“I have to be sneaky about it. I probably shouldn’t have even mentioned it to you.”
“I won’t say anything.
“Hold on.”
Lucy glanced at her watch. Nearly three—she needed to meet Katella. She didn’t want him talking to Max alone. She was still a little worried about what the reporter had planned because she was far too quiet.
“Luce?”
“I’m here.”
“I need to go. I’ll call you when we’re done tonight or if it takes longer than I think, I’ll call in the morning and let you know when I’ll be in San Diego.”
“I don’t know that I’m going to leave tomorrow.”
Sean didn’t say anything. He knew as well as she did that her new boss wasn’t going to be pleased with her.
“I can always use your brains.”
“You have them. Be careful. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
She hung up. Sean hadn’t said it, but she could sense his reservations. He didn’t like her new boss either, but he also knew how much she loved her job.
You’ll find a way to make it work. You have to.
* * *
“What’s going on?” David asked Max after they entered her suite.
Max shot him a narrow-eyed glance. “I’m in the middle of an investigation.”
“You’re quiet.”
“You can tell after five minutes?”
“I can see you thinking.”
“Psychic, too.”
“What job do you have for me? You seemed unhappy that I came down today. Should I head back up to Santa Barbara?”
“No, I was going to get you a plane ticket direct to Scottsdale.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Blair killed her son.”
“You’re certain?”
“We know Justin’s killer is not Peter’s killer. And Lucy—she has a profile on Blair, though she didn’t share.”
“Profile? You didn’t tell me she was a profiler.”
“She’s not, at least not officially. She started talking about Blair, but then clammed up, as if I was going to broadcast every word.”
“Don’t hold that against her.”
“I’m not.”
David arched his eyebrow. He was actually smiling at her frustration. She ignored his unspoken commentary and said, “I’m going to take the trial. Ace will be angry with me, but that’s hardly news.”
“You need me to lay the ground work.”
“Ben will send someone later in the week. The trial starts a week from Monday. I need you to do what you do best.”
“Making sure no one takes a shot at you?”
“Hardly.” Where had that come from? “Talk to the cops. They know me, I ran the circuit when I got there last week. I want insight. Personal stories. You know what I need.”
“I’m not the best person.”
“Cops like you.”
“They don’t dislike me. Big difference.”
“You can fly out on Monday. Take tomorrow off.”
David grunted. “What would I do?”
“Relax.”
David smiled. “I relax about as well as you do.”
Max turned on the Keurig in the kitchenette and waited for the water to heat.
“You okay?” David asked.
“About what?”
“You’re off today.”
Was she? Maybe. She wanted Blair to be innocent. Not because she liked the woman, but because of John.
“How can a woman kill her child?” Max stared at the counter. “Blair has money. They’re comfortable. She didn’t even snap. At least how I think of someone snapping. She planned it all—researched the murders of other children, planned when and where and how, then executed it. Then, when it was all done, she went back to a fucking party and put on a happy face so no one knew any different. No one knew she’d killed a child. Her son. Went back for another martini and made small talk then came home and pretended she was stunned to find Peter missing. Why, David? How could she do that? And keep up the farce?”
David didn’t say anything. What could anyone say? How could anyone make sense of this crime? Max couldn’t even make sense of the profile Lucy Kincaid had created on the woman who killed Justin and two other little boys. But at least there was a reason. The woman was crazy—maybe not legally, but certainly she was twisted—but she at least had a reason for killing. Some perverse sense of punishment for the men who cheated on their wives … cheated on their families. While Max didn’t understand it, at least the bitch had a reason.
Blair had no reason. She killed her son and pretended she didn’t. She pretended she was a victim as much as Peter and John. She was cold. Calculating. She expected to get away with it, to be found not guilty, to continue to live her life of privilege married to a man she had emotionally gutted. And there was nothing that Max wanted more than to watch the justice system destroy her with the rope she handed them. Blair Caldwell would not get away with murder. If the justice system didn’t take care of it, Max would destroy her life, piece by piece.
Max prepared coffee black for David, then put another pod in for herself.
“I take it things are working out with Agent Kincaid,” David said.
“I made lemonade,” Max said.
“You copied me into your memo to Ben. I know about the meeting with the shrinks last night.”
“She’s smart. She doesn’t act like a rookie.”
“So what’s her story? I was surprised you didn’t give Ben something more about her. She seems … interesting.”
“To say the least.” Max took her coffee and added cream and sweetener, then sat on one of the stools. “The woman shares nothing about herself. She’ll talk about the case until the cows come home, but the only personal thing I could get out of her is that she loves chocolate.”
“I’m sure you observed more.”
