Max reluctantly rented a car at the San Diego airport. She hated the process and hassle and complete unfairness of how they treated her. They charged her triple the rates and she self-insured. Her minor accidents were rarely her fault—the last time she’d been legally parked when someone rear-ended her and stole a diary she’d uncovered that ultimately helped her solve a cold case. Yet they punished her? Ridiculous.
She read David’s notes from his conversation with both Adam Donovan and Donovan’s mistress while sitting in the rental car. She made a note to touch base with Stanton’s mistress—no assumptions, she told herself. Just because the police did due diligence twenty years ago didn’t mean that they didn’t miss something.
Once Max was done with her tablet—as well as checking her e-mail—she drove out of the rental lot. On the freeway, she called Stanton and confirmed the time and place of their meeting.
“I’ve asked my sister-in-law to meet us,” Stanton said.
“That’s great,” Max said. “The more support and information we can get from Justin’s family will help. I appreciate your cooperation.”
“I haven’t decided whether to cooperate, Ms. Revere. I talked to your producer at length. I grant you, your theory is interesting, but I still need more information.”
“Fair enough. I’m ready to answer all questions you and Detective Kincaid may have.”
He paused. “My sister-in-law Lucy is flying in from Texas. She’s an FBI agent and will likely be the only Kincaid willing to talk to you.”
“She’s coming in from Texas?” Max mentally ran through the Stanton case. The name Lucy Kincaid was familiar, but because she lived out of state and had been a child when Justin was murdered, Max hadn’t dug into her background. She didn’t think she’d be useful in the investigation. Yet she was an FBI agent? Max couldn’t remember that in her notes.
“You will need to convince Lucy of your theory, so bring your A game, Ms. Revere. I don’t appreciate being threatened, and I would suggest you avoid playing hardball with Lucy. I’ll see you at three.”
He hung up.
Max was not pleased with this new development. Not because Stanton was bringing in someone else—she had hoped to talk to Carina Kincaid, not only because she was related to the victim but because she had been a suspect for a brief time. She’d fallen asleep on the couch during the time frame that Justin had been kidnapped. Carina hadn’t heard or seen anything, according to her statement. Maybe the years—or different questions—could jog her memory.
But convincing a federal agent of her theory? What was with that? As if she had to ask for permission to work this case? What bullshit.
What did Lucy Kincaid know about the murder? Absolutely nothing. She’d never been interviewed, never been part of the investigation even in an ancillary way. And bringing in a federal agent to boot? What did Stanton hope to accomplish? Was he deliberately trying to sabotage Max’s investigation? Or perhaps wanting to listen to her theory then have the feds swoop in citing a multistate jurisdiction issue and tell her to back off, that they were reopening the case?
That would infuriate Max. While she’d want their resources, she knew after almost twenty years the FBI wouldn’t spend the time and money necessary to find the answers. If they got nothing actionable after a week or two, they’d shelve the case again until something new came up. Been there, done that. It had been one of the biggest recurring arguments in her relationship with her ex-boyfriend, Special Agent Marco Lopez.
Without Max stirring the pot, nothing new would rise to the surface.
She rolled her neck, willed herself to relax. She held all the cards here. Law enforcement wasn’t interested in an almost twenty-year-old cold case. She had the time and resources to pursue Justin Stanton’s murder, but even more important, people would talk to her because she wasn’t a cop.
Max called her producer, Ben Lawson. He put her immediately on hold—she hated that.
Max wondered if Lucy Kincaid really did hold that much sway with Stanton. Stanton was the district attorney, he could delay access to files that would normally be public. She already had all the files that had been archived online, and had read every press story and watched every archived news program. The one thing she needed was the one thing that Stanton might be able to screw with—access to the retired detective who had led the investigation.
Her research into Stanton told her that he was a hard-nosed prosecutor who first ran for DA ten years ago and won in a tight race. His last two elections had been landslides. He could run for a fourth term in two years—there were no term limits for the district attorney—but California political types said he was considering a bid for attorney general. There was a rumor—a deeply buried rumor, but Max had a good friend who worked on the Judiciary Committee in the U.S. Senate—that Stanton was on the short list for an opening on a federal bench. Was that why he wanted his son’s murder solved? Political expediency?
