*
By the time Lucy and Max arrived in Denver, it was no longer snowing, but the roads were slow going. Getting from the airport to Richard Collins’s house in the suburbs took well over an hour. Max talked to Ben, the research staff, David—he’d landed in Phoenix before Max and Lucy arrived in Denver—and proofread the article she’d written on the plane. Not about this case—she always had an article up on Monday mornings about something of interest to NET viewers. The articles were available through the wire and often got picked up by newspapers, but NET subscribers received them in their e-mail the night before public release.
Max hadn’t thought there’d be so much interest in crime issues on the Internet—while she was tech-savvy, she didn’t track consumer data like Ben did. He’d had a vision, and it had more than been fulfilled. While Max enjoyed most of what she did for the network, she had grown frustrated that she couldn’t always work the cases she wanted, she didn’t have the time to spend on the ground like she used to, and while her name and face weren’t a household name, she had enough recognition that going undercover like she’d done before the television show was now impossible.
Give and take, she realized. Through NET’s Internet and television platforms, she’d been able to give a larger voice to crime victims than in the books and articles she used to write exclusively. That meant something.
While Max worked in the car, Lucy was silent and stared out the window. She’d been quiet all morning, and on the plane appeared to be sleeping—perhaps to avoid conversation? Lost in thought? Max didn’t know. But something seemed to be going on with her partner.
Max almost snorted at the thought. Partner? With a federal agent? She had worked with law enforcement in the past, but it was a grind. She’d expected the same with Lucy Kincaid—yet this was different. Maybe because Lucy was working off the clock. Maybe because Lucy had a personal stake in the outcome. Or maybe because Max liked her.
More likely, you’re just curious.
Max got a lot done in the car, and by the time the driver pulled up to the Collinses’ residence, she felt like she’d accomplished more than her fair share for the week.
The Collinses’ well-maintained house matched all the other suburban houses in the neighborhood. It had been built fifteen years ago, and according to the property records Max’s staff had pulled, Richard Collins and his second wife, Patricia, had purchased it new. Not Max’s idea of home, but then again, she hadn’t had much of a home growing up—at least not until her mother dumped her on her grandparents.
The Collinses’ side of the street backed up to the mountainside, the one thing that distinguished it from the other streets.
“You ready?” Max asked Lucy.
“Of course.”
“You’ve been quiet.”
“Thinking.”
Lucy hadn’t dressed like a cop. She wore jeans with knee-high boots and a twin-set sweater. Max noticed she carried her gun—she’d checked it on the plane, which caused them some delay, but Lucy was a federal agent and everything went smoothly. Yet the gun was in her purse, not holstered, so Collins wouldn’t immediately think cop. Max hardly thought they’d need a gun, and when she commented on it, Lucy had ignored her.
Chalk it up to another curiosity about Agent Kincaid.
Neither Max nor Lucy had more than a light jacket—they’d left San Diego when it was eighty degrees. Max didn’t care—she preferred the cold—but Lucy was shivering.
“Didn’t expect snow when you flew to San Diego,” Max joked.
“I don’t particularly like the humidity in Texas, but I love the heat.”
Max knocked on the door. A moment later an older woman answered. She was trim, fifty, with blond hair expertly dyed by a talented stylist. “May I help you?”
“Patricia Collins?”
“Yes?” She wasn’t suspicious. She looked like every other middle-class empty nester that Max could picture.
“I’m Maxine Revere. I’m an investigative reporter from New York and I’d like to speak to your husband, Richard.”
She stared at Max as if it took her a minute to process what she’d said. “A reporter? About what?”
Richard stepped into the doorway. He’d heard Max, and he had a frown on his face. “What’s this about?” he said, perhaps more harshly than he intended. His hand was on his wife’s back and he put his other hand on the door, as if he would slam it on them without hesitation.
“About your son, Matthew.”
“I don’t speak to the press about my son. No one has even asked about him in years. Why?”
He was curious, as well as suspicious.
“I investigate cold cases. I’ve been working a case in San Diego that is similar in many ways to your son’s disappearance and murder. That’s why I brought Lucy Kincaid with me—she’s the aunt of one of the victims and she’s been helping me with my research and investigation.”
Max was prepared to argue her case. Richard was skeptical, and he couldn’t mask the pain in his eyes.
“A pervert killed my son. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Lucy said, “Mr. Collins, I know talking about your son is difficult. And we don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to.”
Max almost blew her top. Of course they needed to talk about Matthew Collins—what was Lucy saying?
Lucy continued. “But it’s very important that we talk to you about your ex-wife, and in doing so, we’ll need to discuss your son’s murder. If you would give us just ten minutes of your time, you will help us find and stop a killer.”
“Are you saying that Paul Borell didn’t kill my son?”
“No, I’m not. All the evidence, including his plea agreement, confirms that he is guilty.”
Patricia said, “It’s cold outside, Richard, let them come in.”
He didn’t want to, but he listened to his wife. “Ten minutes,” he said. “No more.”
Max and Lucy stepped in and he closed the door behind them. Pictures framed the entry—mostly of two people Max presumed were Patricia’s daughters. Photos of them as children and one of them in her wedding gown with the second as the maid-of-honor. They looked to both be in their midtwenties.
There was one photo of Matthew. It was a picture of him and his father, when he was about six. They were smiling and each holding up a fish. Max noticed that Lucy looked at it for a long minute, then turned away.
Patricia led them to the living room. It was the type of room reserved for formal guests. The couches barely looked used, though the style was more than a decade old. Through the open archway Max would see the family room—more cluttered, with comfortable furniture and many more photos.
“Coffee? Water?” Patricia offered.