“No. That’s it—she’s closed off. Like a veil is hanging around her. I can put some things together, like she was more upset about her failed meeting with her family than she wanted me to know. She and her husband have what seems like a too-perfect relationship that makes me want to gag—it’s straight out of a fairy tale. Except then she shares one little tidbit about how they don’t keep secrets. I pushed—I had to—and she was deliberate in how she answered. She doesn’t drink too much alcohol, she loves coffee almost as much as I do, and she seems to know me better than I know her.”
“I can see why that would bother you.”
“I just want to know what makes her tick. She’s said a few things that stuck with me—particularly related to the case. Like, when we were talking about Blair possibly being guilty, she said we won’t let her get away with it. Maybe it was the way she said it—the intensity. I don’t know exactly what, but she’s like me in some ways—a dog with a bone, as you once said—and in other ways she is my polar opposite. I pushed Andrew this morning—we had a good conversation while sorting through files—and he wouldn’t tell me squat. He let slip that it wasn’t Justin’s murder that pushed Lucy into the FBI. So what was it? He told me he wouldn’t tell me and not to ask about it.”
“Is it relevant to this case?”
“No, but—”
“Then leave it alone. Some things are better left buried.”
David might be right, and there was nothing about Lucy’s past that impacted this particular investigation. Well, Max didn’t know that, did she? She didn’t know anything about Lucy’s past.
“I think you’re ticked off because her husband pushed your buttons, made you promise something you didn’t want to promise.”
“You mean I can’t say word one about either of them.”
David was right. That had rubbed her the wrong way.
There was a knock at the door, and David answered. Lucy walked in. “Don Katella’s not here?”
Max shook her head. “Coffee?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Max made the coffee, then said, “I should have just ordered up a pot from room service.”
Lucy sat across from David. He said, “Max said your brother was in the army.”
“Yes, my oldest brother, Jack.”
“Where?”
“I was practically a baby when he enlisted—I know he went to boot camp at Fort Bragg, then did a tour in Central America. Became Delta a couple years later.”
“I was army. Rangers.”
Lucy smiled. “I thought so. There’s something familiar about you.”
“We haven’t met.”
“No, but there’s a familiarity in those who served, especially career. My brother-in-law Duke was in the army for three years, he doesn’t have the same edge that Jack does.”
“But they both work for RCK.”
Lucy glanced at Max. Max ignored the question in her eyes—was David actually getting more information out of Lucy than she could?
“Yes.”
“Max has their press kit. Made me read it.”
Lucy laughed. “RCK does a lot more than hostage rescue and personal security.”
“But that’s what they’re known for.”
“True, it’s how they started the business. They employ many former servicemen and women. The transition years, especially if you were deployed overseas, are difficult. Being able to use those skills can help bridge the gap between service and civilian life. Some can never fully leave.”
“It’s a way of life.”
“But you left.”
“I hadn’t planned to, but it was the right time.”
There was another knock on the door and Max inwardly groaned. David was expertly working Lucy, and she wanted more … but she didn’t dare interject because Lucy was sharp enough to figure it out. Max didn’t even think that David was knowingly pumping Lucy for information about herself and her family.
Max let Katella in. “We’re glad you could make it,” she said. “We have some names and want to compare them to your list.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” he said, but it was clear to Max that he was skeptical.
“Coffee?”
“Thank you.”
Why hadn’t she ordered room service? She made Katella a cup with the Keurig and David introduced himself.
Katella seemed impressed with her wall of information. “This is extensive.”
“Nothing we didn’t tell you on Thursday, but I like the visual,” Max said.
“You said four victims, but you crossed off this last victim.”
“Not the same killer,” Max said. “We now have two different cases, and Caldwell is already on trial. I don’t want to focus on her right now”—she handed Katella the mug—“we have a lead on Justin Stanton’s killer.”
“Possibly,” Lucy qualified. “Max used the Freedom of Information Act to obtain information about certain county employees, and Andrew expedited the request—he pulled the information himself. But we wanted to make sure that if there were any legal issues, we had the paperwork as backup. We have all the information that we’re legally able to obtain on eighteen employees. Women, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five at the time of Justin’s murder, who left employment within a year of his death.”
Katella handed Lucy a two-page list of handwritten names. “These are all the women who were interviewed—their personal information, such as their address at the time of their interview is in the files. I didn’t think to copy it.”
“We’ll double-check the addresses if we have a common name. How do you verify identity when you interview someone?”
“Driver’s license, though if we’re canvassing we wouldn’t ask for ID. We make note of the house we approached.”
Max hadn’t thought to ask that question, but it made sense. Double-checking the information they obtained from Andrew with the information Katella gleaned at the time of the murder.
Lucy read the names and immediately said, “Danielle Sharpe.”
“How did you see that so quickly?” Max ran a finger down the print out that Andrew had given her.