“Hello, Max,” Ben finally said.
She looked at the time on her phone. “You kept me on hold for three and a half minutes.”
“I’m surprised you waited that long.”
So was she.
“Stanton is bringing in his former sister-in-law and she apparently has veto power on his cooperation.”
“Which sister?”
“Lucy Kincaid. He said she’s an FBI agent.”
“I sent you information on the Kincaid family. She’s a rookie out of the San Antonio office—been there a year.”
“Just terrific,” she said. A rookie fed. “She was seven when Stanton’s son was killed. I don’t get it.”
“I’ll see what we have on her—if I recall, it’s not much. It’s difficult to get information out of the feds as you know.”
She could call Marco, she thought. He was now an SSA out of Miami. But she didn’t want to ask her ex-boyfriend for a favor. She’d spoken to him two or three times in the last six months, but she wanted to keep her distance while she tried to work things out with her current boyfriend. Though she hadn’t really been trying to work things out with Nick.
“I could call Marco instead,” Ben said.
“I didn’t say I was going to call him.” When had her producer started to read her mind?
“Let me see what I can find out without contacting any of your ex-lovers.”
“Don’t be crass. Tell me what you have so far.”
“On Agent Kincaid?” She heard him typing on a computer. “She was low priority because she was out of state. We have the basics—Lucia Kincaid, the youngest of seven children—by ten years—was born the same month as her nephew, Justin.”
“Geez, how old was her mother?”
“I don’t know, but there’s twenty-three years between the oldest—Justin Stanton’s mother Nelia—and Agent Kincaid.”
“I recall that the father was a colonel in the army and the mother was a homemaker.”
“Correct. The father, Patrick Kincaid Senior, retired after serving forty years. The mother escaped Cuba, the father met her when he was stationed in Florida. Moved around a lot, the kids are all army brats, in and outside of the U.S., until he took a position in San Diego shortly after the youngest Kincaid—Lucia—was born.”
“Everyone in the family is some kind of hero or in law enforcement.”
“So it seems. Hold on—”
“Don’t—”
Dammit, he put her on hold again.
This time, she only had to wait twenty-six seconds.
“C. J. just handed me a clip from the San Antonio paper. Seems Agent Kincaid married a security expert last October. Sean Rogan. He’s a principal in a private security firm based in Sacramento. They also have an office in D.C., but he works out of his house in San Antonio.”
“This just gets better and better.”
“I don’t see your concern.”
“Where do I start? The victim’s father is the DA of San Diego. And how I find out that he’s on board with my investigation unless his former sister-in-law, who happens to be an FBI agent, vetoes my theory. And said sister-in-law is married to some security guy? What do you know about this Rogan? Is he like David? Or more like our IT security guy, what’s-his-name?”
“Leo. And I don’t have anything else on Kincaid or Rogan, but C. J. is on it. You don’t have to remind me that you need all the information you can get before you go into this meeting. But remember, this is a good case. Caldwell’s theory makes sense—the story is compelling.”
“Now it’s compelling? You didn’t even want me coming out here.”
“I’ve reconsidered.”
“Found a commercial angle to the deaths of four little boys?” she snapped.
“Fuck you, Maxine.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. Really, Ben, this whole thing with Kincaid has thrown me for a loop. I don’t like surprises.”
“Apology accepted—once you return and let me take my pick from your wine cellar.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I just have good taste—and know you do, too. In fact, I’ll go over tonight and help myself.”
“I should never have given you a key.”
“Did you break it off with Nick?”
“No.”
“You should. He’s turning you into more of a bitch than you already are.”
“And here I thought you accepted my apology.”
“You hurt me.”
“You don’t sound hurt.”
“My heart is broken. You haven’t seen Nick since Thanksgiving, why the hell haven’t you just told him to kiss your ass?”
“How do you know I haven’t seen him?”
“I know everything about you, Max.”
