By the time Max was done interviewing Peter Caldwell’s third-grade teacher, Barbara Pritchard, her staff had located John’s housekeeper, Jane Nunez.
She hadn’t learned anything she didn’t already know from Ms. Pritchard, but it was always helpful to have an outside opinion of individuals involved in any case and to confirm information. According to the teacher, Peter was a good student who enjoyed school and had many friends. John was an attentive father who participated in field trips more often than Blair. In fact, Ms. Pritchard couldn’t remember a time that Blair had gone on a field trip with the school. Ms. Pritchard also talked about how John treated his son and wife with love and respect, so much that Max wondered if the teacher was a bit jealous or perhaps simply a romantic.
The main reason Max wanted to talk to the teacher was to have her share what she told the police, without expressly asking her to repeat what she’d told the police. And Ms. Pritchard came through with flying colors—yes, the police had asked if Peter had been abused, and she had never seen any signs of abuse. No bruises, no broken bones, nothing. Peter was a happy child in a loving, wealthy family. The only time he’d ever even missed school was when he was ill with the flu for a week right before Christmas break, but he caught up on his assignments.
Of course the police had asked about child abuse, Max thought, as she drove to Jane Nunez’s house in a quiet, established Phoenix neighborhood. They would want any evidence of abuse as a pattern to show the jury habitual violence leading up to murder. Historically, a parent who killed one of their children had been abusing them. But if there was any evidence of abuse, John would have known about it—and he wouldn’t have been so quick to think Blair was innocent.
Unless he was in complete denial.
Yet she couldn’t see John turning his back on physical abuse. Once might be an accident, but multiple times? Could he be that naïve?
She couldn’t legally access Peter’s medical records, and she would have to wait until the trial to find out if the prosecution had uncovered any child abuse, but the teacher seemed certain that Peter was healthy and happy. Would she have caught on to the subtleties of abuse? Max couldn’t say, but in the thirty minutes she spent with the teacher, she was almost certain Ms. Pritchard would have been aware of any physical or emotional signs of abuse—and that she wouldn’t have kept that information to herself.
Max knocked on Jane Nunez’s house at two that afternoon; she wasn’t home. She drove to a nearby restaurant—a mom-and-pop Mexican diner. While the atmosphere was a far cry from the Biltmore where she’d eaten last night, Max had learned that some of the best food was found in the most nondescript places. She was not wrong in picking this hole-in-the-wall, if the salsa they put in front of her was any indication.
While she ate, Max read the report her staff had prepared on Jane Nunez.
Jane owned her own small business for the past fifteen years, employed more than a dozen housecleaners but also took her own clients. She owned her house, had no outstanding debt, and had only one social media account, a private page that seemed to be reserved for a limited number of friends and family. The business had a public Facebook page, but it was primarily to steer prospective clients to her Web site. There were comments from clients, most of them positive.
After enjoying a surprisingly fresh and spicy shrimp salad, Max relaxed in the booth and called several of Jane’s clients—using the excuse that she was checking references—and they all spoke highly of Jane, her staff, and their overall professionalism. She learned from one chatty older woman that Jane was a widow with four children and the “salt of the earth.”
Max glanced at her watch. It was three thirty—Jane might be home by now if she picked up her children from school. She seemed too young to have a child old enough to drive, but anything was possible.
Max paid for her meal and left. Jane’s house was only five minutes away; she was still not home. Max sat in her rental car under a tree across the street. She was in the middle of proofreading an article Ben wanted to post under her byline to the Maximum Exposure Web site when her phone rang.
Nick.
She almost sent him to voice mail. She should. But she had left him a message yesterday when she arrived at the Biltmore.
“Hello, Nick.”
“Hi, Max. I called you back as soon as I got your message.”
She had to give him credit for trying. She knew he was trying to fix what was broken in their relationship, but she didn’t know if what they had was worth fixing. Or if it could be fixed. Or if she wanted it to be fixed.
“I was in a meeting.”
“In Phoenix?”
“A case I’m looking into.”
“I’d love to hear about it.”
Max watched a new, generic minivan pull in to the garage. Before the door closed, four kids clamored out of the van and ran into the house.
“And I’d love to share with you, but now isn’t a good time. I have another interview in a few minutes.”
“I have swing shift this week.” For Nick, that meant he worked three until midnight. It was already nearly four; he was likely calling her from his desk.
“Call when you’re off duty. If I’m awake, I’ll answer.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m always okay, Nick. My interview is here. I’ll talk to you tonight.” She hung up before he—or she—prolonged the conversation.
She wished she hadn’t answered the phone at all. This dance she and Nick had been waltzing for the last four months had drained her. Four months? Maybe it started when they first started seeing each other nine months ago.
Long-distance relationships had always been best for her because she didn’t want to give up her independence or her autonomy. Plus, there was a layer of emotional distance that usually suited her. She could enjoy a weekend every month of fabulous sex and conversation and then resume her life when she returned to New York. But with Nick, she’d wanted more—she had shared more of herself with him than she had with nearly every other man she’d dated, yet he didn’t share with her. At least not what she felt was important, namely this routine with his ex-wife over the custody of their son. An important part of his life that he told her in no uncertain terms he would not discuss with her.
You should have broken it off months ago.
She should have, but she’d been in an emotional whirlwind and convinced herself that she could enjoy the relationship for what it was and simply pull back emotionally.