“I had a few names in my head based on the information on the spreadsheet.” Lucy asked Katella, “What do you remember about her?”
Katella seemed to be surprised that they’d narrowed the suspect pool down so quickly. And to be honest, Max was surprised herself. It was never this easy.
Easy? Was this really easy? Or did you just have someone who knew exactly what to look for?
“Um—” Katella seemed flustered. He opened the box he’d brought and dug through loosely organized notepads, most of which had sticky notes with names written on the tabs. “I marked each of those interviews. Let me find it…”
It took him a minute, but he located the notebook. “Here—I didn’t interview her myself. Oh, yeah. First responders interviewed her that morning. She was a neighbor who helped in the search. Remember, we didn’t find Justin’s body until late the next day. For a time we thought he might have left the house on his own and got lost.”
“We?” Lucy asked.
“I didn’t—kids his age don’t usually wander out of the house in the middle of the night, and I wasn’t called until the body was found. However, because he had his blanket some people thought maybe he got it in his head to camp or something. His mother told us he loved camping and was planning for a sleepaway camp with his best friend.”
Max looked at Lucy and saw pain. Bittersweet memories? Was she the best friend?
“Sharpe handed out flyers to all the neighbors.”
“You said she was a neighbor, but was she interviewed at Andrew’s house?”
“Correct.”
“Did she give her address?”
“No. We were in a different mode then—search.”
“And you never interviewed her again.”
“Yes, I did. I had her number, called her on the phone and asked follow-up questions. She didn’t have anything that helped. Here.” He handed Lucy his notepad.
While Lucy scanned the interview shorthand, Max looked at the line item that Andrew had prepared. Danielle Sharpe, age thirty-one, had left employment at the end of the year—six months after Justin’s murder. She was a legal secretary, but it didn’t indicate if she worked for Andrew or another prosecutor.
“How do the legal secretaries get assigned?” Max asked.
Lucy looked at her in confusion. “I have no idea.”
“Depends,” Katella said. “Andrew would know best. I know he has his own dedicated legal secretary, and a few of the other senior attorneys do as well, but it’s more a pool system. They get assigned based on workload and experience.”
“Andrew was a new ADA, so he would have been part of that process. He could have crossed paths with her. Max, there was no line item about marital status.”
“It wasn’t in the employee records, though there was emergency contact information.”
“We need that, but I want to pick Andrew’s brain. Give me two more legal secretaries on the list, I don’t care who, and I’m going to run all three by Andrew.”
“I don’t understand,” Katella said. “Why not just ask him?”
“Because if I’m right, this woman killed his son, and Andrew isn’t going to be thinking like a prosecutor—he’s going to be thinking like a grieving father.”
“There’s one more name in Katella’s notes,” Max said. “This woman—Jan DuBois. Why didn’t you home in on her?”
“She doesn’t live in the neighborhood.”
“Does that have to be a factor?”
“Her previous employment was as dispatcher in the sheriff’s department of San Diego County. I’m confident that whoever killed Justin came from out of state. Danielle fits that.”
Max was skeptical. She believed in instincts—depended on them—but she was also methodical in her approach.
“But,” Lucy continued, “I’ll include her in my questioning to Andrew. Good?”
“Yes.”
There were no other common names to both lists. Max pulled one other legal secretary who had left employment one year almost to the day of Justin’s murder and Lucy called Andrew and put him on speaker.
“Andrew, I’m here with Max, her assistant David Kane, and Detective Katella.”
“Don, how’ve you been?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Thank you for your help.”
“Andrew,” Lucy said, “I have three names I want to run by you.”
“You think one of them killed Justin.”
“Not necessarily. I don’t want you to overthink it, okay? Just tell me if you know them, what you remember about them, first recollection.”
“Who?”
“Jan DuBois.”
“Jan? Don’t tell me—”
“Don’t read into this, Andrew. Just spill it.”
“I’ve known Jan for years. She’s been married to Bill DuBois since before I met her. He’s now the assistant sheriff. She was a legal secretary for several years after she had two girls, thirteen months apart, then when they started school she went to law school. She’s in private practice now. The girls—jeez, I haven’t seen them in ages. They’re probably in college. They were a few years younger than Justin, if I recall. I see Bill and Jan at least once a year.”
“Katella interviewed her about whether she knew of your relationship with Sheila and about your marriage.”
“He interviewed a lot of people on staff.” There was a tone of bitterness in his voice.
“Buddy,” Katella said, “I was doing my job.”
“I know, Don. Sorry. It was a miserable year.”
“Christina Hernandez.”
“I don’t remember her.”
“She was the legal secretary to the DA, left employment in June the year after Justin’s murder.”