She didn’t have a good response to that. Ben did know her better than anyone—part of the curse of working with someone who knew you from college. She and Ben hadn’t even liked each other for years, but for their mutual best friend Karen—the mediator, they used to call her—they forced themselves to remain civil. Most of the time.
And after Karen disappeared and was presumed dead, Max didn’t have it in her to hate Ben anymore.
But he still annoyed her.
“You’re taking your frustrations out on everyone here, and it needs to stop. Stanton’s single, I’ve seen his photo. He’s your type. Maybe a little older than you usually go for, but attractive and smart. Screw him and get it out of your system, because God knows Nick isn’t giving you what you need.”
“Don’t be so crude. Since when have I dated anyone over the age of forty?”
“Marco.”
“He was thirty-two when I met him. I draw the line at ten years.”
“Then maybe you should find a twenty-two-year-old boy toy you can toss back into the pool when you’re done.”
“Good-bye.”
She hung up. Why did Ben think she needed to have sex? She didn’t need sex. She needed Nick Santini to stop being an ass.
Maybe he’s not worth it.
She was tired of talking about her love life with Ben. He just wouldn’t let it go. Maybe because he enjoyed seeing her fail at something. Max succeeded in everything she did, except relationships.
She and Nick should have split after that first weekend they spent together. They’d had fun, they were very compatible in bed, and for a while the coast-to-coast relationship had worked perfectly for her. No commitment because they both had careers and lived three thousand miles apart, yet there was a warmth and contentment she enjoyed in the bicoastal affair.
Except Nick had an off-limits subject—his ex-wife—and Max didn’t do off-limits subjects. Secrets were kissing cousins to lies and Max didn’t tolerate lying. Especially in her relationships—friend, family, or lover. And Ben was right about one thing: she’d let her relationship impact her work. That had to stop.
She pulled up to the roundabout and checked her rental car in with the hotel’s valet service. Max fell in love with the US Grant hotel as soon as she stepped into the lobby. She knew exactly why her grandmother stayed here. The staff was impeccable but discreet, the lobby was stately but subdued—not excessively ostentatious. Eleanor Revere liked quiet money. Flaunting wealth was unbecoming and crass.
The hotel desk clerk knew her by name even though she’d never stayed there.
“Welcome to the US Grant, Ms. Revere. We have your suite ready for your early arrival.”
Max appreciated good service, and was happy to pay for it.
* * *
Max didn’t take the time to unpack her clothes—a chore she rarely put off when she checked into a hotel because she loathed living out of suitcases. But she needed the time to prepare her timeline and read over everything Ben had sent on Lucy Kincaid, as well as refresh herself on the Kincaid family.
Patrick Kincaid, Senior—retired army colonel. Rosa Kincaid was a few years younger, had been a stay-at-home mother. With seven kids, Max supposed you’d have to stay at home. It would drive Max crazy, but she admired women who could keep a house and raise a family. And apparently, Rosa Kincaid had done an exemplary job—all seven of her children had been successful. Considering they lived on one modest government income, they’d managed fairly well, had no outstanding debt, and still lived in a 2600-square-foot house they’d purchased twenty-four years ago when Patrick, Sr., was stationed in San Diego.
That’s a lot of people for a house that size.
The oldest, Nelia Kincaid, had been in law school when she married Andrew Stanton and gave birth to Justin four months later. It was pretty clear they married because of the child—not unheard of, especially nearly thirty years ago. After Andrew—who was a year older—graduated, Nelia went back to law school, then took a job as a corporate lawyer for a defense contractor. After her son was killed, she resigned and moved to Idaho. She worked from home for a law firm reviewing contracts, which seemed tame and completely uninteresting, but after losing her son she had never returned to a regular nine-to-five position.
After Nelia, Rosa had twin boys—fraternal, according to Max’s research team. Jack Kincaid had enlisted in the army when he turned eighteen, never went to college, then after fourteen years left the service voluntarily and honorably discharged. He had numerous medals and accommodations. He became a mercenary—that was interesting, Max thought. She wished she had more time to delve into his background, but it didn’t seem relevant when he’d been deployed in the Middle East when his nephew was murdered.