It hadn’t worked. She’d pulled back, but she wasn’t enjoying the relationship. She felt like she was in a perpetual state of mourning, or anger, or both.
Max pulled herself together, finished proofreading the article, sent the corrections to Ben, and left her car. She walked up to Jane’s front door and rang the bell.
A moment later she heard pounding footsteps and jostling behind the door. A young boy shouted, “Ouch!” then the door opened.
Two kids, a boy of about six and a girl of about eight, stood there, crowding into the space between the door and the frame. “Hi,” the boy said.
“Is your mom home?” Max asked.
“Yes, who are you?”
“Maxine Revere.”
They stood there, her name meaning nothing to either kid. “You’re not selling anything, are you?” the girl asked.
“No.”
“You sure? My mom doesn’t like solicitors.”
“I’m sure.”
“Then who are you?”
“Abby! Robbie! Rooms, now.”
Jane Nunez came to the door. Her kids scurried off. “I swear, they are impossible. May I help you?”
“I’m Maxine Revere. I’m a friend of John Caldwell’s.”
Jane didn’t say anything, but she straightened her spine and her friendly expression vanished.
“John and I went to college together,” Max continued. “He gave me your contact information.” Small white lie, but John had told her he would give her the information. Blair’s arrival prevented it.
“What do you want?”
Slightly suspicious. Why? “I’m an investigative reporter. I primarily investigate cold cases, and John asked me to look at similarities between Peter’s murder and that of three young boys in Southern California.”
Jane’s face fell. “I don’t know how I can help you.”
“John said you worked for him for several years. You have insight into the family. You may have noticed something odd in the weeks or months leading up to Peter’s death.”
“A reporter,” she said flatly. “I will not gossip about the family, friend or no.”
“I don’t want gossip.” Though gossip often had a ring of truth, if you could weed through the biases of the person sharing the information. “May I come in?”
“No.”
Okay, she had to do this another way. Jane Nunez was a mother, a small-business owner, and married—was married. Her chatty client said she was a widow. Yet she still wore a simple, classy wedding band on her ring finger. Four kids? Organized. Her kids had obeyed her immediately with only a simple eye roll of protest, meaning she commanded respect. She wouldn’t be easy to manipulate.
“Do you think that Blair Caldwell killed her son?”
“I’m not going to dignify that question with an answer.”
“John believes she’s innocent, and he wants me to prove it. That’s not what I do. I investigate cold cases. I’ve never investigated a murder that was less than a year old. I’m not here to stir the pot, to impede the police investigation or the trial. I’m here because there are similarities between Peter’s murder and the murders of three other boys between the ages of seven and nine. I hope Blair is innocent, for John’s peace of mind, but I’m not here to prove it.”
“Then why are you here?”
“In the three other cases, one of the parents had been having an affair. That information came out in each of the investigations. John told me he wasn’t cheating on Blair, Blair isn’t talking about her case because of the pending trial. I want to know what you think.”
“I have no idea,” she said quickly.
“You have no idea if either of the Caldwells were having an affair?”
“I do not pry into the personal lives of my clients. I don’t gossip. I need you to leave. It’s been a long day, and I have to get dinner ready.”
“Mrs. Nunez, did you notice anything odd in the weeks or months leading up to the murder? An unscheduled delivery, telephone hang-ups, anything out of the ordinary?”
“I was at the Caldwells’ house every Friday from eight in the morning until two. That’s it. If I had noticed anything, I would have told Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell. I would have told the police.”
“You must have an opinion. The police arrested Blair Caldwell. That might jog your memory, something that you think she may or may not have done.”
“I have the utmost respect for the police, but even the police can make a mistake.”
“So you think she’s innocent.”
“I don’t know! I need you to—”
“John told me that you cared a great deal for Peter. That you quit because you were heartbroken.”
“I was heartbroken!” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “Peter was a year older than my own son. I couldn’t stop thinking that but for the grace of God, it could have been Robbie.” She looked down, put her fingers to her eyes. “Ms. Revere,” Jane said in a whisper, “I don’t know what you want from me. I worked for the Caldwells since Peter was three, when they moved here from New York. I wasn’t a nanny, I didn’t watch Peter except on rare occasions. But I knew him, he was a wonderful little boy. Smart as a whip and full of energy. I couldn’t work for them anymore because I kept seeing Robbie in Peter’s photos.” Her voice cracked again, and this time it took her several moments before she could speak again. Max assessed her, and her first impression was accurate.
This woman knew something. She might not know what she knew, but in the back of her mind, something was troubling her, over and above the death of a boy much like her own son.
Jane said, “The Caldwells were good clients. They spoiled Peter, but he didn’t act spoiled. I feel for the family, and I feel for that little boy. And that is all I have to say on the subject.”
“You know something, in the back of your mind, maybe if we could sit down and—” Max barely got the words out before Jane shut the door midsentence.
She walked back to her rental car, frustrated. The last two days had been a complete dead end. What had she expected? A suspect was on trial for murder. Even if someone thought Blair was innocent, would they still think so now? She couldn’t talk to witnesses, she couldn’t get back to see Blair, and after today John would probably not cooperate.
Time to focus on the other three cases. She hoped her assistant, David Kane, had better news.
On the drive back to the Biltmore, she made flight reservations for San Diego. Whether Andrew Stanton cooperated or not, she was going to investigate his son’s murder.