“I don’t remember, seriously. I vaguely remember the DA’s legal secretary, but I didn’t interact with her much. Hold on.” Max heard him rummaging through files.
Lucy said, “Don’t give me anything I shouldn’t have.”
Max was going to tear her hair out if they had to walk the straight and narrow. This was the reason she didn’t like working with cops.
“You could leave the room,” Max said.
Lucy gave her such a look that Max almost did a double take.
“Just an idea,” Max mumbled.
Andrew said over the phone, “I can tell you that she doesn’t fit your profile, does that help?”
“Yes, just keep her information handy. Last name. Danielle Sharpe.”
Silence.
“You don’t know her, either?” Max said. Damn, and she thought it had been a good lead. Didn’t mean she was innocent, but she would be harder to investigate if they had to go back to square one.
Andrew said, “I remember Danielle.”
“It was nearly twenty years ago,” Lucy said. “That’s a really good memory.”
Lucy sounded almost like she was interrogating Andrew. It was subtle, but Max didn’t miss the tone.
“She almost screwed up one of my biggest cases in my early career. Not something I would forget.”
“Explain.”
“It was more my fault for trusting her with something so crucial, but she’d done outstanding work for one of my colleagues, and I was still new—I’d only been in the DA’s office for two years at that point, still making a name for myself.”
“What specifically did she do?”
“I had her researching cases to back up a fraud case I was prosecuting. She screwed up every citation. Every single one. I called her on the carpet for it—she blamed the computer program she was using, that it had shifted columns so everything was one off. Still, the DA pulled the case from me and gave it to one of my rivals.”
“Did you believe her?”
“Why shouldn’t I have? Mistakes happen—I was furious at the time.”
“When was this?”
Andrew took a long pause. “I got the case at the beginning of the year. It would have been around April. Before Justin. Are you saying she killed my son because I got her in trouble?”
“No,” Lucy said. “I’m not saying anything.”
“Then why all these questions?”
“Do you know if she was married?”
“I didn’t know anything personal about her. I never worked with her again. I considered her incompetent, but ultimately, it was my responsibility to double-check her research.”
“Thank you. I’ll let you go and—”
“Stop. Don’t you dare hang up, Lucy! Is this the woman who killed my son? Why? Dammit, Lucy, you owe me that!”
Lucy bristled, and Max said in a calm, controlled voice, “Andrew, I’m sure you don’t mean that.”
He swore in the background. Something crashed to the ground.
“Listen to me,” Lucy said. “Back off. I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
“You don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I didn’t want to tip you off because you would go off half-cocked and try to find her. Confront her. She killed your son and everything you felt then, you’re feeling now. I will find her, Andrew, and if she is guilty, I will prove it. I promise you, Andrew. I’m not letting this go.”
“Okay. Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry—I’m just—you’re right. I haven’t felt myself since Max called and told me she was looking at Justin’s murder. I have a question, though.”
“Of course.”
“Are you saying Don interviewed her? Is that why her name came up?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Katella spoke up. “She was at your house the morning after Justin disappeared. There were dozens of people there—she said she was a neighbor, but I don’t have her address in the files.”
“A neighbor. I didn’t know. I never saw her there.”
“You weren’t home that morning. According to my notes, you were out looking for Justin with one of the first responding officers, then insisted that he take you to the station so you could run all sex offenders. Then I believe you went to your office to find out who might have been released recently that you put away. All the things I would have done—and did do—after he turned up dead.”
“Those days are a blur. All I really remember was when Nell called me and said Justin was gone. I remember bits and pieces … but the pain is always here. Always.”
“Andrew,” Lucy said, “you know me. You know I’ll never back down. I will find Danielle Sharpe, and if she killed Justin, she will be punished to the fullest extent of the law.”
“I think it’s time you bring this to the police,” Andrew said.
Max leaned forward. She wasn’t giving this up, not yet. She was close, and as soon as the police got involved, she’d be shut out.
“We don’t have enough,” Lucy said before Max could comment. She shot Max a look and shook her head. What did she think Max was going to say or do?
“What do you mean? We have a suspect! She matches all of your criteria.”
“Andrew, we have no idea what her background is, where she’s from, if she’s married or was married or lost a child. We don’t know where she is or what she’s doing. We have no physical evidence to tie her to the murders. None. We turn this over to the police—even here in San Diego where you have clout—they will be stymied because they don’t have the resources to pursue this out of the area. They’ll pass it along to whichever jurisdiction she lives in now, and they’ll talk to her—and that will get us nowhere. She’s never been interviewed as a suspect to our knowledge, and I don’t want to spook her—not until we have something solid. This is a multijurisdictional case, and as soon as I have anything tangible, I’ll give everything to the FBI. You know they’ll be able to expedite this—I’ll call in every favor to make it happen. We don’t have it, not now. But we will.”