Now, however, Jack Kincaid was married to an FBI agent in Sacramento—an SSA, same rank as Max’s ex-boyfriend Marco—and he was a principal in the security company of Rogan Caruso Kincaid … that must be the same company that Agent Kincaid married into.
Dr. Dillon Kincaid was a forensic psychiatrist who lived in Washington, D.C. with his wife, an FBI agent who taught cybercrime at Quantico. Max had hoped to speak with Dr. Kincaid at some point, but he had been in medical school when his nephew was killed, and it didn’t seem that he would have any relevant information—except for his expertise working with criminals and the criminal justice system. Max hadn’t asked her staff for anything except the basics on Dillon and Jack Kincaid because they hadn’t been around during Justin Stanton’s murder, but now she wanted to know more. She sent Ben a note to that effect. Interesting that both twins married FBI agents.
Connor Kincaid was the middle child. He was a private investigator, though he had been a cop for ten years first. He resigned after a public trial where he testified against a corrupt cop. Max had to admire him for that—it took a lot of courage to stand up against one of your own, even when one of your own had done something illegal and morally reprehensible. He was married to an assistant DA, the independently wealthy Julia Chandler. Max was familiar with the Chandler Foundation—they were generous in their philanthropy.
Carina Kincaid had been in college when Justin was killed—but afterward she dropped out and joined the police academy. She became a uniformed officer at the age of twenty, then made detective before she was thirty. She’d been married to Nick Thomas—former sheriff of Gallatin County in Montana—for nearly eight years. They had a seven-month-old son, and Nick was now a PI in the same business with his brother-in-law, Connor.
And because it seemed everyone in the Kincaid family—except the oldest, Nelia—was in some sort of law enforcement, Max hadn’t been surprised to learn that Patrick Kincaid had also been a cop. Again, he had been lower on her list because he lived in Washington, D.C., but as she reviewed the file on him, her curiosity was piqued. He’d been a detective with San Diego PD until he was injured and in a coma for nearly two years. Nothing in the file said how he was injured—was it on the job? A year after he recovered, he joined Rogan Caruso Kincaid Protective Services.
That company again.
She sent another note off to Ben to dig deeper into Patrick Kincaid. Just because she was curious—his injuries were sustained nearly nine years ago, they had nothing to do with Justin’s murder or the investigation—but information was king. It was better to know everything than to make assumptions.
More than ten years after Patrick was born came Lucia “Lucy” Kincaid, born two weeks before her nephew, Justin.
Max quickly did the math … Rosa Kincaid would have been forty-three or forty-four when she had Lucy. Not unheard of, but not common.
There wasn’t much on Lucy Kincaid. She graduated from Georgetown University in D.C. with a dual degree in psychology and criminal justice, and then earned her master’s in criminal psychology from the same school. She’d served as an intern in several capacities, but the longest stint was thirteen months at the D.C. medical examiner’s office. She was a certified assistant pathologist—that seemed odd for a federal agent. Had she considered going into the field? She also held a certification in underwater search and rescue through the Commonwealth of Virginia. It would probably have been updated when she joined the FBI, they had their own underwater training program, but Max couldn’t access Kincaid’s FBI records.
Max continued to stroll through the original documentation her team had put together.
Lucy would be twenty-seven next month—young to have such a weighty background. Seemed she did a little of everything. Dabbled? Overachiever? Undecided? Flighty? What little Max knew about the Kincaid family told her that they were all overachievers, at least when it came to law enforcement careers. But as the youngest in the bunch, maybe Lucy Kincaid didn’t know what she wanted so tried a little of everything.
Max didn’t have much time before she needed to meet Stanton and Kincaid, so she checked her e-mail to see if Ben had uncovered anything else. He had sent her an e-mail with several attachments.
Max—
Federal agents rarely make the news, but I’ve pulled all the articles referencing the San Antonio Field Office over the past year.
Kincaid graduated from the FBI Academy a year ago December and was assigned to the San Antonio Field Office. She and her then-boyfriend Sean Rogan bought a house in an established neighborhood (property records attached).
