Max arrived at the Mills home in Fredericksburg that evening, later than planned because of the shooting and her subsequent follow-up with the detective. Stanley Grant was in critical condition and the odds didn’t look good. He hadn’t regained consciousness.
The police had no suspects, but Sean was pretty certain that the shooter had been caught on tape outside the archive building. Maybe the police had already ID’d a suspect and weren’t announcing it. Max hadn’t gotten anything out of Reed today, but she would try again tomorrow. Or she’d go up the ladder. She found that in some jurisdictions she could parlay the media card into information if she talked to the right person. Cops didn’t generally like reporters, but she had a few friends.
Unfortunately, none in San Antonio PD.
Max had a headache, but she couldn’t cancel on the Mills family. Earlier, she’d been looking forward to it—she’d spoken to Grover many times over the last two months. She liked him and appreciated that he’d been close to her grandfather, whom she still missed even though he’d passed away more than a decade ago. Yet, after talking to Simon this morning, she wasn’t sure what to expect.
Grover and Judith Mills lived on a working ranch, over twenty thousand acres and two thousand head of cattle. He was self-made, starting with a dozen head of cattle and two hundred acres he’d bought with a loan from Max’s grandfather. Times were different then, she remembered her grandfather saying. Character mattered. Grover had no collateral, no college education, but he’d had a solid business plan and the skills to achieve it. Fifty years later he was semi-retired, but in Max’s experience true self-made men or women rarely retired.
Her phone rang as she stepped out of the car. Ryan. She winced. She should have called him earlier about the shooting.
“Hello, darling,” she answered.
“Don’t darling me, Maxine.”
She bristled. Yes, she should have called him, but he didn’t have to be short with her.
“It’s been a busy day.”
“Let me explain relationships to you.”
“Do not condescend to me.”
“I just needed to know that you were breathing. Is that difficult?”
“I’m learning to be less independent, Ryan. But this is who I am.”
“You think I want you to be less independent?” He laughed, and she was about to hang up. She didn’t need personal strife during an investigation. “Max, I love you because of who you are. But because I love you, I want to know you’re safe when I hear the man you flew to San Antonio to interview was shot outside the courthouse.”
He was right. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”
“Accepted. Only because I know you don’t say ‘sorry’ if you don’t mean it.”
That was true. She could count on one hand the times she’d told someone she was sorry, and each time she’d been in the wrong and they deserved an apology.
“I am getting used to this. I appreciate your patience.”
“How formal. You’re getting used to being in love, just say it.”
She squirmed. Not because she didn’t love him, but because she wasn’t as comfortable talking about it. She preferred showing her feelings rather than sweet-talking.
“What happened out there?” Ryan asked, and Max was grateful he changed the subject.
“I met with Grant this morning and he lied to me.”
“About?”
“A lie of omission. He knows more than he’s saying. Maybe it’s just that he’s had six weeks in jail thinking about how to get out of the hole he dug for himself.” She told Ryan about the alleged threat against his sister and the subsequent car accident. “His fear appeared real, but I don’t like flying halfway cross-country and having someone attempt to play me. Yet someone tried to kill him, which has me thinking he does know something and whoever ‘they’ are that he mentioned want him silent. He gave me a small lead and Rogan is pursuing it.”
“Where are you?”
“Fredericksburg. I just arrived at the Mills ranch.”
“Alone?”
“Yes,” she said, knowing where he was going.
“If the shooter knew when Grant was leaving the courthouse, they could know that you met with him. They might think you know something.”
“And his attorney? You think they’ll kill both of us?”
“Don’t say that.”
“I promise, if there was a threat then I would have asked David to return from California. Rogan’s helping me.”
“But he’s not with you now.”
“They wanted Stanley Grant dead. Maybe because he reneged on his agreement. Maybe because he knows something about the bad guys that they don’t want the police to know. The detectives were going to have to look at Victoria’s murder again to prepare for trial, and maybe their case would fall apart. They didn’t need a solid case when he pled. And I’ve been thinking about this on the drive up to Fredericksburg—Grant must have known enough details about the murder to be convincing. Which makes me think either he was there during or after the fact or the killer gave him specific information.”
