“That’ll work for now, but later, they may need to come forward, go on record about this woman.”
“Understood,” David said. He stepped out of the main room and onto the balcony to make the calls.
“She didn’t give me the vibe,” Katella said. “I don’t even really remember her.”
“That’s exactly what she wants and expects.” She snapped her fingers. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this.” She got back on the phone. “Andrew, do you have employee photos? Would those be covered under the FOIA Max filed?” She listened, then said, “Send it to both me and Max. Thanks.”
She hung up. Max was watching her closely. Lucy was certainly in her element, but there was something more—a maturity she hadn’t really noticed before. The focus? Yes. The borderline obsession? Yes. But she’d smoothly taken over the investigation. Had it just happened or had it been happening all along?
What surprised Max more than anything was that she didn’t care as much as she thought she would. Yes, she wanted to write about these cold cases. Yes, she wanted to give justice to these innocent victims and their families. In the past, she would have fought tooth and nail against bringing in any law enforcement agency until she had practically solved their case and turned it over with a pretty monogrammed Maxine Revere bow. She would have fought and won—she knew how the game was played, she knew how to manipulate the system, and she firmly believed—because it had been proven to her over and over again that when the police got a cold case, nothing would happen, even if she gave them some juicy facts.
Maybe it was Lucy herself. Max had the distinct impression—based on little things here and there—that Lucy was putting her career on the chopping block by working with Max. Not specifically because she was here with Max, but because she was pursuing an investigation without sanction from her office, way out of her jurisdiction. The more Max learned about the rookie, the more she realized she didn’t know—and damnit, she wanted to know everything. Lucy Kincaid was one of the most mysterious and interesting people Max had met in a long, long time.
She had to convince Lucy to let her interview her for Maximum Exposure. She had to find a way. Max would work through the FBI’s media office, and she usually got what she wanted.
“I can find Danielle Sharpe,” Max said.
“How?” Lucy asked.
“The power of the media.”
Lucy frowned. “You can’t expose her, not yet.”
“No, I should say, the power of my research staff. They’re the best, and I don’t say that lightly. Give me a couple hours.”
“Okay, thank you. I need to call Dillon.”
“Why?” Why was Max even worried about it? Dillon Kincaid was not only helping, he was going to testify for the prosecution against Blair Caldwell. He was on their side.
“Andrew didn’t know she was at the house after Justin was kidnapped. But Nelia would. She might not remember, but Dillon needs to talk to her. What if Danielle Sharpe kept in contact with her? What if she has another connection to my sister? There’s something that set her off, something that made her target Justin. Without more, there’s no way the FBI or any other agency is going to touch this.”
“Okay, you’re right,” Max said, relieved. Lucy did understand, and they were on the same page.
“I should go,” Katella said. “I still need to do those errands for my wife, though this conversation has been far more interesting.” He picked up his box of files. “If you need anything else, call me.”
Lucy walked him to the door, said something Max couldn’t hear, then let him out.
“Can I use this office to call Dillon?” Lucy asked Max, gesturing to the small den off the living room.
“Of course,” Max said. She waited until Lucy closed the door, then she called Ben.
“Hello, darling,” Max said.
“You want something.”
“I always want something, it’s why you love me.”
“It’s six thirty on Saturday night.”
“The news never sleeps. I need to find a person, and it needs to be hush-hush.”
“Research staff is off. It can wait until Monday.”
“No, it can’t.”
“What did you do before you had a staff?”
“I didn’t have to commit any time to filming a show, writing three articles a week for a Web page, or covering trials. I took one case at a time and hired people to get me information I needed when I needed it. I could always go back to my old life.”
“You’d hate it.”
“I’d love it, and you damn well know it.”
Ben sighed. “What.”
“I’m sending you the photograph, name, and basic statistics of a person of interest, we’ll call her. I need to know where she lived prior to Justin Stanton’s murder and where she is now.”
“You don’t ask—you have a suspect?”
His tone changed midsentence.
“You did it, didn’t you?” Ben continued, excited.
“Not alone.”
“And the fed is letting you run with this?”
“She’s not letting me do anything. We need more information. You can’t air a word of this—we don’t want to spook her. But I’ll give you one more thing—I’ll cover the Blair Caldwell trial.”
“What? Really? That’s terrific!”
“You’re going to have to tell Ace, I’m not going to get in another shouting match with him.”
“I can handle Ace, but why the change?”
“She’s guilty. I know it. Kincaid got her brother to agree to be an expert witness, the DA is considering it, and we may even be able to help.”
“Can you solve Justin Stanton’s murder before the trial starts?”
“If we can find this person, yeah. I think so.” So she was stretching a bit. But Ben needed to be fully committed and see the potential of the show. The trial, with bonus content of Max being involved in solving a similar cold case and through that proving that Blair Caldwell is a cold-blooded killer. Max didn’t have to explain the potential—he usually saw it before her.
“I want Lucy Kincaid on tape.”
“So do I.” She glanced at the closed door. “That might be trickier.”
“I’ve been exceptionally discreet, but I’m learning more about her.”
Max felt uncomfortable. She wanted the information, but she had promised Lucy and Sean that she wouldn’t dig around.
No, you promised them you wouldn’t quote them or mention them without express permission. You never promised you wouldn’t dig around.
“She has a thick sealed FBI file.”
“Before or after she graduated?”
“Both, seems to go back to when she was eighteen.”
“And?”
“I don’t have it—I’m not going to touch it with a ten-foot pole. My contact at the FBI office gave me a heads-up about it, as a way of steering me away from pursuing it. Seems people asking about the file are reprimanded or reassigned. It’s—extremely odd.”
It most certainly was. It was a situation Max would pursue in a heartbeat. Instead, she said, “Drop it.”
“I never in a million years thought you’d say that.”
“I want to tread carefully.”
“I’m sending you a report I dug up on a California crime blog. I don’t know how much of it is accurate, but the guy who writes it seems to be in the know.”