As you know, most federal agents stay out of the press, and Kincaid is no exception. I learned that she was part of Operation Heatwave (details in the article from the SA Press) and she was part of the task force during the manhunt for escaped prisoner, former DEA Agent Nicole Rollins. It appears she’s been involved in several major cases during her first year as a rookie agent, but according to my friend in the N.Y. office, the San Antonio office has been short-staffed. Maybe an all-hands-on-deck situation?
Now here’s the interesting point—when I talked to my contact in N.Y., he told me off-the-record that Kincaid had been involved in at least two investigations in N.Y. before she was a federal agent. She was a consultant for the Cinderella Strangler investigation, which seems odd considering she wasn’t even in law enforcement at the time. While she was at the FBI Academy, she consulted on the Rosemary Weber homicide. Both cases were NYPD investigations, but the same FBI agent liaison worked with the police. My contact either wouldn’t or couldn’t give me more details, but it seems interesting to me that someone prior to graduation—especially a young recruit like Kincaid—was consulting with the FBI on major criminal cases.
I’m reaching out to the liaison to see what else I can learn.
I’m asking C. J. to dig into Kincaid’s husband, Sean Rogan. He’s a principal with Rogan Caruso Kincaid Protective Services, but everything we know is from their Web site and a few articles. And you’ll probably remember from the previous documentation that Jack Kincaid and Patrick Kincaid both work for RCK. It seems they stay well below the media radar. I’m going to reach out to the media contact there and see what I can learn.
If Stanton wants Lucy Kincaid’s blessing, it may not be for obvious reasons. Maybe he thinks she’s the only one he can convince to help—he made it clear during our conversation yesterday that the Kincaid family would put up a major roadblock in our investigation into Justin Stanton’s murder. Stanton’s reasons were vague. Emotion? Bad blood?
You never know who might be hiding what. You taught me that—so I’m reminding you to tread carefully. We’ll go back further and see what we can learn. I’m copying in David—since David was an Army Ranger, maybe he can get more information on Jack Kincaid. Their service didn’t overlap, but maybe David has some inside knowledge or knows where to get it. Hint, hint, David.
—Ben
Max didn’t have time to review any of the attached articles, but she appreciated Ben’s quick analysis and sent him a thank-you. The thank-you would also serve as a second apology for her comment about commercializing the murders of four boys. Ben did overstep the media angle on occasion, but he wasn’t an asshole, and he cared about the victims. It wasn’t fair of her to snap at him because he was thinking of her show and NET—that was his job.
She quickly changed out of her travel clothes then went downstairs a few minutes early. She wanted to assess the group when they walked in—body language and first impressions were important in how she would handle the conversation. Her goal was simple: she wanted Stanton’s help, and if Kincaid had any insight or information, she wanted her help; but she didn’t want them involved on the investigative level. Having a federal agent to consult was good; having a fed breathing down her neck was bad. Been there, done that.
When she stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby, she saw Andrew Stanton walking in through the main doors. He looked almost exactly like the photo on the DAs Web site, even wearing a similar gray suit.
But he was alone. Maybe Agent Kincaid couldn’t get away from San Antonio. That would be a relief.
Andrew recognized Max a moment later. “Ms. Revere,” he said.
“Max,” she said and took his hand. “Good to meet you, Counselor.”
Conservatively cut light brown hair, pale green eyes, and trim to the point of being on the thin side. But she was surprised he was so tall—at least six foot three—and though she knew he hadn’t been a cop or in the military, he had a cautious, suspicious manner about him.
But he’d come alone. Without Agent Kincaid, an assistant, or an entourage. That took guts, in her experience. Politicians didn’t like speaking to reporters without a witness or three. And even a DA, who was ostensibly law enforcement, was a politician at heart. She’d known enough of them.
“I wanted to talk to you before Lucy arrived. They’re driving in from the airport now, we have a few minutes.”
So Kincaid hadn’t backed out.