“You believe that.”
“Yes,” Lucy said without hesitation.
“Let me know what I can do. Anything.”
“Right now, go home. Do something to take your mind off this.”
“That won’t happen, but I have a charity event I’m supposed to go to tonight. That’ll distract me for a bit.”
“I’ll call you later.”
Lucy hung up. “David, would you be able to contact the assistant sheriff in Santa Barbara? I talked to him this morning. I don’t want to put in a formal request, but he seemed to be open to answering yes or no questions if we have a name.”
“You want me to ask if he interviewed Danielle Sharpe.”
“Yes.”
“Tommy’s uncle has been helping—he’s a cop.”
“Can he talk to the parents about her? I would like to talk to them myself if possible.”
“I’ll feel him out, see what he thinks, but I suspect they want him to mediate.”
“That’ll work for now, but later, they may need to come forward, go on record about this woman.”
“Understood,” David said. He stepped out of the main room and onto the balcony to make the calls.
“She didn’t give me the vibe,” Katella said. “I don’t even really remember her.”
“That’s exactly what she wants and expects.” She snapped her fingers. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this.” She got back on the phone. “Andrew, do you have employee photos? Would those be covered under the FOIA Max filed?” She listened, then said, “Send it to both me and Max. Thanks.”
She hung up. Max was watching her closely. Lucy was certainly in her element, but there was something more—a maturity she hadn’t really noticed before. The focus? Yes. The borderline obsession? Yes. But she’d smoothly taken over the investigation. Had it just happened or had it been happening all along?
What surprised Max more than anything was that she didn’t care as much as she thought she would. Yes, she wanted to write about these cold cases. Yes, she wanted to give justice to these innocent victims and their families. In the past, she would have fought tooth and nail against bringing in any law enforcement agency until she had practically solved their case and turned it over with a pretty monogrammed Maxine Revere bow. She would have fought and won—she knew how the game was played, she knew how to manipulate the system, and she firmly believed—because it had been proven to her over and over again that when the police got a cold case, nothing would happen, even if she gave them some juicy facts.
Maybe it was Lucy herself. Max had the distinct impression—based on little things here and there—that Lucy was putting her career on the chopping block by working with Max. Not specifically because she was here with Max, but because she was pursuing an investigation without sanction from her office, way out of her jurisdiction. The more Max learned about the rookie, the more she realized she didn’t know—and damnit, she wanted to know everything. Lucy Kincaid was one of the most mysterious and interesting people Max had met in a long, long time.
She had to convince Lucy to let her interview her for Maximum Exposure. She had to find a way. Max would work through the FBI’s media office, and she usually got what she wanted.
“I can find Danielle Sharpe,” Max said.
“How?” Lucy asked.
“The power of the media.”
Lucy frowned. “You can’t expose her, not yet.”
“No, I should say, the power of my research staff. They’re the best, and I don’t say that lightly. Give me a couple hours.”
“Okay, thank you. I need to call Dillon.”
“Why?” Why was Max even worried about it? Dillon Kincaid was not only helping, he was going to testify for the prosecution against Blair Caldwell. He was on their side.
“Andrew didn’t know she was at the house after Justin was kidnapped. But Nelia would. She might not remember, but Dillon needs to talk to her. What if Danielle Sharpe kept in contact with her? What if she has another connection to my sister? There’s something that set her off, something that made her target Justin. Without more, there’s no way the FBI or any other agency is going to touch this.”
“Okay, you’re right,” Max said, relieved. Lucy did understand, and they were on the same page.
“I should go,” Katella said. “I still need to do those errands for my wife, though this conversation has been far more interesting.” He picked up his box of files. “If you need anything else, call me.”
Lucy walked him to the door, said something Max couldn’t hear, then let him out.
“Can I use this office to call Dillon?” Lucy asked Max, gesturing to the small den off the living room.
“Of course,” Max said. She waited until Lucy closed the door, then she called Ben.
“Hello, darling,” Max said.
“You want something.”
“I always want something, it’s why you love me.”
“It’s six thirty on Saturday night.”
“The news never sleeps. I need to find a person, and it needs to be hush-hush.”
“Research staff is off. It can wait until Monday.”
“No, it can’t.”
“What did you do before you had a staff?”
“I didn’t have to commit any time to filming a show, writing three articles a week for a Web page, or covering trials. I took one case at a time and hired people to get me information I needed when I needed it. I could always go back to my old life.”
“You’d hate it.”
“I’d love it, and you damn well know it.”
Ben sighed. “What.”
“I’m sending you the photograph, name, and basic statistics of a person of interest, we’ll call her. I need to know where she lived prior to Justin Stanton’s murder and where she is now.”