“Or he killed her. Consider that someone close to the victim might not have been happy with his plea change.”
She had, especially after seeing Simon in the court this morning. “I’ve been leaning against his guilt ever since Sean learned that funds he allegedly embezzled weren’t stolen until four days after Victoria’s murder, yet that was his claimed motive—that Victoria found out about the embezzlement and he killed her in the heat of an argument.”
“Are you sure?” Ryan sounded surprised.
“Sean is, and he’s pretty good at deciphering these things.”
“It should be fairly easy to trace.”
“Maybe for a federal agent who has a warrant, but Sean is a private investigator without complete access.”
“Hmm.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing. This is a local case, and my ASAC would have my hide if I got involved. But—unofficially, if Sean wants to talk, he can call me anytime. I know some legal ways to get around some of the legal roadblocks, so to speak. And I worked out of the Dallas office years ago. I might still have some friends there.”
Ryan was the SSA of a white collar crimes unit in New York, promoted last spring after he solved a decade-old art theft and recovered a priceless painting.
“I need to go, I’m already late for my meeting with Grover Mills.”
“Call me when you get back to the hotel.”
“It might be late.”
“Call me.”
“Okay.”
“I love you, Ms. Revere. Be safe.”
“I promise, Agent Maguire.”
She ended the call and smiled at nothing in particular. Her headache had slowly dissipated during her conversation with Ryan. What did that mean? Maybe just hearing his voice … she hadn’t thought much about home, Ryan, or Eve today, but last night they were on her mind … and she suspected they’d be on her mind as she lay awake in her hotel bed tonight.
She walked up to the house. Grover was already on the porch, watching her.
“As beautiful as ever, Maxine,” he said with a sad smile.
She gave him a hug. “It is good to see you, Grover. I wish it was under better circumstances.”
He led her into their spacious yet simply designed home. Like many homes in rural Texas, the rooms were large and the ceilings tall, but the Millses had focused on making their home comfortable and inviting, with many places to sit, built-in bookshelves in virtually every room, and picture windows looking out at wide-open spaces. A picturesque barn stood in the distance, and just from the ring and the setup she suspected there were a dozen horses, now in stalls for the night. A bunkhouse was barely visible beyond the barn. To manage a property of this size they probably had several full-time ranch hands.
“You’ll have to excuse Judith,” Grover said. “She’s resting. These two months have weighed heavily on her, and then everything that happened today.” He paused, then said, “I didn’t tell you over the phone, and perhaps I shouldn’t tell you now. But Judith and Victoria had an argument the day before our daughter was killed. Judith hasn’t been able to get past the fact that the last word she said was unkind.”
“Victoria loved you both. You provided a warm and safe home and your children have all done well.”
“Hmm.” He led her to his home office, a comfortable room down the hall decorated in dark wood and a western theme. He walked to a bar built in the wall and said, “What would you like? I have a variety of Scotch, and I remembered you like wine—I have both red and white, good varieties, Judith tells me. I’m not much of a wine drinker.”
“Red, thank you.”
He prepared the drinks in silence, and Max let him relax. While the victim paid the ultimate price with their life, the survivors—the loved ones surrounding the victim—also suffered. And much of their pain was caused by guilt. Survivor’s guilt, guilt over what they did or didn’t do in the life of their loved one. Guilt that they couldn’t say good-bye. Violent death made all that worse, and Max had far more patience with those who grieved than she did with anyone else.
Grover would talk to her in his own time.
He brought her the wine and she sipped. “Judith is right. Rich, full-bodied, a hint of oak and cranberry. Very nice.”
He held up his double Scotch. “Salute,” he said, and took a deep drink. He sat next to her, put his glass on a coaster. “I called the detective in charge of the investigation and she wasn’t much help about what happened at the courthouse, but it’s clear they still believe that Stan is guilty. She didn’t come out and say it, but they’re not going to look further into Victoria’s murder. She wants to come out here and talk to me about the shooting. As if I’d killed him out of vengeance.”
Max had considered that. Not Grover specifically, but Simon. They both had the money to hire a hit man. The police would look at that angle.
He looked at her, searching for something. “Is Stan guilty?”