Max led the way into the lounge. Because it was the middle of the afternoon, they had their choice of tables. Max selected one in the far corner, where they would have privacy.
The bartender approached almost immediately. Max wanted wine, but asked instead for coffee. Andrew said, “For me as well, and keep it coming.”
When the bartender left, Andrew said, “You didn’t sound pleased over the phone when I told you I was bringing in Lucy.”
“Right to the point. I like that.”
He smiled briefly. “I need a Kincaid on board.”
“But I don’t.” She leaned back, assessed him. “I want your help, but I can and will investigate on my own. Just so we’re clear.”
“You won’t get anywhere.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know your reputation.”
“If that were true, you would know I don’t back down. Ever.”
“I also know that you don’t investigate cold cases when the family doesn’t want you involved.”
So he had done a bit of research. “Usually. But this case is different. This isn’t one crime. This is four separate cases that may be linked.”
“Yet, you need my help.”
She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything as the bartender brought over two cups of coffee, cream, and sugar. When he left, she doctored her coffee and said, “I’m quite resourceful, Counselor.”
“So I’ve heard. But you do not know the Kincaids like I do.”
“What, will they destroy evidence? Threaten witnesses?”
“Carina was babysitting the night Justin was taken.” Andrew paused, lost briefly in a memory. “She’s now a detective with SDPD, is well-liked and has many friends. If she doesn’t want you looking at reports, you won’t see them.”
“That’s where you come in.”
“The Kincaids don’t like me. Lucy is the only one who will talk to me outside of work. Carina has to work with me because I’m the DA, and her brother is married to one of my prosecutors, but it hasn’t been an easy nineteen years.”
“You’d think a cop family would love a DA in the fold.” She sipped her coffee. “What, they’re holding your affair against you?”
“You read the articles. I was with another woman the night my son was murdered.” He cleared his throat and stared into his coffee.
It bothered him, as well it should. “The police verified your alibi with your mistress, who was a prosecutor from Orange County, correct?”
Andrew nodded curtly. “What wasn’t publicized in the newspaper—but the Kincaids know—is that Nelia and I had an understanding. We married because Nell got pregnant. We knew it was a mistake, but we were in law school and were best friends and it just happened. We loved Justin. We didn’t love each other. We were friends. And marriage made everything … awkward. Nell knew I was seeing someone else. She didn’t ask for details, it wasn’t spoken, but she knew. And she blames herself as much as me for not being home that night.”
“Would being home have changed anything?” Max asked. “Couldn’t Justin have been taken while you were there sleeping?” Each of the cases that Max had on her list, the parents weren’t home when the child was taken. Another similarity, which suggested that the killer had knowledge of the family schedule.
“I don’t know.”
“Guilt is a useless emotion, Andrew,” Max said. “It clouds judgment, it fuels self-loathing, it makes good people do stupid things. Someone killed Justin. And if the research that my staff and I have done is any indication that individual killed four boys over nearly twenty years.”
“This is why I need Lucy. She has experience in complicated cases like this. I find it difficult to believe that one person can kill four children over such a length of time with such a long wait in between. Why did no one notice the pattern? I don’t want to be grasping at straws. I want answers, but I don’t want to live through this and come out with nothing.”
“You want the truth. That should be enough.”
“I don’t know that you can find it.”
That bothered Max as well. She had never tackled such a difficult case—twenty years was a long time. And while on the surface there appeared to be a connection between the four cases, what if, in fact, they weren’t connected and there were four separate killers? How could she solve four separate cases where three of them were so cold?
“I need access to all the cases to see if there is another commonality … something that proves that we’re looking for one killer. If I can find that, I can open up far more avenues of investigation. I came here for two reasons. One, Justin is the first known victim. It’s the beginning for this killer. Second, you can get information from the other jurisdictions easier than I can.”