“You don’t ask—you have a suspect?”
His tone changed midsentence.
“You did it, didn’t you?” Ben continued, excited.
“Not alone.”
“And the fed is letting you run with this?”
“She’s not letting me do anything. We need more information. You can’t air a word of this—we don’t want to spook her. But I’ll give you one more thing—I’ll cover the Blair Caldwell trial.”
“What? Really? That’s terrific!”
“You’re going to have to tell Ace, I’m not going to get in another shouting match with him.”
“I can handle Ace, but why the change?”
“She’s guilty. I know it. Kincaid got her brother to agree to be an expert witness, the DA is considering it, and we may even be able to help.”
“Can you solve Justin Stanton’s murder before the trial starts?”
“If we can find this person, yeah. I think so.” So she was stretching a bit. But Ben needed to be fully committed and see the potential of the show. The trial, with bonus content of Max being involved in solving a similar cold case and through that proving that Blair Caldwell is a cold-blooded killer. Max didn’t have to explain the potential—he usually saw it before her.
“I want Lucy Kincaid on tape.”
“So do I.” She glanced at the closed door. “That might be trickier.”
“I’ve been exceptionally discreet, but I’m learning more about her.”
Max felt uncomfortable. She wanted the information, but she had promised Lucy and Sean that she wouldn’t dig around.
No, you promised them you wouldn’t quote them or mention them without express permission. You never promised you wouldn’t dig around.
“She has a thick sealed FBI file.”
“Before or after she graduated?”
“Both, seems to go back to when she was eighteen.”
“And?”
“I don’t have it—I’m not going to touch it with a ten-foot pole. My contact at the FBI office gave me a heads-up about it, as a way of steering me away from pursuing it. Seems people asking about the file are reprimanded or reassigned. It’s—extremely odd.”
It most certainly was. It was a situation Max would pursue in a heartbeat. Instead, she said, “Drop it.”
“I never in a million years thought you’d say that.”
“I want to tread carefully.”
“I’m sending you a report I dug up on a California crime blog. I don’t know how much of it is accurate, but the guy who writes it seems to be in the know.”
“What’s it about?”
“Last Christmas, Kincaid was held hostage by a gunman at the hospital morgue and apparently saved the lives of the other hostages, then helped catch a mercy killer. The crime blog pulled from articles and an interview with an unnamed source, but according to him, no one figured it out until Kincaid came along and put disparate information together. And then I was talking to a friend of mine in Texas—”
“Texas? I thought you hated the South.”
“I didn’t go down to visit him, good God, I used the phone. He was privy to the details of Operation Heatwave, which was a multiagency sting in the greater San Antonio area. Took down wanted felons, bail jumpers, et cetera. Kincaid was part of it—not only part of it, but word is she went undercover to rescue a group of orphaned boys who were being used by the cartels as mules. He wasn’t positive about the details—he thinks they might have been foster kids, because shortly after Heatwave was over, details came out about a corrupt social worker and he suspects there was a connection. But without making inquiries, we won’t know the truth. But I did find out one fact.”
“Tell me,” Max said, watching the door closely. The last thing she wanted was Lucy walking into the room while she was talking about it.
“She solved the murder of Harper Worthington.”
“The husband of that corrupt congresswoman? Who was caught taking bribes but then was killed or something?” Max hated politics, and she hadn’t followed the case considering it was Texas.
“She was murdered by the cartels she was laundering money for.”
“I hate politics.”
“Which is why you don’t remember the case. But it was huge. And your pal Kincaid was in the middle of it.”
“As a rookie.”
“Apparently.”
The door opened and Max said, “I have to go, can you get that information on Sharpe? I sent you everything I have.”
“I’ll call in Debbie.”
“Is she the one who likes baseball?”
“That’s Trinity. Debbie is the best fact-checker we have and adopts every stray animal on the planet.”
“I owe her.”
“Buy her a year supply of dog and cat food and I think she’d be happy.” Ben hung up.
“All good?” Max asked Lucy.
“Dillon is calling Nelia.” Lucy was distracted. She glanced out the window to where David was still on his phone.
“That doesn’t really answer my question,” Max said. “You look troubled.”
“Let’s say we get everything we want—proof that Danielle Sharpe was in each city at the time of the murders. That she worked with one of the parents. That she lost her son. Even if we can prove that her husband was having an affair, none of that proves that she’s the killer. We have no physical evidence. We don’t have probable cause for a search warrant. We have some circumstantial evidence that doesn’t really mean anything, except to us. She gets a good lawyer, we don’t even get to talk to her.”
“Then we’ll talk to her before she even knows she’s a suspect.”
“I can’t. I’m a federal agent, if I go and talk to her I’m going to be tipping my hand. And if I lie about who I am, then anything I learn can be thrown out.”