What did she say to that?
The truth. That’s all she could do, speak the truth. “I don’t know, Grover. I wish I could read minds or tell you that he said something definitive to me today. But based on our brief conversation before court, I still don’t know if Stan recanting is a legal game or if he was threatened into confessing in the first place. The one thing I’m certain about is that he knew more about Victoria’s murder—and the events leading up to it—than he shared with me.”
“I want the truth. There’s an ache in my heart that wants my daughter back, which is not possible, and an ache in my head that is from not knowing what really happened. Why she was killed. Judith says it doesn’t matter, that Victoria is still dead, but I look into her eyes and see her searching for answers she doesn’t think she’ll find. I don’t know how Judith is going to find peace unless she knows the truth. We treated Stan like a son. He was funny and kind and we trusted him. He was the first to defend Victoria when her brothers teased her too much, and he was the only one who supported her when she separated from Mitch. None of us really understood why.”
“What did she say about her divorce?”
“They’d grown apart. They seemed to work well together. She never complained when we had Mitch over for a meal. He doesn’t have family in the area, he was never as close to his parents as our kids are with us, and he still spends Thanksgiving with us, which is our big family holiday. They talked almost every day. Maybe they married for the wrong reasons. They were friends—maybe they loved each other, but not in the way married people should.” He shook his head. “I’ll never understand it, but she’s my daughter, and I always respected her decisions.” He sipped his Scotch, looked at Max. “Are you going back to New York now?”
“No,” she said. She’d thought about it on the drive over, but the case had grabbed her. She had a list of things she still needed to do, people she wanted to speak with. Mitch had made her suspicious, and Rogan was tracking him. Stan may or may not be guilty, but he could still be responsible for her death even if he wasn’t the one to stab her. Or he knew who was responsible.
“So you’re staying?” He seemed both surprised and relieved.
“For at least a few days. I’ll let you know if I learn anything that will give you and Judith some closure.”
“Thank you, Maxine. I can’t tell you what this means to me.”
She and Grover talked a bit about family. Jordan, the youngest, in his early thirties, was a doctor in Austin. He’d married another doctor, and they were expecting their first child. “The one bright spot in our lives. It’s a girl, she’s due in March.” Grover talked about Simon, who had taken over much of Victoria’s end of MCG. “He doesn’t have a license, but he can do some of the work. Poor Mitch—he’s been beside himself.”
“I saw Mitch today,” Max said.
“How is he holding up?”
“He didn’t seem to hold a grudge against Stan, not like Simon.”
“I think Mitch doesn’t want to believe Stan is guilty. And Simon was more than ready to believe it. I don’t know why—only that Mitch felt torn between his loyalties to our family, and to Victoria, and his twenty-five-year friendship with Stan.”
“They were in college together, right?”
“Mitch, Simon, and Stan. Stan struggled because he was on scholarship and worked nearly full-time. I offered to cover him; he wouldn’t think of it. He worked for me for a year, saved up money, and went back. After a semester, he got his scholarship back and didn’t let his grades slip again. That’s how he became friends with Victoria, they graduated together. It just seems so unreal.”
“Do you know Harrison Monroe?”
“Monroe? Yes, of course. I haven’t heard that name in a long time. He was Victoria’s boyfriend all through college. Judith was positive they would get married after graduation, but he took a job in Chicago and Victoria didn’t want to leave Texas. Family, roots, home—all important to us.”
Why did Stan and Mitch both imply that they didn’t know who Monroe was?
“Is he still in Chicago?”
“No, Victoria told me he moved back to Texas a little over three years ago.”
Victoria and Mitch legally separated around the time Monroe returned to town, but Max didn’t say that to Grover.
“Why are you asking about Harrison?” Grover asked.
“Stan mentioned his name.”
“Stan never liked him. I thought Stan had a crush on Victoria and was jealous, until I learned that he was gay. He’s not completely out of the closet, some people are still prejudiced against gay men, but all his friends know. Victoria, Mitch, our family.”
“Is he involved with anyone?”
“Not to my knowledge, but I cut off ties with him after he confessed to killing m-my daughter.”
His composure started to slip a bit, and Max didn’t want to upset him.
