Max bristled. He made it sound like a sin. “Yes, I want the damn story. If a lesser reporter gets wind of this, they’ll blow it. The entire investigation. It’s happened to me before you joined my team. I’m not going to ruin this, not when it’s at a sensitive stage. What if Lucy is right and the killer is out there, looking for another victim? Right now we have time on our side. We don’t want to tip this woman off.”
“Hold on, I have a call coming in from the eight-oh-five area code.”
David put her on hold. She would have been angry, except 805 was Santa Barbara, and that could mean that Carney was giving him good—or bad—news.
She put her phone on speaker and read over her other messages. Her staff had come through with a rather short list of articles about Rogan Caruso Kincaid Protective Services, which she put aside to read tonight. Ben sent her an e-mail that RCK hadn’t responded to his inquiry, over and above the press packet, and did she want him to press. She told him to hold off for now, but that she might change her mind.
She still wanted to know about Lucy Kincaid and her husband, but decided that she’d stand down for the next day or two. She didn’t want to give Kincaid any reason to pull out her badge and assume authority. Though somehow, Max didn’t think she’d do that. There was something else going on with Lucy, and Max hadn’t quite figured it out.
Instead, she sent Ben a message.
I read the brief info you sent on Dillon Kincaid—I’m having a conference call with him in less than an hour, have you learned anything I need to know?
David said, “Max?”
“Still here.”
“Carney wants Agent Kincaid to request the files.”
“What? Doesn’t he know this isn’t a federal investigation?”
“He knows. His chief won’t give the witness statements to the press. It’s a back door he’s taking, Max. He wants to help, but is stuck. He’s already requested the files from archives—it’s a fifteen-year-old case, it may take a day or two.”
“Dammit,” she mumbled. “Fine. I’ll make it happen.” She hoped, because Lucy wasn’t here as an FBI agent. “Wait, it’s Friday afternoon. Do we have to wait until Monday?”
“Possibly, but Carney may have pull. The archive is attached to police headquarters, so he may be able to grant access over the weekend.”
“Road trip—not my favorite thing, but I suppose it wouldn’t save much time if we chartered a plane to Santa Barbara.”
“Driving through L.A. traffic?”
Max groaned. She hated traffic. “I’ll let you know. Thanks, David.” She ended the call and read a message that had just come in from Ben.
Max—I don’t have much on Dillon Kincaid. We’ve spread our research staff thin this week, piling on more assignments while they still have work on their desks. We have to prioritize, and this wasn’t a priority. He’s a forensic psychiatrist. He works from home, but doesn’t see patients there. He consults for the Federal Bureau of Prisons and has served as an expert witness in more than two dozen trials over the last eight years, when he opened his practice in D.C. Prior to that, he was in private practice in San Diego. He’s married to an FBI agent, Kate Donovan, who’s an instructor in cyberterrorism at the FBI Academy in Quantico. If you need more, you’re going to have to wait. I’m off to dinner with the Crossmans and some of our key investors. Don’t call me; I won’t answer.—Ben
Max was supposed to be at that dinner. She felt marginally guilty—the Crossmans gave her a lot of leeway in her position at NET and asked little in return. They had planned to show her off, in a way, let the money people pick her brain. Max didn’t care much for money people, perhaps because she was one of them and knew more than her fair share of philanthropists and sharks.
She sent Ben a text message—knowing he might not read his e-mail, but he would always read a text.
If you want me to do a call-in or video chat at the end of dinner, I should be done with Arthur by nine ET.
Ben responded with a dancing happy face emoji. She rolled her eyes.
It was close to five before Lucy returned. She’d showered and changed—Max supposed she should have taken the opportunity to relax, but she would relax with a bottle of wine in the Jacuzzi bathtub tonight or perhaps go down to the hotel’s spa and soak in the hot tub.
“You look refreshed,” Max said.
“I think better in the shower.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What were you thinking about?”
Lucy was surprised by the question. “Well, I guess I was formulating my presentation.”
“What presentation?”
“To Dillon and Dr. Ullman. I know how they think, I want to present our case to them clearly.”
“You know Arthur?”
“No, but I know people like him. And I read your book.”
Max hadn’t considered that. “It’s eight on the East Coast, they should be waiting for us. I have some news.”
“Good, I hope.”
“Neutral. Carney from Santa Barbara said his boss will only give us the files if you request them.”
“Me? Why?”
“You’re FBI.”
“No. I can’t—I’m not here officially.”
“Carney is just covering his butt. We can go up there, you show your badge, and we get them. You can even go up without me.” Max was trying to make light of the situation, but Lucy looked more than a little nervous. Max didn’t understand why … and she became suspicious.
Was there something Lucy wasn’t telling her?
“Look, this may be the only way we can get the files because technically the Porter case is still open. If I were there, I’d get them—David plays too nice with cops. I don’t.”
“How would you get them?”
“The power of the press—no police chief wants me going on the air and stating that he or she refused to give me access to files that could bring a killer to justice. I remind them of that. I play hardball when necessary. David isn’t me.”
“And you usually get what you want?”
“Always.” She backtracked a bit. “Say, nine times out of ten. Last case I worked I wasn’t allowed to take the files from the police station, but I had full access to everything the police had, and in the end, that made the difference in solving two murders.”
“Maybe we won’t need them,” Lucy said.
“You don’t believe that.”
Lucy started typing on the computer and ignored Max. She fumed. She didn’t like being ignored, and she didn’t like not knowing what was going on. Lucy was keeping something from her, what? Why wouldn’t she want to get the files from Santa Barbara when she’d made a point that comparing the interview list in all four cases could be the key difference in finding her nephew’s killer?
It took Lucy less than five minutes to bring in both Dillon Kincaid and Arthur Ullman to the video conference. She spent a moment adjusting sound and settings, then sat back. “Thank you, Dillon, Dr. Ullman,” Lucy said.
“No formalities,” Arthur said. “Call me Arthur, please.”
“Agreed,” Dillon said. “Your reputation precedes you, Arthur, and I’m pleased we’re able to consult together on this case. Hans Vigo speaks highly of you.”
“You know Hans? I haven’t seen him since I retired—well, about two years after I retired he came to a seminar I was teaching at Quantico. We never worked together on a case, but he’s consulted with me from time to time.”
“Hans is a good friend,” Dillon said.