“She already knew.” The words were out of her mouth before she even thought about the confidence she’d betrayed. Too late, they were said. She went on with the rest. “She wouldn’t have left him over a woman whose name she didn’t even know.”
His voice dropped, as if suddenly he wasn’t alone. Or as if he wanted an atmosphere of intimacy. “But what if he was planning to leave her for that”—he paused a fraction of a second—“nameless woman, Max?”
She hadn’t gotten that from the vision. Lance wanted to own Angela, not marry her. But wasn’t marriage the ultimate stamp of ownership and power?
Hating the words, the very idea, Cameron’s agonized howl echoed through the room at her thought. Max wanted to cover her ears, but resisted.
“Max?”
She swallowed. “Then you wouldn’t have had to kill Lance.”
“Exactly. So where are you, Max? Any further ahead in your little investigation?”
She hated him for taunting her, considered hanging up. In the end she didn’t, despite the sick coil in her stomach.
“But I will offer you something for your pain.”
She waited. He let her.
Then he gave it to her. “I also introduced Angela to Baxter.”
Chapter Seventeen
“If I give you a license plate number, can you give me an address?”
“Illegal, Max.”
Desperate measures. She had no choice. “But can you do it?”
She held the phone tightly to her ear, waiting for Witt’s answer.
“What’s the number?”
She read it off to him, not sure how the hell she’d remembered Baxter’s plate number when she’d only seen his car twice and hadn’t had a reason to ponder it.
Sometimes the psychic thing wasn’t about big visions. Sometimes it was the small things, like license plates or cell phone numbers, things she shouldn’t have remembered or known, but did. Or maybe it was her accountant’s sense for alphanumerics.
“Call you back,” and Witt was gone without asking if she was at home, in her car, at work.
Psychic.
Max was utterly frustrated. He hadn’t said he’d help her tonight with Angela. Then again, he hadn’t said he wouldn’t.
He did call her back with the address, and one hour later, she cruised the quiet tree-lined Atherton street where Baxter Newton lived. Thirty years ago, Atherton had been merely another San Francisco Peninsula suburb and the houses had belonged to regular families raising regular kids who went to regular schools. Today, the houses were worth millions, the family cars were BMWs, Mercedes, and fully equipped SUVs, and education was both private and expensive.
Most properties were gated and surrounded by walls weeping with ivy. Not so, Baxter Newton’s. His house was modest, especially when compared to the home his daughter lived in. A single level ranch style, it had a short circular drive, freshly painted wood siding, and a porch swing that didn’t fit the BMW roadster image. No lawn to speak of, just multi-colored stones surrounding pots of various evergreens. A rock garden.
Ladybird would love that, too. No plastic shrubbery to wash, no Astro-turf to replace when it faded, no silk flowers to dust. Ladybird treasured a well-maintained yard, even if none of it was real. Baxter’s would send her to heaven, in a manner of speaking.
Max parked at the end of the front walk. Baxter’s Z4 was not in evidence. The house was quiet, the street devoid of traffic, and the neighborhood idyllic. Though Baxter might have gone to Julia’s, Max banged with the big brass doorknocker anyway.
Almost immediately, footsteps sounded on the inside. Baxter himself answered. The interior lay in darkness, curtains pulled, few lights turned on. Minus the bow tie, Baxter still sported the suspenders over a wrinkled broadcloth shirt. His hair askew, his eyes wide behind the round spectacles, he simply stared.
“Have I struck you dumb, Baxter?” Max went for informality and a slightly irreverent tone. With her high heels, they were of a height, a fact that actually gave her the advantage.
“What do you want?” He didn’t invite her in, his hand on the door, legs spread and bent slightly at the knees in a defensive posture.
“Why is Bud Traynor setting you up?”
The line of his lips thinned. Pressure turned his thumb white at the joint. He turned the question back on her. “You don’t work for him, do you?”
“No.” She left it at that, waited for him to ask.
“Are you a policewoman?”
“No.”
“Then why are you bothering my daughter? And don’t give me any nonsense about helping out Traynor.”
“It’s you I’m bothering right now. And as I recall, your daughter invited me over because she wanted to talk murder victim spouse to murder victim spouse.”
“It wasn’t my idea to invite you. She shouldn’t have.”
“Probably not. But I would have come looking for you anyway. Did you know Bud told me that you believed Lance was stealing from you?” She saw his fingers clench. “I’d be willing to bet he told the police, too.”
He licked dry lips.