“When I talked to Stan this morning,” Max said, “he said he thought Victoria was being prickly about the business. Did anything about Victoria change in the few months before her death? Meaning, did she act different? Short-tempered maybe?”
“To be honest, I didn’t notice anything different about Victoria, but Judith did. That’s what they argued about. She felt that Victoria was being rude and secretive and that was no way to run a business. I keep out of my children’s financial affairs unless specifically asked for advice. Judith likes to make her opinion known. And my wife is brilliant in real estate. She helped make our family successful by finding the right properties at the right time.”
Max wanted to talk to Judith, but she wouldn’t disturb the grieving woman tonight. “When Judith is feeling up to it, in the next day or two, I’d like to talk to her. Maybe she has specific insight about what secrets Victoria may have been keeping from Mitch and Stan.”
“I’ll talk to her. I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you.”
“The sooner the better, to be honest. I have some threads to follow, but Judith may be able to help me narrow my focus. And my associate Sean Rogan is following up on a few things as well. We hope to have some answers for you.”
“We met him. Bright young man. We were very comfortable with him.”
She wanted to solve Victoria’s murder, or fully believe that Stan was guilty, before she left. Even if she couldn’t prove it.
Grover continued, “I can’t tell you how much this means to me that you’ve taken so much time from your career and your family to be here.”
“This is my job.”
“But you have a sister now, right? She’s living with you?”
Max shouldn’t be surprised at how quickly information spread about her life. “Eve Truman. She’s sixteen. My boyfriend is staying with her, she’s in good hands.”
“I’m sure you would much rather be home with them.”
She was about to deny it, but it was true. She wanted to be with Eve and Ryan. “Yes, but this is also important, and they understand.” She stood. “I’ll let you get back to your evening, and I have a drive ahead of me.”
“How about some coffee? I made some before you arrived, I forgot to offer it.”
“Actually, coffee sounds wonderful.”
She followed him to the kitchen. As they walked down a wide hall, she saw Victoria’s wedding picture. Victoria, Mitch, all the bridesmaids and groomsmen. Stan was there, as one of the ushers.
Grover said, “Judith and I don’t know whether to take it down.”
“I would hold off for now.”
“I miss her, Maxine. I really miss my daughter.”
His voice ached with the agony of losing a child. She had no words for him.
“It’s been such a rough few years for her,” Grover continued. “She and Mitch separated, then her best friend embezzled money from her employer and left the country when the authorities caught on.”
Another embezzlement? What was with the people in Victoria’s life?
“She went to Mexico, according to the reports,” Grover continued. “Victoria defended her, said she must have had a good reason and not to judge her. I’d always wondered if they kept in touch, but I wouldn’t ask because that would make Victoria an accessory after the fact, or some such nonsense. But during the divorce she really needed a friend, and Denise was the only real girlfriend Victoria ever had.”
“Denise?”
“Denise Albright.” Grover pointed to the maid of honor in the picture. It was the same woman in the photo on Mitch’s desk, Max realized. “They met in college, roommates, inseparable. Closer than sisters. Denise named her daughter after Victoria.” He pointed to one of the two flower girls. “So sad all around. I was hoping when Denise heard the news about Victoria’s death that she would reach out, somehow. It would have been a small comfort to Judith, I think. Even a card.” He sighed. “Maybe she didn’t hear. Maybe she doesn’t even care. I don’t know. How about that coffee?”
Twenty minutes later Max was driving and she couldn’t get the name Denise Albright out of her head.
Where had she seen that name?
She thought seen not heard because she distinctly remembered reading the name somewhere.
Maybe she’d been apprehended. If she embezzled money, that was a white collar crime, and Ryan talked a lot about his cases, which she generally enjoyed. Maybe he’d sent her an article.
She frowned. She didn’t think that was it.
She couldn’t stand it. As soon as it was safe, she pulled over and did an Internet search on the name Denise Albright.
Her heart raced at the first headline.
Bones Uncovered After Labor Day Identified as Fugitive Denise Albright
Denise Albright and her family had been murdered three years ago, but their bodies were only recently discovered.