“I can talk to her. I’m a reporter. Believe me, I’m used to pulling information out of people who don’t want to talk.”
“Maybe,” Lucy said, but she didn’t seem happy about it.
“This is my job, and I usually don’t work with a cop for this exact reason—you can’t do what I can do.”
David walked back inside. “In a word, yes. Danielle Sharpe was interviewed by Santa Barbara PD. She worked for the same law firm as Doug Porter, joined six months after she left San Diego. She was interviewed not because she was a suspect, but because she was Porter’s personal legal secretary and was required to turn over certain documents and calendars. She’s also the one who told the police about the affair—though she didn’t call it that. She said he was out with a client and gave the name and location. According to Porter’s brother-in-law—the cop I’ve been talking to—Porter was surprised she knew the information, but she said she thought Porter was working off-book for a client, against the policy of the law office. She claimed she didn’t know he was cheating on his wife.”
“She knew because she stalked him,” Max said, glancing at Lucy for confirmation.
Lucy nodded. “That’s exactly right.”
“Why didn’t he know?” Max asked. “Porter admitted he didn’t know she had the information.”
“Because his son was dead,” David said. “He wasn’t thinking about anything else but his son and his family.”
“David’s right,” Lucy said. “Unless the police had a reason to draw his attention to his assistant, he wouldn’t have thought about it. David, I really would like to talk to Chris Donovan’s mother.”
“I haven’t attempted to contact her,” David said.
“My staff did,” Max said, “and she blew us off. But I have her contact information.”
“She knows this woman, I’m positive.”
“Danielle worked with the fathers.”
“Chris’s father worked in computers. His mother is an attorney, right? Private practice?”
Max confirmed. “She and her partner worked in tax law.”
“Partner?” Lucy asked.
“Yes,” Max flipped through her binder of background information. “Sandra Gillogley.”
“We talk to her, then. Are they still partners?”
“Yes.”
“There’s loyalty there, especially since they have a small office. Okay, I think the primary goal is to confirm that Danielle Sharpe worked there when Chris Donovan was murdered, then ask about the circumstances of employment.”
“As if we’re looking to hire her?” Max asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll do it,” David said.
“Why you?” Max countered.
“Because you’re too damn nosy and you’ll make a lawyer nervous,” David said. “I know exactly what information you need.”
“It’s Saturday,” Max said. “She’s not going to be in the office. What’s your excuse calling her at home?”
“I don’t need one. We have her cell phone number. It’s what we pay that research staff of yours for.”
David sat down at the desk, wrote some notes, and dialed. He put his finger to his lips, then put his phone on speaker.
“Hello.”
“Sandra Gillogley, please.”
“This is Sandra. Who’s this?”
“David Kane, assistant to Mr. Revere at Sterling Revere Hopewell in Menlo Park.”
Max was impressed. David had used her family’s law firm.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Kane?”
“I’m calling regarding a résumé that has come across my desk. I’m fact-checking details.”
“Go ahead.”
“Did Ms. Danielle Sharpe work for your firm from 2011 through 2013?”
“Yes, she did. July of ’11 through December of ’13.”
“Under her duties she listed legal secretary responsibilities as well as light office work, preparation of filings, and the like.”
“Correct.”
“What was the workload of your office? Light, moderate, heavy?”
“Light, though during tax season extremely heavy.”
“Was Ms. Sharpe capable if handling the variety of workloads?”
“Mostly.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“She did her job well, she was meticulous—absolutely essential when working in tax law—but during crunch time, she became testy. We’re a small office and even my partner and I are irritable in April.”
“She indicated that she left to pursue another opportunity, but it’s unclear if it was voluntary or if she was asked to leave.”
“I would say it was mutual.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Danielle was a good employee, and more competent and mature than most legal secretaries we’ve had over the years. But my partner went through a traumatic event early in 2013, and I felt Danielle was far too interested in her personal life. At first, she was very kind, even commiserated with my partner. But it turned a bit … well, let’s just say, too interested.”
“That’s a little vague. Would you say she was personally involved in your partner’s life? Perhaps to the point of being uncomfortable.”
Silence. Had David tipped his hand?
“That’s a pointed question.”
“I apologize—while Sterling is a civil law firm, I originally came from criminal law and tend to look at situations from that viewpoint.”
“I can say this. My partner lost her son in early 2013. Apparently, so did Danielle, years before. I suspect that Cindy’s loss triggered some deep emotions in Danielle and she felt the need to overshare details with Cindy, which caused my partner distress. I suggested that Danielle find someone else to talk to about it—it was clear to me she was deeply pained—and Danielle did not take my suggestion in the way I intended. We decided that it would be best if she leave. I assured her I would give her outstanding recommendations—because she did a good job for us—and I have been called twice for a reference, which I happily gave. In fact, two years ago one of my law school classmates hired Danielle into his law firm and thanked me for the referral.”