“Max.” Andrew leaned forward, his expression borderline hostile. “I didn’t want you here, but you said something yesterday on the phone that stuck with me. I am a prosecutor at heart. I’m not always a good person, I wasn’t a good husband, but I am a great district attorney. It sickens me that my son’s murder is unsolved. That someone killed him and destroyed my wife—my best friend—and tore her family to shreds with grief. It pains me that if you’re right, and Justin’s murder is connected to others, that the killer is still out there. And I keep asking why. Why, dammit! That question keeps me up late at night. It was a senseless murder, but until you contacted me, I never once thought that it was part of a pattern. If you and your resources can find the answers, I can work with you. But if—and only if—Lucy agrees.”
“Why is your former sister-in-law the decider for you?” That made no sense to Max, and it bothered her that she couldn’t figure it out.
“Lucy is not only good at her job, she has a unique skill set. Experience investigating serial killers—because honestly, if you’re right, that is exactly what we’re dealing with. And I think she’s the only one who might be able to figure out why. As I said, she’s the only Kincaid who will work with me on this. She’s the only one who might be able to convince her family to help. And if she doesn’t, then you’re back to square one, because I guarantee that the Kincaids will do everything they can to stop you. If you think they can’t, you’re lying to yourself.”
“Why wouldn’t they want the truth?”
“That’s not the question you should be asking. This isn’t about the truth, this is about protecting their family. Nell had an extremely difficult time after Justin’s murder. She hated me, hated herself, and I thought—her family thought—that she was going to kill herself. She moved out of our house, filed for divorce, lived with her parents. But I saw her—she wasn’t all there. When the police put the case on the back burner for lack of evidence, she moved to Idaho. Disappeared from everyone’s lives. The Kincaids will do everything to protect her. Carina went through hell and back during the investigation—she was interrogated, treated as a suspect. The Kincaids have powerful friends. You need a Kincaid on your side or you will get nothing.”
“I have two other cold cases.”
“But like you said,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “Justin was the first victim.”
He was right, and he knew he was right.
“If Lucy agrees to help, I’ll give you everything you need even if I have to go up against my former in-laws. If Lucy doesn’t, you’ll be on your own. And don’t be surprised if you end up in jail.”
“So the Kincaids would abuse the law to stop me from finding the truth.”
“The Kincaids would do anything to protect those they love.”
* * *
“You haven’t said a word since we landed.”
Sean pulled in to the US Grant parking garage. He turned off the ignition of the rental car and turned to face Lucy.
“Thinking.” A lot of thinking.
She reached for the handle but Sean took her hand. “Worrying,” he said. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I do.” She looked at Sean, saw the concern in his expression. Just having him here with her meant everything. She touched his face. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me—I would do anything for you. But this is going to hurt you and I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“I’ll get through it.”
“Of course you will, you’re a survivor. But I know you and I know your family. You’re going to tell them.”
Sean had suggested that she come to San Diego and work with the reporter without talking to her family—at least initially. She’d seriously considered it, but she didn’t think the situation was as awful as both Sean and Andrew thought it might be.
“My family may not be happy with my involvement in this, but they will understand. They want the truth just like I do, just like Andrew. I’m going to listen to what this Maxine Revere has to say first, then we’ll decide what to do.”
“It’s me you’re talking to, princess,” Sean said.
She leaned over and kissed him. “You know me well.”
“That I do. You want to wait until you hear all the facts, but in your heart you know you’re going to pursue it. No matter how thin a lead Maxine Revere came up with.”
“I read one of her books last night. Her college roommate disappeared over spring break in Miami. Karen Richardson.”
“I don’t know the case.”
“She went out with a group of people and never returned. Blood was found at the suspected crime scene—Karen’s blood, they proved later—but her body was never found. Revere hounded the police, the FBI, search and rescue, but the book was not just about the investigation. It was about predators, about knowing someone committed a crime but being unable to prove it. It was also about friendship and victims and survivors. How crime affects everyone.” She paused. “After the whole Rosemary Weber situation, I thought the worst. True crime writer? I wanted no part of it.”
Weber intended to write a book about the Cinderella Strangler, a case Lucy and Sean had assisted with before she was in the FBI. But Lucy had a great fear that some reporter would uncover her past and write about her. When Andrew first called her, she thought of how it would hurt her … which is why she had to read Maxine Revere’s books first. To see what she wrote about, how she wrote, whether Lucy could even trust her enough to work alongside her to see if maybe there were clues others had misinterpreted when Justin was killed.