Just last night, Lucy was talking about her case—vaguely, like many cops did around Max. She had a three-year-old cold case of bones only recently discovered. They’d been identified, but she didn’t give Max the names.
Max had seen the headline that morning while having coffee in her hotel room. But she hadn’t taken time to read it because she was preparing for her interview with Stanley Grant.
Max skimmed three articles before she found one with enough detail that her blood heated with urgency and excitement.
The bones had been uncovered the week after Labor Day weekend. The gravesite had been found on a Friday.
Not only any Friday, but the same Friday that Victoria had been murdered.
Denise Albright had been Victoria’s maid of honor twelve years ago. Her daughter had been a flower girl. They’d been college roommates and best friends.
But the bones hadn’t been identified until a few days ago. Could Victoria have known her longtime friend was dead? Or did she know something about who might have killed her? All the articles said that the authorities believed Denise had fled the country with her family to avoid prosecution on a major embezzlement case.
Grover said Victoria thought they’d left the country as well.
But they’d been dead all this time.
There were no coincidences.
Max’s investigation was connected—somehow—to Lucy’s.
She immediately called her producer, Ben Lawson.
“It’s after nine New York time,” he answered. “I’ve been working since six this morning.”
“You never go to bed before midnight. I need your help.”
“What? Can you repeat that? You need my help. My help?”
“You’re not funny right now, Ben, and this is important. If I’m right about this, you’re going to have another Emmy and I’m going to have another book.”
“I’m listening.”
As she drove back to San Antonio, she laid it all out for him—Victoria’s murder, Stan’s flip, the recovered bones. The embezzlement connected to both cases. She had a lot of holes, but there was something here. Something potentially very big, very juicy. Every reporter instinct she had was firing in her head that this was huge.
“If you’re right … damn, Maxine, this is twisty with drama and money and emotion. Wow. What do you need?”
“I have to bring in Kincaid.”
Silence.
“Ben.”
“You’re going to turn over a potential blockbuster, Emmy-winning show to the FBI? You’ll get shit from them, and you know it.”
“You’ve known me for thirteen years and yet you don’t know me at all.”
“It’s an active investigation. You’ve been successful in working with cops when the cases are as cold as ice, but this is different.”
“Trust me, Ben. I’m not going to back down, and Kincaid and I worked together before.”
“Which you wouldn’t let me write into the program.”
“I made a promise, Ben, and my word means something. If I’m even partly right that Victoria was killed because she didn’t know her best friend had been murdered, that means when the bones were uncovered the killer knew it was only a matter of time before they’d be identified. But Victoria may have seen the news on Friday and realized something … I don’t know, I’m just throwing ideas out. But the answers are there. I know it. And Stanley Grant knows about it. Yet I don’t think Grant killed the Albrights.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t have it in him to kill two kids. I don’t know if he could kill anyone, his personality is more fun-loving peacemaker, but most people can kill under the right motivation. But an entire family? I don’t see it. Yet— I’m sure he knows more than he told me, or the police, and that’s why he was shot. I’ll be at Sean and Lucy’s in an hour if I drive really slow.”
Ben snorted.
“I’ll stop and get dinner, so you’ll have ninety minutes.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m going to send you a list of names. They were all friends in college, and my gut tells me that Mitch Corta knows for a fact that Stan didn’t kill Victoria—which tells me that he knows who did. Or suspects.”
“Isn’t this why you hired Sean Rogan? He’s not cheap.”
She ignored the comment. “I need a connection, something tangible so I can get Rogan to convince Lucy that we need to work together. Rogan doesn’t want to take sides, but I know—especially after the shooting today—that he’s not going to back down. He’s as curious as I am, and now it’s personal. But I need to push him over the line. Without the information the FBI has, I can’t solve this case, and I don’t want to follow Lucy and her partner all day tomorrow if I don’t have to.”
She would. She’d done it before—followed a detective while they investigated a case she was interested in. But she had a feeling Lucy would know, and Max didn’t want to jeopardize her friendship with Sean or Lucy’s brother. In the past, Max would do anything to find the truth. Now she realized some friendships weren’t worth losing.
“I’ll call you in an hour,” Ben said, resigned.
“I owe you.”
“You always owe me.”