“What is his name?”
Again, silence. “If she didn’t list it on her resumé, perhaps they left on less than stellar terms.”
“It’s even more important that I speak with him.”
“Don’t hire her. If anyone lied on a resumé, they’d go into the trash bin. If there’s nothing else?”
“No, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”
David hung up.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Sorry?” Lucy said. “That was perfect. Any more and she would have become suspicious. But I need that name. Two years—she’s still there, I’m certain of it.”
“How do you find out?”
Max already was on it. She googled Sandra Gillogley. “She graduated in 1989 from Whittier Law School.” She typed in another search bar. “They average about seven hundred students in enrollment, full- and part-time.”
“I don’t suppose the Web site had a way to sort by graduates within two years of her,” Lucy said.
“No, but if he’s a member of the bar, my staff can track him down. Or, at least, a list of potentials.”
“She’s in California,” Lucy said. “Most likely she’s going to stick with what she’s familiar in, and working for fifteen years in the law in California between Andrew, Doug Porter, and Donovan means she’s not going to venture too far.”
“You’d be surprised how small the number could be,” Max said. “But it’s still going to take time.” She sent a message to Ben, then immediately shut down her e-mail so she didn’t have to read a rant. He wouldn’t be happy.
“We have exactly what we need.” Lucy walked over to Max’s timeline and wrote details about Danielle Sharpe’s employment. Max fought the urge to object—she never let anyone else write on her timeline. “I’ll bet Andrew can talk to human resources and find out if there were any inquires into Sharpe’s employment.” She made notes on a small pad. “Sandra said she suggested that Danielle talk to someone, probably a psychologist. That would set Danielle off. To her, there’s nothing wrong with her. It’s everyone else who has a problem. But I also suspect that deep down she has a fear that someone will be able to see through her, see what she’s done.” She continued writing.
Max hadn’t made the connection, but as soon as Lucy said it, it was obvious.
“Why hasn’t anyone seen through her?” Max wondered out loud.
“Because she has no friends. No one who can get close. That two-lawyer office was as close to friends as she had, but Sandra didn’t sound like the type of person would would get chummy with her support staff. And Danielle would have put up walls to ensure there was no personal connection. She has no close friends, everyone is superficial. If she stayed in any one place for a long time, people would notice, but they might not think much of it. Most people aren’t that observant.”
“Yet Katella said she was at the Stanton house helping with the search.”
“A criminal often goes back to the scene of their crime.”
“Why?”
“Different reasons. For arsonists it’s usually sexual, or a way to see their handiwork in full glory. For killers it’s more complicated. Either to absorb the pain of others, or to gloat, or to make sure no one suspects them. For Danielle? A combination of regret and gloating. She needed validation. She wanted Andrew’s affair to be revealed, she wanted him to suffer, and she wanted—needed—to see that.”
“But Andrew didn’t see her at the house.”
“That he remembers. She was there, at least once, and saw Nelia turn Andrew away. It validated her. Finally, the woman has some sense, sees the truth, too bad it took the death of her only son to notice her husband is a cheating asshole.”
Lucy stopped suddenly and looked from Max to David. “I-I didn’t mean that literally. I’m just thinking like the killer.”
“Why didn’t you go into BSU?” Max asked spontaneously. Lucy seemed surprised by the question. “I mean, you sound like Arthur Ullman, just more … intense. You understand these people.”
“It’s a gift and a curse,” Lucy said and averted her eyes.
“Still, it seems you would be a natural for that unit.”
“I’m starving,” David said.
Max wanted to throttle him. She was getting Lucy to open up—finally. It wouldn’t have taken much more prodding. She sensed Lucy was weakening, maybe because she was so emotionally involved with this case. There was something about her that drew Max in … and she would find the answers she was looking for.
“Let’s go downstairs. Lucy?” David asked her.
“Give me a minute, I want to take a few more notes.” She glanced at her phone. “And Dillon’s calling me.”
“We’ll meet you down there,” Max said. She grabbed her purse and walked out with David. “Why?” she demanded as soon as they closed the door.
“You were about to overstep, and I didn’t want you damaging your relationship with that girl.”
“I was not overstepping. It was a natural question to the situation. You heard her—she’s not like most feds we know.”
“Sometimes for the most observant person on the planet, you’re obtuse.”
“Insults. Really.” She pressed the elevator button. “Don’t interfere with this. I want to know everything about Lucy Kincaid.”
“Then step back and watch, don’t question. I guarantee you, Max, that if you give her room to work, you’ll see her shine—and figure out why she’s so damn good at her job.”