“I think she’s different.” She hoped she was different, but Lucy didn’t think she was wrong.
“I did my own research,” Sean said. “The jury is still out.”
“You’re being protective.”
“Of course I am.” He caressed her cheek. “I’m going to be there when you tell your parents.”
Lucy hesitated.
“Lucy, you shouldn’t have to face your family alone. Not about this.” He frowned. “What’s wrong? Do you not want me here?”
“I do, but you have to promise to stand down. I don’t want to go through the conversation with everyone separately—I’m going to ask my mom to have everyone over for dinner. Bite the bullet. I think it’s going to be okay.”
“I can’t promise to let your family jump all over you.”
“They’re not going to jump all over me.” Lucy had thought about this all night. She understood why her family would put up a brick wall with Andrew, but not with her—they would understand, she was certain of it.
“What if it doesn’t work out the way you think?”
“I know them. Carina is a cop. Connor used to be a cop. They want the truth just as much as I do. As Andrew does. They had a hard time forgiving Andrew for having an affair, I get that. Family is everything and he blew it. So I see why they won’t listen to him, but this is different.”
She could see that Sean didn’t believe her, but he didn’t have the same family growing up as she did. And lately, he’d had to reconcile that his family had dark secrets that nearly got them both killed. He was still having a difficult time working through the aftermath.
“I don’t have to be in Sacramento until tomorrow morning, and I’m not going to leave you alone tonight. Well shit, not again.” Sean pulled out his phone. “My phone has been buzzing my butt for the last five minutes.” He frowned.
“Who is it?”
“Suzanne.”
Suzanne Madeaux was one of Lucy’s closest friends, an FBI agent in New York City. She’d been in their wedding and indirectly helped with one of Lucy’s recent cases.
Sean answered the phone. “Suz, what’s up?” He listened, his expression turning to stone. He said after a moment, “What else?” A minute later he said, “Keep me in the loop—and thanks, Suz.” He hung up.
“Bad news?” Lucy said.
“That fucking bitch,” Sean mumbled.
“Suzanne?” Lucy had seen Sean angry before, but she couldn’t imagine what Suzanne could have said to set him off.
He spat out the name. “Maxine Revere.”
“I don’t understand.” But maybe she did. Maybe her worst fears were coming true.
“Her staff has requested all the files on the Cinderella Strangler case and the Rosemary Weber homicide—both from the FBI and NYPD. Her staff also wants to talk to Suzanne about the use of ‘civilian consultants.’ That means you, Lucy—you were involved with both cases.”
Lucy didn’t know what to say. “Maybe it’s just background—”
“Maybe she’s a chameleon, maybe she found out something about you and is now going to try and write some big story. It will not happen. I will shut her down so fast—”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Sean.”
“Would Andrew set you up?”
“No.”
“You sound so confident. He’s a damn politician, Lucy.”
“He wouldn’t,” she said firmly. “Andrew isn’t a bad guy.”
“Good people do shitty things. Give me a minute.”
He took out his phone again. A moment later he said, “JT, it’s Sean. Has RCK received any press inquiries in the last twenty-four hours?… Who?… Shit. What’d you say?… Okay. Hold off on any follow-ups, I’ll explain later.” He hung up. “Maxine Revere has been a busy little bitch. All press inquiries regarding RCK go through JT, and he had a call two hours ago from NET—that’s the network that hosts Revere’s television show. The inquiries were general, JT sent the standard press packet, but I’ll bet they’ll follow up wanting more information about me, Jack, and Patrick.”
“Why?”
“Because the media sucks.”
She almost laughed, but her stomach felt sick.
Sean took her hand, squeezed it. “I won’t let her dig around into your past, Lucy. I won’t.”
“I’m not going to let her scare me off,” Lucy said.
“She already has two strikes against her, Lucy. One more, and I will skewer her.”
“Promise me you’ll listen to what she has to say.”
“That’s about all I can promise.”